Two new flute concertos got their London premieres last night at the Proms. I say ‘new’, but both are nearly five years old, despite the fact that they’ve never been heard in this city (or in one case, in this country). Old enough, then, for some sort of fluctuating performing tradition to have emerged – and a debate about how to play the things?

Now there’s a can of worms. If the two concertos were the filling to last night’s musical sandwich, the two slices of bread came in the form of Beethoven’s First and Seventh Symphonies. Thierry Fischer conducted both those pieces without a score, constantly eyeballing different sections of his BBC National Orchestra of Wales and lunging himself towards it as if to physically bend certain phrases into shape. In preparation for the two concertos, large spiral-bound scores were plonked on a flat stand in front of Fischer. It looked initially as though he’d get his head down and carve out the beats.

But he didn’t – not in the Flute Concerto by Marc-André Dalbavie, anyway. Fischer appeared to shape some of the more tender string phrases with genuine heart. He had specific ideas about the attack of his winds, and the way the orchestra flute should intertwine with the soloist Emmanuel Pahud. Some of the concertos’ surging climaxes were built with exactly the same musical patience and physical soul by Fischer as Beethoven’s slow-burn march would be later on. Balance was exquisite and very, very French.

So often new music isn’t helped by its interpretation – or rather, its lack of one. Conductors look emotional and engaged in a Mendelssohn overture or some such, before standing rigidly on the podium to semaphore-out the beat in a new work that follows. Yes, it’s connected to rhythmic complexity in new music and the fact that the piece might not have marinated in the repertoire long enough for a performing tradition to emerge. But like it or not, audiences often take their emotional cue from what a conductor is doing. If he or she is simply marking time, is it any wonder new music can appear soulless and academic?

More than that, though, is the fact that nearly all orchestral music demands some sort of soul and emotional commitment. Whatever the nature of the harmonies, themes or structures, we can hear when strings play with shape and passion; when woodwinds are sensitive and multi-hued; and when an orchestra moves instinctively together towards pivotal moments. That’s why we go to concerts. I expect it in Purcell and Stravinsky, but it was a pleasant surprise to hear it so obviously in Dalbavie’s touching concerto.