A singular composer like Charles-Valentin Alkan, on the very periphery of the piano tradition, needs a bold champion in each generation of pianists to maintain his status.

At present that task has been assumed by the Canadian Marc-Andre Hamelin, who has followed in the wake of the American Raymond Lewenthal and Britain's Ronald Smith in keeping Alkan's flame burning brightly in his recital programmes.

Hamelin ended his Elizabeth Hall programme last night with Alkan's Symphony for Solo Piano, four movements (Nos 4-7) from his set of 12 Studies in all the minor keys completed in 1857; the next three pieces in the set make up his Concerto for Solo Piano.

Compared with that work (whose first movement alone lasts more than 25 minutes) the symphony is relatively small scale. What it shares with the concerto is the finger-stretching difficulty of the piano writing, consistently demanding with a tendency to explode into torrential passagework and double octaves.

There are echoes of Alkan's forebears and contemporaries shot through it - a direct quote from Schumann's C major Fantasy in the first movement, nods towards Chopin's polonaises in the third - though the melodic invention is less personal, more predictable than theirs.

It is not so much the raw material itself but the sheer energy and generosity of the music that gives it credibility, and it's his enthusiasm for those qualities that Hamelin conveys so well, together with his command of the most fiendish technical challenges.

He had preceded the symphony with his own collection of seven miniatures, Con Intimissimo Sentimento, which brings the perfumed romanticism of Godowsky into partnership with the chromaticism of Scriabin and adds the occasional touch of pre-war Tin Pan Alley too.

But the first half of the programme had illuminated different, perhaps more profound aspects of Hamelin's artistry. Busoni's transcription of Bach's D minor Chaconne was delivered with steely intensity, though perhaps with not quite enough space for reflection at a couple of points, and Schumann's C major Fantasy had masterly sweep and wonderful control, especially in the notoriously tricky coda to the central march.

It was totally admirable but not quite lovable playing; Hamelin kept an arm's length from Schumann's poetry, demonstrated how its magic worked without ever letting it cast a real spell.