Christoph von Dohnányi obviously doesn’t like surprise presents. At a concert to celebrate his 80th birthday (reached in September), the Philharmonia’s “Honorary Conductor for Life” chose to conduct a Mendelssohn overture, a Brahms symphony, and a Brahms piano concerto — the concert equivalent of meat and two veg.

Would there be excitement, though? Something to contradict past evidence of hardened artistic arteries and well-tooled interpretations without a soul? At first the answer was no. Mendelssohn’s Hebrides overture slid by mellifluously with seamless transitions and a nicely steered crescendo, but no strong sense of nature’s grandeur or swirling Scottish mist.

On to Brahms’s Third Symphony. Initially the picture seemed similar: instrumental beauties galore (horn calls, Karen Stephenson’s solo cello), but no sign of fresh thinking, nothing to pierce the carapace built up over decades of performances. Then came the finale, and you suddenly realised that Dohnányi hadn’t been idling, just thinking long term, crafting the four movements as one, and saving the conflagration until last. The orchestra’s tussle of motives generated real fire power, enough for the ear to feel relief in the warm exchanges of the coda’s winds and brass. Brahms and Dohnányi had been vindicated.

Further hopes were then dashed by the Piano Concerto No 2. Not Dohnányi’s fault: he stoked the orchestral drama fairly well; the Philharmonia’s colours gleamed. Alas, it was the pianist. Yefim Bronfman was in a hammering mood. The biggest cascades ended with his right hand reaching for the stars, and an unlovely amount of clatter. Reflective moments existed, though Bronfman’s fingers never sighed; nor did they smile at the finale’s C major jollities. What a bad-mannered performance; just what an 80th birthday party doesn’t need.

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