Thomas Hampson, the famed baritone, may be from Spokane, Washington — but he’s sort of an honorary Austrian, having lived in this country for years. He has also been a fixture at the Salzburg Festival. This year, he is not appearing in an opera, even though one of his best roles is in play: Onegin. But, on Tuesday night, he did sing a recital of German art songs — something else he does quite well.

It was one of those all-Heine evenings: songs by Schubert, Liszt, and Schumann, all setting poems by Heine. It has frequently been said that Heine was a godsend to composers. It should also be said that these composers have helped him live on, eternally.

Mr. Hampson is 52 now, and as commanding as ever — maybe more so. I dare say, he looks rather like presidential candidate Mitt Romney (or does Mr. Romney look like him?). Mr. Hampson’s accompanist was his usual, Wolfram Rieger, one of the finest in the business. I have long said that it would be a pleasure to hear Mr. Rieger play a recital all his own. Tuesday night only reinforced the point.

They began with a set from Schubert’s “Schwanengesang,” or “Swan Song.” And each song was accorded its proper character, the words and the notes equally respected. Mr. Hampson knows when to sing beautifully, and when to sing just a little more roughly. Vocal purity is not always his top concern; musical expression is. And Mr. Rieger, in multiple ways, is a singerly pianist.

Notably good was the second song in this set: “Ihr Bild.” It combines nostalgia and despair — with despair winning out — and we heard both of those qualities, in the right measures. “Die Stadt” is a spooky and odd song; so it was in this performance. And speaking of spooky and odd: The set ended with “Der Doppelgänger,” than which no song is more peculiar or chilling. From Mr. Hampson’s mouth, it had its full impact.

One of the best things about this recital is that Mr. Hampson didn’t overintellectualize anything. He was, as ever, thoughtful, but not suffocating. The only thing that was suffocating was the hall itself. In the Austrian fashion, it had no circulation. Outside, the night was cool; inside, all was airless, just as tradition and local preference demand.

From Liszt — not a German composer, of course, but a composer of German art songs, occasionally — were six songs, starting with “Im Rhein, im schönen Strome.” Here, Mr. Hampson gave a lesson in breath control, singing in long, long lines, without apparent effort. The next song, “Anfangs wollt’ ich fast verzagen,” is tinged with ambiguity. The notes may contradict the words — and Mr. Hampson obviously understands all of this.

And the final song in the Liszt set was “Die drei Zigeuner,” in which Mr. Hampson, with his pianist, painted the desired pictures. When the breeze passed over the Third Gypsy’s cymbalom, and a dream passed over his heart, you heard that, unmistakably.

The second half of the program was given over to a song cycle: Schumann’s “Dichterliebe” (“Poet’s Love”). We hear this a lot, from a variety of singers — male and female, high and low. And one never tires of it, really, the appeal of this cycle eternal. Messrs. Hampson and Rieger are anything but tired of it: They performed “Dichterliebe” with freshness and appreciation.

It was a joy to be able to sit back and listen without worry. When you’re in good hands, there’s nothing to worry about. On Tuesday night, we could simply follow Schumann and Heine on their journey. Mr. Hampson had no technical troubles whatsoever — he could concentrate on the music, and so could you. You may not have agreed with every jot and tittle, every inflection and emphasis. But of the performers’ mastery, there was no question.

The ovation from the Salzburg audience was very long and very loud. It went on and on, not diminishing at all in volume. Eventually, Mr. Hampson sang one encore — Schumann’s great song “Stille Tränen.” In this rendering, it was grand, a little deliberate, determined, heartfelt — almost anthem-like. A striking interpretation.

In an interview, once, Beverly Sills described to me her “finest hour” in music: It had taken place in Naples, where she had gone to sing “Traviata.” She’d been warned that the Neapolitan public was lying in wait for her — they’d probably eat her alive. But she knocked their socks off, as she was wont to do. One of the city’s critics wrote, “It took an American to show us how to sing Verdi.”

Mr. Hampson has not shown the Austro-Germans how to sing lieder — they had no need of that. But there is probably no better exponent of this literature today.