As the opening of Dvorák’s Eighth is moulded and caressed into life by Mariss Jansons, more gently and sensually than on his studio recording (EMI), it quickly becomes apparent how distant we are from the plain-speaking affection of a native account by Talich or Ancerl. The sound and approach is quite similar to that taken by Rattle and the orchestra when they toured the Seventh a few years ago – a performance widely disliked at the time for the want of spontaneity and “knowing veneer of sophistication” that antagonised Andrew Achenbach when he reviewed the same team’s recording of tone-poems (EMI, 9/05). For myself, I’m more than happy to be reminded of the mutual admiration between Brahms and Dvorák in the ambivalent melancholy of the third movement’s Trio, taken slowly and with rich portamento; to be gripped by the tightly wound, emphatic development of the first movement; to be disconcerted by the episodes of both slow movement and finale when they’re presented with operatically charged tension and abrupt transitions. This is an exceptional account.

The remainder of the concert is less demanding of a second or third audition. The Weber is fun, as is the Slavonic Dance encore, but the concerto partnership, so propitious on paper, never catches light. Both the Weber and Shostakovich lack a dark side. The cor anglais and basses set the Passacaglia on its grave course with all the eloquence at their command – and this is the Berlin Philharmonic – but in a performance that feels faster than the clock shows, Hahn rides the line rather than shaping it. It’s admirable that she never compromises what Rob Cowan called her “sweetness-and-steel tone”, not even in the cadenza, but the finale brings little catharsis, for all its velocity – the same is true of the relationship between Scherzo and opening Nocturne – because few secrets, intimate or alarming, had been hitherto confided. She digs deeper into the piece on CD (Sony, 4/03). Her own encore, the Presto from Bach’s G minor Solo Sonata, doesn’t escape the air of impressive command but faceless despatch. When record companies do more with filmed concerts than just throwing the lot on a DVD, such anomalies – intrinsic to the concert-going experience – may recede. I’m not holding my breath.