Anyone looking for the perfect soundtrack to a balmy spring evening on Saturday, May 23rd found themselves in exactly the right place at Flagey. Brussels Philharmonic presented under chief conductor Kazushi Ono a program that didn't aim to overwhelm but to seduce: music that gleams without showiness, that radiates warmth without slipping into sentimentality. What made this evening special wasn't just the quality of the musicianship, but above all the ease with which everything flowed seamlessly into the next. Ono demonstrated how music could simultaneously breathe, sing, and dance.
The The Munt brought an original sonic world to a late-nineteenth-century Wagner opera. This was both audible and palpable. With this, a new standard has been set for future productions. In 2025, less epic grandeur and more humanity are what impresses: a new dawn for Wagner! Idyll by Richard Wagner (1813-1883) made an ideal opening. The work was created in 1870 as a birthday gift for Cosima Wagner, performed on Christmas morning by a small ensemble on the steps of their villa in Tribschen. It remains a remarkable piece within Wagner's oeuvre: no theatrical explosions, no monumental arcs of tension, but an intimate work that whispers rather than declaims. That's precisely why it so often goes wrong in performances. Too much Romantic indulgence quickly turns the piece 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-like intimacy. The strings played with velvety softness without ever becoming slack; the woodwinds let their motifs emerge naturally from the texture, as if they were simply present in the space. And then there was that beautiful horn: warm, rounded, and melancholic, like a distant memory of the world of The Munt brought an original sonic world to a late-nineteenth-century Wagner opera. This was both audible and palpable. With this, a new standard has been set for future productions. In 2025, less epic grandeur and more humanity are what impresses: a new dawn for Wagner! which here was suddenly reduced to human proportions. 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 flowed the Clarinet Concerto by Gerald Finzi (1901-1956) almost imperceptibly onward. This work remains a discovery, especially on our concert stages. Perhaps because Finzi never quite fit into the major musical currents of the twentieth century. His music seeks no revolution, no modernist statement. It seeks beauty, comfort, and human warmth—concepts that were long considered almost suspect 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 emotional layer permeates the score. The opening section radiates an almost pastoral calm, but beneath that lyricism lurks a constant gentle sadness, as if the music senses how fragile the newly concluded peace truly 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 rounded without ever striving to sound demonstratively beautiful. That's what made an impression: he never placed himself ostentatiously in the foreground, but remained constantly in dialogue with the music and the orchestra. In the long melodic lines he gave each phrase a breathing suppleness, while in the livelier passages he maintained just enough lightness to let the music dance.
The central Adagio formed the emotional heart of the evening. Time seemed to pause here. Finzi writes melodies that seem reluctant to end, and Souvagie unfolded them with moving simplicity. No effect, no sentimentality—just pure singing line. The strings accompanied him with great tenderness; Ono kept the orchestra transparent and breathing, so that soloist and orchestra continually 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 the light once more. Souvagie showed more playfulness and virtuosity here, without ever lapsing into showiness. Finzi's typically English elegance—always somewhat melancholic, even in joy—remained completely intact. It was also lovely how the orchestra continuously supported and surrounded its soloist: not as distant accompanists, but as colleagues who audibly breathed along with every phrase.
And then the Eighth Symphony by Antonin 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 musicians' faces: smiles that didn't seem forced, glances of recognition between orchestral members. Here notes weren't simply dispatched; here music was brought passionately 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 folkloristic 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 they were improvised; the strings maintained that warm undercurrent on which the entire symphony seems to float.
What particularly stood out was the flexibility of the orchestral playing. Thanks to Ono's fluid conducting, the music gained tremendous elasticity: tempi moved naturally with the phrasing, never losing their direction. The Adagio remained in motion and thereby avoided any sense of heaviness. The third movement too – half waltz, half melancholic reminiscence – struck exactly 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 opening sounded not triumphant but inviting, as if Dvořák was personally ushering the audience into the festivities. Ono built the tension with great patience, ensuring that the explosions of energy never felt gratuitous. Everything felt earned, grown from the music itself.
And that was ultimately where the real power of this evening lay. Not in spectacular effects or stunning originality, but in the conviction that music above all must live. Under Kazushi Ono, that idea gained rare naturalness, and Emile Souvagie was in Finzi the ideal voice within that whole. Wagner whispered, Finzi sang, Dvořák danced – and Brussels Philharmonic gave each voice exactly the space it needed. Sometimes that's more than enough for an unforgettable concert evening.
