A conductor with roots and vision
Before Yannick Nézet-Séguin sets hearts racing at the New Year's Concert with the Wiener Philharmoniker on 1 January 2026, he was a guest at BOZAR in Brussels on Monday 23 June, this time at the helm of his beloved Orchestre Métropolitain de Montréal.
It is no coincidence that I emphasise "his" here, because this choice is more than deliberate. In 2000, when Nézet-Séguin was a relatively unknown 25-year-old, the orchestra, with a healthy dose of daring, appointed him its artistic director. Nobody could have predicted then that he would develop into one of the most celebrated conductors of our time: principal conductor of the Metropolitan Opera in New York, conductor of the legendary Philadelphia Orchestra, and a constant presence on the international music scene. And perhaps the finest proof of his integrity is that, despite all the glory, he has never severed his ties with his orchestra in Montréal. It says something about the man and the musician that he remains so faithful to his roots. In the world of classical music, where the temptations of great fame lurk around every corner, this is nothing short of exceptional.
A community that breathes as one
If you are fortunate enough to listen to this orchestra, you immediately feel what the strength of a close-knit community can mean. From the very first note it is clear: here the music speaks with one voice, one heart. The performance is steeped in enthusiasm; the orchestra breathes together, plays with a smile and with an energy that clearly stems from a bond forged over many years. You notice that these musicians are not merely colleagues but kindred spirits, perfectly attuned to one another. And that is precisely what we, the audience this evening, were so grateful to enjoy.
Ravel's La Valse: a dancing bankruptcy and masterful cynicism
The concert opened with an opener of stature: La Valse by Maurice Ravel (1875-1937). From the very first sounds Nézet-Séguin brings the majestic flow of the waltz to life, but it is above all his ability to grasp the deeper cynicism of this work that makes a strong impression. With refined subtlety and keen sensitivity he not only translates Ravel's sound world but also intensifies it. As the piece progresses, a whirlwind of sound unfolds, depicting not only the deafening splendour of the waltz but also the unmasking of a society perishing in its own pomp and splendour. It is a dancing bankruptcy, an unrelenting indictment that exposes the decline of an era, and which this evening, in a crescendo of sonic force, held the audience spellbound.
Spiritual contemplation in Eko-Bmijwang
What followed was a particularly timely addition to the programme: Eko-Bmijwang (Aussi longtemps que la rivière coule), a 2025 work by the Canadian composer Barbara Assiginaak (b. 1966). In this sound meditation, a memory unfolding like a dream born from time spent on the water, Assiginaak allowed her deep spiritual connection with nature and tradition to resonate in a subtle yet penetrating way. As a counterpart to the monumental force of Ravel, this work was a refreshment, a hushed counter-voice displaying a different kind of strength: that of contemplation and connectedness.
The percussionists were given room to let their refined emotional world speak, without ever forcing it. Birdsong, brought to life with great naturalness by several orchestra members, gave the whole a light, almost ethereal sheen. The pipigwan, the traditional flute of the Odawa, sounded like a voice from another time, a time when humans still listened instead of ruling.
What lingered most, however, was the stillness at the close. As if, suddenly, in the midst of listening, the clock stopped ticking. A musical moment of awareness: is this the warning that we have long since passed our expiry date? In her commentary Assiginaak writes that humans are not called to dominate the spirit of the water, but to live in harmony with it. That message was etched into sound this evening, fragile yet inescapable.
Alexandre Kantorow and Saint-Saëns: a soloistic triumph
Alexandre Kantorow, whose star shines brightly in the pianistic firmament after winning first prize at the 16th International Tchaikovsky Competition in 2019, then joined the orchestra for Saint-Saëns's Second Piano Concerto (1835-1921), a work that all too rarely resounds in concert halls.
The true strength of this concerto lies in the impeccable balance between expressive lyricism and impressive virtuosity. Kantorow let us experience this work at a faster tempo than we are used to from his CD recording, yet nothing of the intensity was lost. On the contrary. It became a musical rollercoaster, at once intense, brilliant, subtle and feather-light, full of joie de vivre. Although a full symphonic orchestra was seated before us, thanks to Nézet-Séguin's energetic and precise conducting it never sounded heavy. From the outset the audience witnessed a remarkable symbiosis between soloist and orchestra.
The moment when Kantorow lifted his piano playing to unprecedented heights was in the delicate beauty of the second movement, the Andante. The transparency of the piano lines — seemingly simple – concealed a deep emotional universe. As the orchestral sounds floated over this movement like an embracing velvet, Kantorow moved us with his sublime interpretation of the introspective tone of this movement. Saint-Saëns composed here a masterpiece of intimacy, in which the piano does not indulge in flamboyant leaps, but manifests itself like a singer, in seductive dialogue with the orchestra. The moment when the melancholy of French Romanticism revealed itself was an experience that deeply touched every listener. Charming, by the way, was the moment at the end of the second movement when Kantorow smiled and even a laugh rang out from the audience.
