A conductor with roots and vision
Before Yannick Nézet-Séguin will make hearts race on 1 January 2026 during the New Year's Concert with the Wiener Philharmoniker, he was a guest on Monday 23 June at BOZAR in Brussels, this time at the helm of his beloved Orchestre Métropolitain de Montréal.
It is no coincidence that I deliberately use "his" here, for this choice is more than well-considered. In 2000, when Nézet-Séguin was still a relatively unknown 25-year-old, the orchestra, with a healthy dose of courage, appointed him artistic director. No one could have predicted then that he would develop into one of the most celebrated conductors of our time: chief conductor of the Metropolitan Opera in New York, conductor of the legendary Philadelphia Orchestra, and a fixture in the international music world. And perhaps the finest proof of his integrity is that, despite all his glory, he has never broken the bond with his orchestra in Montréal. It says something about the man and the musician that he remains so loyal to his roots. In the world of classical music, where the temptations of great fame lurk around the 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 community can mean. From the first note onwards, it is clear: here music speaks with one voice, one heart. The performance is saturated with enthusiasm, the orchestra breathes together, plays with a smile and an energy that unmistakably stems from a bond forged over many years. You notice that these musicians are not just colleagues, but kindred spirits, perfectly attuned to one another. And that is precisely what we, tonight's audience, can be so grateful to enjoy.
Ravel's La Valse: dancing bankruptcy and masterful cynicism
The concert began with an impressive opener: La Valse by Maurice Ravel (1875-1937). From the first sounds, Nézet-Séguin knows how to bring 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 an impression. With refined subtlety and keen sensibility, he not only translates Ravel's sound world but also intensifies it. As the piece progresses, a maelstrom of sound unfolds, which not only depicts the deafening splendour of the waltz, but also the unmasking of a society that perishes in its own pomp and circumstance. It is a dancing bankruptcy, a relentless indictment that exposes the decline of an era – and which tonight brought the audience into rapture with such masterful crescendo of sonic violence.
Spiritual contemplation in Eko-Bmijwang
What followed was a particularly timely addition to the programme: Eko-Bmijwang (Aussi longtemps que la rivière coule), a work from 2025 by Canadian composer Barbara Assiginaak (°1966). In this sound meditation — a memory unfolding like a dream, born from time on the water — Assiginaak allowed her deep spiritual connection to nature and tradition to resound in a subtle yet compelling way. As a counterpoint to Ravel's monumental violence, this work provided a breath of fresh air, a hushed countervoice that showed another kind of strength: that of contemplation and connection.
The percussionists were given the space to let their refined emotional world speak, without ever forcing it. Bird sounds, brought to life by various orchestra members with great naturalness, gave the whole a breezy, almost ethereal shimmer. The pipigwan, the traditional flute of the Odawa, sounded like a voice from another time – a time when man still listened rather than ruled.
What remained most memorable, however, was the silence at the end. 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 exceeded our expiration date? In her commentary, Assiginaak writes that mankind is not called to dominate the spirit of the water, but to live in harmony with it. That message was etched in sounds this evening, fragile yet inescapable.
Alexandre Kantorow and Saint-Saëns: a solistic triumph
Alexandre Kantorow, whose star shines brightly in the firmament of pianists after winning first prize at the 16th International Tchaikovsky Competition in 2019, subsequently joined the orchestra in the Second Piano Concerto by Camille Saint-Saëns (1835-1921), a work that sounds far too rarely 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 faster than we are accustomed to from his CD recording, but none of the intensity was lost. On the contrary. It became a musical roller coaster that was simultaneously intense, brilliant, subtle and feather-light, full of joie de vivre. Although we had a full symphonic orchestra in front of us, thanks to Nézet-Séguin's energetic and accurate conducting style, it never sounded ponderous. From the very beginning, 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 orchestra sounds floated embracingly like velvet over this movement, Kantorow moved us with his sublime interpretation of the introspective tone of this section. Saint-Saëns composed a masterpiece of intimacy here, in which the piano does not indulge in flamboyant leaps, but manifests itself as a singer, in a seductive dialogue with the orchestra. The moment when the melancholy of French Romanticism revealed itself was an experience that touched every listener deeply. Charming, by the way, was the moment at the end of the second movement when Kantorow smiled and even laughter echoed 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 gems from Romantic piano literature. This concert is not merely a technical challenge for the pianist, but truly a test for the artist. This work demands the right balance between virtuosity and emotional expression, a quality that Kantorow possesses in abundance. In his hands, the grandeur of this concerto unfolded completely, in all its moving beauty and technical refinement.
