NOT to put too fine a point on it, Llyr Williams, inset, played a blinder in the first half of his all-Liszt recital at the Queen's Hall yesterday.

I've heard the amazing Welsh pianist across the range of his repertoire, from Beethoven to Charles Ives and most points between. I've lost count of how many times I've heard hin play since Brian McMaster first brought him to the Edinburgh International Festival; but I will tell you this with certainty: I've never heard him better than yesterday morning.

He was absolutely at the top of his game, flying high, and, what's more, I think he knew it. He's a ruthlessly self-critical musician, but after his first half performances, as the crowd cheered, he returned to the stage with a wide-open grin running from ear to ear; oh yes, he knew he had totally nailed that one.

In that riveting and entertaining first half he played four pieces as a continuum, all revealing aspects of the unique Williams art: his command of space and stillness in Vallee d'Obermann, his steely clarity and poetry in the Petrarch Sonnett, his glitteringly-brilliant technique in the Fountains of the Villa d'Este, and his wickedly-impish wit in the tearaway Tarantella.

Then, in an awe-inspiring account of the Sonata in B minor, which will require an essay at some point, Williams probed the great piece, teasing it out of its structure, while mysteriously maintaining its coherence and unity, letting the music roam free while he lavished his wondrous armoury of expressiveness upon it: a masterful performance of the sonata, one of the best I've heard, and a glorious, life-affirming experience.

HHHHH