From the drama of the first movement to the intimate lyricism of the second, and the refreshing vitality of the third, this piano concerto remains one of the most cherished pearls of the Romantic piano literature. This concerto is not merely a technical challenge for the pianist, but even a true test for the artist. This work calls for the right balance between virtuosity and emotional expression, a quality Kantorow possesses in abundance. In his hands, the grandeur of this concerto unfolded fully, in all its moving beauty and technical refinement.
Also lovely was the fact that Nézet-Séguin simply took his seat back in the orchestra for the encore. He knew all too well that something beautiful would be served: the piano transcription of Mon cœur s'ouvre à ta voix from Saint-Saëns' "Samson et Dalila" (by Nina Simone).
Sibelius' Second Symphony: a monument of vitality and resignation
Whoever hears the opening bars of Jean Sibelius' (1865-1957) Second Symphony after the interval could hardly imagine that this music was born from personal loss. In 1902 the composer completed this work, in the aftermath of the death of his little daughter and the suicide of his sister-in-law. That he, at the heart of such inner darkness, managed to write music that vibrates with life force, both amazes and moves.
This Symphony is more than a symphonic poem. It is a work in which personal suffering blends with the national consciousness of a people on the eve of its independence. The Finnish conductor Osmo Vänskä once summed it up aptly: "The Second Symphony has a direct link to our struggle for independence, but at the same time speaks of the inner struggle, the crisis and the turning point in an individual's life." It was precisely this double layering — the intimate and the collective — that took on an impressive form in this performance under Nézet-Séguin.
From the very first note it was clear: here no score was being merely executed, but a story was being told. A story that breathed. One felt the intensity with which each orchestra member gradually took his place in this sonic universe — not as a soloist, but as a weaver of sound. Remarkable was the power and clarity of the double basses, which drove the movements like an undercurrent — discreet, but indispensable.
The first movement, Allegretto, came to life with a naturalness possible only through deeply felt musicality. The initial motif — so seemingly simple — was transformed into a symphonic link of growth, hope and expectation. It was as if the Finnish master let the music speak with an inner necessity, as if it were a force of nature. Yet in this movement it could perhaps have been a little less focused on sound beauty alone. The true depth only came in the second movement.
That second movement, Andante ma rubato, brought an atmosphere of introspection. Here Death spoke with a whispering voice. Don Juan was near — not in flamboyant bravura, but in existential doubt. The orchestra wrestled its way wonderfully through this music as if it moved itself through a dream, or a memory. At the first outcry, Nézet-Séguin brought the music effectively to a standstill. In my mind appeared the image of C.D. Friedrich's monk, gazing out over an boundless sea. He uttered a cry, a chilling cry, which for a moment struck the world silent and left it in dismay.
Then followed a scherzo of biting energy. Vivacissimo. The strings raged like polar winds over a frozen lake, but Nézet-Séguin gave us room to breathe in a trio that led us to pastoral plateaus, as if they were resting points during that stormy journey.
And then — without interruption — the final movement slipped in. Allegro moderato, yes, but with a grandeur that seemed to tear open the heavens. And once again the familiar motif resounded, now in a transfiguring glory. Nézet-Séguin led us to a climax that did not scream, but shimmered. Not overwhelmed, but overcame; and then he again deliberately brought the music to a standstill before the funeral march sounded. Many conductors waltz through that passage, but not Nézet-Séguin, who gave voice to the deep fear and sorrow, only to end fulminantly, yet with a bittersweet undertone, for the sun does not really return…
This performance gave shape to a piece of music that does not call out loudly, but speaks deeply. That shows no glitter, but radiates warmth. Sibelius' Second became tonight a monument — not of stone, but of sound, in which grief, hope, struggle and resignation came together in a single breath.
A sparkling finale
Nézet-Séguin wandte sich an das Publikum: In einer Welt, in der man morgens oft mit Sorge die Nachrichten öffnet, wollte er mit einem Lächeln abschließen. Mit der funkelnden Ouvertüre aus Candide von Leonard Bernstein (1918–1990) schenkten er und das Orchester dem Publikum einen Moment der Leichtigkeit und Freude — ein meisterhafter Ausklang.
Mit diesem Konzert brachte BOZAR seine Konzertsaison 2024–2025 zu einem nachklingenden Schlussakkord. Es erwies sich nicht nur als Triumph für das Brüsseler Publikum, sondern zugleich als Ausgangspunkt einer europäischen Tournee für Orchester und Dirigent. Dass diese Reise zu einem festlichen Siegeszug durch die großen Konzertsäle des Kontinents wird, scheint schon jetzt gewiss.