Also lovely was the fact that Nézet-Séguin simply sat down in the orchestra for the encore. He knew all too well that something beautiful would still be served: the piano transcription of Mon coeur 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 measures of Jean Sibelius' (1865-1957) Second Symphony after the intermission would hardly be able to imagine that this music was born from personal loss. In 1902, the composer completed this work, in the aftermath of the death of his young daughter and the suicide of his sister-in-law. That he, in the heart of such inner darkness, was able to write music that vibrates with vitality, astonishes and moves us.
This Symphony is more than a tone poem. It is a work in which personal suffering mingles with the national consciousness of a people on the eve of their independence. Finnish conductor Osmo Vänskä once summed it up succinctly: "The Second Symphony has a direct link with our struggle for independence, but at the same time speaks about the inner struggle, the crisis and the turning point in the life of an individual." It is precisely this double layering — the intimate and the collective — that received an impressive form in this performance under Nézet-Séguin.
From the first note, it was clear: this was not a score being executed, but a story being told. A story that breathed. You felt the intensity with which each orchestra member gradually took his place in this sound universe – not as a soloist, but as a sound weaver. Remarkable was the strength and clarity of the double basses, which as an undercurrent propelled the movements — discreet, but indispensable.
The first movement, Allegretto, came to life with a naturalness that is only possible with 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 natural force. Yet in this movement it could have been just slightly less focused on pure tonal beauty alone. The true profundity came only in the second movement.
That second movement, Andante ma rubato, brought an atmosphere of introspection. Here Death spoke in a whisper. Don Juan was near – not in flamboyant bravado, but in existential doubt. The orchestra writhed wonderfully through this music as if it moved itself through a dream, or a memory. At the first outcry, Nézet-Séguin brought the music to an effective standstill. In my mind appeared the image of C.D. Friedrich's monk, gazing upon a boundless sea. He uttered a cry, a chilling cry, that struck the world silent for a moment and left it in horror.
Then followed a scherzo of biting energy. Vivacissimo. The strings raged like polar winds across a frozen lake, but Nézet-Séguin offered us breathing room in a trio that led us to pastoral plateaus, as if they were resting points during that tempestuous journey.
And then – without interruption – the final section glided in. Allegro moderato, indeed, but with a grandeur that seemed to break the heavens open. And again the familiar motif resounded, now in a transfiguring glory. Nézet-Séguin took us to a climax that did not shout, but vibrated. Did not overwhelm, but overcame, and then he effectively brought the music to a thoughtful standstill before the funeral march resounded. Many conductors waltz through that passage, but not so with 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 truly return…
This performance gave form to a piece of music that does not cry out loud, but speaks deeply. That shows no gloss, but spreads glow. Sibelius' Second became tonight a monument – not of stone, but of sound, in which sorrow, hope, struggle and resignation came together in a single breath.
A sparkling finale
Nézet-Séguin addressed the audience: In a world where one often opens the news with worry in the morning, he wanted to close with a smile. With the sparkling overture from Candide by Leonard Bernstein (1918–1990), he and the orchestra gave the audience a moment of lightness and joy — a masterful finale.
With this concert, BOZAR brought her musical season 2024–2025 to a final chord that resonates. It proved to be not only a triumph for the Brussels audience, but also the starting point of a European tour for orchestra and conductor. That this journey will become a festive victory lap through the great concert halls of the continent seems already assured.