Anyone looking for the ideal soundtrack for a sultry spring evening on Saturday, May 23rd at Flagey was in exactly the right place. Brussels Philharmonic presented under chief conductor Kazushi Ono a program that did not want to overwhelm, but to seduce: music that glows without showing off, that radiates warmth without becoming sentimental. What made this evening special was not only the quality of the musicianship, but especially the naturalness with which everything flowed into each other. Ono showed how music can simultaneously breathe, sing and dance.
The Siegfried Idyll by Richard Wagner (1813-1883) formed an ideal opening. The work originated in 1870 as a birthday gift for Cosima Wagner, performed on Christmas morning by a small ensemble on the stairs of their villa in Tribschen. It remains a remarkable composition within Wagner's oeuvre: no theatrical explosions, no monumental dramatic arcs, but an intimate piece of music that whispers rather than declaims. Precisely for this reason, it so often goes wrong in performances. Too much romantic indulgence quickly turns the work into a miniature version of Tristan.
Ono fortunately chose the only correct approach: lightness, transparency and trust in the score itself. The small ensemble gave the music an almost chamber music-like intimacy. String players performed with velvet softness without ever becoming weak; the woodwinds let their motifs naturally emerge from the texture, as if they were simply present in the space. And then there was that beautiful horn: warm, round and melancholic, like a distant memory of the world of Siegfried that was suddenly reduced to human proportions here. Ono understood that this music must not sound "made." He let it emerge. Thus Wagner sounded exceptionally human here: not the visionary opera composer, but a man trying to capture a moment of happiness in music.
From that intimacy, the Clarinet Concerto by Gerald Finzi (1901-1956) flowed almost imperceptibly. This work remains a discovery, certainly on our concert stages. Perhaps because Finzi never really fitted into the great musical currents of the twentieth century. His music does not seek revolution, no modernist statement. It seeks beauty, comfort and human warmth – concepts that for a long time were almost considered suspicious in the classical music world.
And yet this concerto possesses everything a great work needs. Finzi wrote it shortly after World War II, in a period when England breathed both relief and melancholy. That double layer of feeling is everywhere in the score. The opening movement radiates an almost pastoral peace, but beneath that lyricism there is continuous slight wistfulness, as if the music realizes how fragile the newly concluded peace actually is.
Emile Souvagie, principal clarinetist of Brussels Philharmonic for the past few years, played the solo part with great conviction and striking naturalness. His tone remained warm and round without ever wanting to sound ostentatiously beautiful. Precisely that made an impression: he never placed himself demonstratively in the foreground, but remained in constant dialogue with the music and the orchestra. In the long melodic lines, he gave each phrase a breathing fluidity, while in the more lively passages he maintained just enough lightness to let the music dance.
The central Adagio formed the emotional centerpiece of the evening. Here time seemed to stand still for a moment. Finzi writes melodies that seem almost unwilling to end, and Souvagie unfolded them with moving simplicity. No effects, no sentimentality – only pure singing line. The strings accompanied him with great tenderness; Ono kept the orchestra transparent and breathing, so that soloist and orchestra constantly sounded as one breath. It sounded less like a concerto than like a shared story.
The finale then brought lightness and movement back, almost as if the music gently pushed itself toward sunlight again. Souvagie showed more playfulness and virtuosity here, without ever lapsing into bravura. Finzi's typically English elegance – always a little melancholic, even in joy – remained completely intact. Also beautiful was how the orchestra continuously carried and surrounded its soloist: not as accompanists at a distance, but as colleagues who audibly breathed along with every phrase.
And then the Eighth Symphony by Antonín Dvořák (1841-1904) still had to come. From the very first measures it was clear how much pleasure the orchestra took in this music. You could literally see it on the faces of the musicians: smiles that seemed unforced, glances of recognition between orchestra members. Here notes were not being checked off; here music was being fiercely brought to life.
This work belongs to those rare symphonies that sound both grand and spontaneous, as if they were inventing themselves on the spot. Ono understood that perfectly. His interpretation avoided all folkloric exaggeration. No pumped-up Slavic bombast, no heavily emphasized climaxes. Instead, he let the music breathe organically. The opening movement grew like a landscape gradually becoming visible in morning light. Woodwinds let bird motifs emerge as if improvised; the strings maintained that warm undercurrent on which the entire symphony seems to float.
What stood out above all was the flexibility of the orchestral playing. Thanks to Ono's fluid movements, the music gained enormous elasticity: tempi moved naturally with the phrasing, without ever losing their direction. The Adagio remained in motion and thereby avoided any heaviness. The third movement too – half waltz, half melancholic memory – achieved precisely the right balance between elegance and underlying sadness.
The finale then became a celebration of pure joie de vivre. The famous trumpet fanfare at the beginning sounded not triumphant but inviting, as if Dvořák were personally drawing the audience into the festivities. Ono built the tension with great patience, so that the explosions of energy never became gratuitous. Everything felt earned, grown from the music itself.
And therein lay ultimately the great strength of this evening. Not in spectacular effects or dazzling originality, but in the conviction that music above all must live. Under Kazushi Ono, that idea gained a rare naturalness, and Emile Souvagie was in Finzi the ideal voice within that whole. Wagner whispered, Finzi sang, Dvořák danced – and Brussels Philharmonic gave every voice precisely the space it needed. Sometimes that is more than enough for an unforgettable concert evening.