The gigantic ash cloud hovering over Iceland nearly grounded our Dutch conductor, Lawrence Renes on his way to London. He battled snow and sunshine, boat and train to be at the Barbican with the BBC Symphony to conduct the world premiere of the revised ‘Lied’ by the oh-so-prolific German composer Jorg Widmann. Renes is at home with the modern stuff - he conducted the European premiere of ‘Dr Atomic’ last year. Widmann’s Lied, now down to twenty minutes, is a piece that draws on just about everyone from the Austro-Germanic musical tradition, resounding with fragments of Mahlerian romanticism. The only one I didn’t hear much of was Schubert himself who the piece was intended to mainly reference. It had a lovely Brucknery opening - shimmering violins heralding creation, echoes of muted horns from the BBC Symphony’s excellent horn section. There were some interesting compositional ruptures, tearing at the fabric of Arcadian romanticism but I found its focus on extremes for the sake of it a little irritating. He does odd, slightly humourous things with the strings – makes them sound percussive and there’s the occasional odd plink from the harp and a ‘bat squeak’ from the accordion sneaked into the orchestra beside the horns. The last note whetted into silence like a sharpened knife. Interesting of course from a dynamo of a composer. The whole piece felt like a Mahler symphony that had been plunged in liquid nitrogen and then exhumed. (I must admit I really don’t get the orchestration that lies behind modern classical music. I’m not sure why there’s so much neo-Mahlerism prevalent in our modern composers’ thoughts. One can’t help wondering if modern music would be that much more interesting if it wasn’t so haunted by particular ghosts.)

Anyway, the lovely Steven Hough’s dispatching of Rachmaninov’s great ‘Rhapsody on a Theme by Paganini’ was rather splendid. I’ve never heard Steven Hough live and it was quite the highlight of my month. All kinds of adjectives flood the mind: taut, sparkling, flamboyant, impish, restrained, florid, bristling... What can I say? He’s the man with the huge crescendo. The frames of each of the variations unfolded under his fingers with kaleidescopic ease.

Hough is at 47, apart from one of the best pianists around, a gay Catholic polymath who composes and writes theological tomes and a fascinating blog for the Telegraph. (There’s a lovely story about Madame Borsuk and her Beef Stroganoff.) He owned the Proms last year, or so I heard. Watching him at the piano is an experience in itself. His manic energy fuelled and stoked the engine room of the orchestra. A man whose lean fingers must be insured for millions and how he remembers the notes I have no idea.

However, the Samovaric express ground to a bit of a halt with the Shostakovitch 8th Symphony which filled the hall like the gigantic volcanic ash cloud that had so nearly grounded our conductor, Renes. It roiled around in and out of focus, full of darkness but leaving everything grounded at the same time in fog and confusion. It’s a hard one to talk about, all Shostakovitch’s work is similarly shrouded, especially the wartime symphonies. It’s hard to get past the meddling figments of the secret police, Stalinism, hidden notes and meanings. We’re not hearing music but trembling fear of knocks at the door in the night. It’s not an Allegretto but far distant dreams of freedom and self-expression from puppets struggling through propaganda. It’s not music but a sonic monument where fear, inhumanity, desolation, despair etc swirl within. An odd piece, but yes, on this particular night like a big grey swirling ash cloud.

Photo credit: Lara Platman