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But all the silk plush in the world can’t dilute the melancholy in this great (and still woefully
undervalued) symphony, and Wilson found a convincing path between Rachmaninov’s
quicksilver mood-changes: numbed sorrow, martial bravado, skyscraping euphoria. And, of
course, an aching, all-pervading nostalgia. The final apotheosis of the first movement’s great
lyrical second subject was lustrous, with the massed strings caressing the melody as one. But
underneath, you could hear the brass and woodwind chords shifting uneasily; ominous clouds,
throwing shadows of gun-metal and purple. The transparency of the string sound and the clarity
of the woodwind articulation made that kind of expressive subtlety possible. It’s not something
you hear every day, but Wilson makes it seem instinctive.

If the Glazunov didn’t hit quite the same sweet spot of effortless expression, that might have had
something to do with the soloist Ning Feng (pictured above). A violinist in this concerto has two
main tasks: to sing and to sparkle. Feng did both, launching into his opening melody with the sort
of throbbing, gamey G-string tone that we’re apparently no longer meant to describe as “Russian
School”. The razzle-dazzle of the finale was all there too.

Feng’s stratospheric passagework danced, glittering, around the glockenspiel and flutes, and he
scattered left-hand pizzicati like fistfuls of diamonds. Yet Feng’s intonation occasionally distorted
under the weight of a down bow, and there were moments when those agile fingers seemed to
be running away with him. You could hear Wilson and the orchestra adjusting on the hoof; there
was some skilful express tailoring going on. The result might not have been a perfect fit, exactly,
but it emphatically wasn’t off the peg.

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