Philip Glass, with Tim Fain, last night at the Kauffman Center for the Performing Arts

After briefly introducing the musical program for the night, Philip Glass sat in front of a grand Steinway piano and began playing with absolutely zero fuss – no adjusting, no knuckle-cracking, no nothing. While certainly everyone in Helzberg Hall was impressed with the virtuosity that unfolded over the next 90-or-so minutes, no one was surprised: Glass is not just world-renowned but also so lauded and revered that he is often spoken of as if he’s already dead, a man of his own time. Completely alive at 75 years, he’s an artist who has built a curriculum vitae longer than a phone contract’s fine print, and he has worked with some the most dignified writers, filmmakers and songwriters of the 20th century’s second half. Instead of having birthdays like normal people, Glass is celebrated with the term “anniversary,” that being of his appearance on our planet. Sure, he’s a human, like you and you and you (and me), but something about him stinks of a superhuman. Evidently, he has more complete piano pieces stuffed inside his brain than most of us have accurate adjectives, and he plays them with the ease of a normal person’s breathing.