Why is the element of surprise so rare in contemporary classical music performance? With the vast repertory of several centuries upon which to draw, you might expect pianists and string quartets, for example, to continually surprise listeners with a wide variety of music that challenges and stimulates the imagination.

Only in a far more perfect world than this, I fear. The exact opposite has ocurred, and it appears that the performing canon is shrinking rather than expanding. Thank Goodness for Marc-André Hamelin, who brought to La Jolla’s Sherwood Auditorium on Friday (Dec. 18) the recital that has been drawing raves from New York City to San Francisco. Much of the exultation stems from Hamelin's smashing account of Charles-Valentin Alkan "Symphonie" for Solo Piano, Op. 39, Nos. 4-7, an exotic (and rarely programmed) work of immense technical demands. But I was even more impressed by this Canadian pianist's probing and subtle approach to less virtuoso fare such as the concert-opening Haydn "Andante and Variations in F Minor," Hob. VII: 6, and the "Andante cantabile con espressione" movement of Mozart's "A Minor Sonata," K. 310.

Now the Haydn is just as rarely heard as the Alkan, but lacks the latter's bravura credentials. Hamelin, however, made the Haydn "Variations" just as attention-grabbing by his suave melodic shadings, his dreamy and slightly Romanticized reading of the opening Andante, and a constantly varied dynamic invention. Too much attention to detail, of course, can lead to fussy interpretations, but in Hamelin's case, the detail always illuminated the composer's invention. The Mozart "A Minor Sonata," arguably the evening's only typical recital fare, also sparkled in Hamelin's hands, and his meticulous slow movement took the "con espressione" indication to the brink of indulgence, but only the brink. My sole caveat to his otherwise elegant Mozart account was the slightly harsh sonority that bristled from the La Jolla Music Society's muscular Steinway in the over-bright first theme of the "Allegro maestoso." Having unleashed that color, the pianist wisely toned down his digital attacks for the rest of the evening.

Alkan is one of those odd composers whose fame rests on a quirky biography rather than an appreciation of his actual musical contributions. Nearly every music student can recite the comic-opera scenario of Alkan's demise, where the aged composer reaches for a book on the highest shelf of his large bookcase and accidentally pulls it down on top of him, crushing him beneath its weight. In Alkan's younger years as a piano virtuoso in the fashionable Paris salons, he was good friends with both Franz Liszt and Frédéric Chopin, with whom he played piano duos. Eventually he became a recluse, dividing his time between composition and studying the Talmud.

Why Alkan's music never attained a following remains a mystery. It is demanding on the performer, but so are the compositions of Liszt, Chopin, and Ravel (to name but three), and pianists memorize and perform their work every day. Certainly the four-movement Alkan "Symphonie" that Hamelin played with such technical brilliance and rich sonorities is as rewarding to the listener as any expansive, 25-minute work of Chopin or Liszt. Alkan's fecund melodic development and well-crafted architectural schemes captivate the listener, and his ability to exploit the piano's vast sonic possibilities amaze. Hamelin took Alkan's breakneck, contrary-motion octaves in each hand (the first-movement "Allegro" and the daunting "Finale: Presto") with the nonchalance of lighting a cigarette in a Hollywood noir movie. Equally rewarding were his electric account of the edgy "Menuet" and his stately but knowingly understated interpretation of the second-movement funeral march. In this movement, Hamelin found moments of unexpected humor, such as the single line at the movement's close that simply vanishes into nothingness. Yes, perhaps like the body's final aspiration.

To give the Alkan "Symphonie" context (it was published in 1857), Hamelin played an earlier Romantic work, Liszt's "Venezia e Napoli" (1840) and a later Romantic offspring, Gabriel Fauré's "Nocturne in D-flat Major," Op. 63 (1894). In these pieces, we enjoyed Hamelin's elegant touch, churning out those glistening arpeggios and moving through incessant chromatic modulations with aplomb. As an encore, Hamelin played his own charming "Little Nocturne," which tipped the hat to both Gershwin and the Catalan Federico Mompou.

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