Ogrintchouk, BBCSO, Bělohlávek, Barbican

Stravinsky, Prokofiev and even the squiggly new Dalbavie work fall flat

Everywhere I looked I saw children, some burying their heads in their mothers' chests, some doodling on programme notes. One was dancing to Prokofiev's Sixth Symphony. Ambitious. Last night's BBC Symphony Orchestra concert had been given over to family listening. My first thought was why? Stravinsky's fun but dry Dumbarton Oaks is hardly suitable. And Prokofiev's Sixth is psychologically X-rated when done right. Sandwiched between these two works, however, was, superficially, a perfect stocking filler: a new Oboe Concerto from accessible Spectralist Marc-André Dalbavie that sees the apotheosis of the humble squiggle.

Cecilia Bartoli Sings Handel, Barbican Hall

The mistress of vocal seduction enchants in all the arts of singing

Cecilia Bartoli invites you to her party, she stands on stage beaming and welcoming you as her guest, about to serve up a banquet of song. This is what last night’s concert felt like in the glowing warmth of this remarkable Italian mezzo-soprano’s company, singing one of her favourite composers, Handel, ranging from the sunlit laughter that seems embedded in her voice to some of the most tragically moving singing I’ve heard.

Scholl, Jaroussky, Ensemble Artaserse, Barbican

Two countertenors turn rivalry into musical romance

The egos and rivalries of the great castrati – of Senesino, Carestini, Farinelli – are legendary. Too few arias, too unheroic a role, or just too little virtuosity (Handel’s beautiful “Verdi prati” was almost lost to us when Senesino rejected its simplicity) were all cause enough for a tantrum. How times have changed. Collaborating for their new Purcell project, superstar countertenors Andreas Scholl and Philippe Jaroussky are trading jealousy for duets, and proving that you really can never have too much of a good thing.

Handel's Alcina, Barbican

An unforgettable night for lovers of the Baroque - and the jumpsuit

Classical music does not get any cooler or sexier than mezzo Vesselina Kasarova. An awesome black jumpsuit hanging off her rangy figure, she possessed the Barbican stage last night. She jived. She grooved. She shuffled. She shimmied. Every bit of her body was in ecstasy, her neck sliding about like an Indian dancer's, her feet (in perfect little heels) spinning like a jazzer's, her bullying arms posturing and prodding, her face distorting in the maddest ways imaginable (words can't come close to describing what was going on here), her mouth flashing its whites like a primate's. Her voice? Extraordinarily weird, moving, honest, explosive. Her Sta nell'Ircana was a theatrical moment of the year.

Volodos, Leipzig Gewandhaus Orchestra, Chailly, Barbican

A masterclass in snow-shifting from two virtuoso shovellers

Not much snow left on the Barbican after last night's barnstormer from Riccardo Chailly and the Leipzig Gewandhaus. What hadn't melted in the flames of the Russian pyre that is Tchaikovsky's Francesca da Rimini would had been swept aside by the great quakes of Respighi's tub-thumping Pines of Rome. And the icy refuseniks clinging to Barbican pavements? Note-gobbling piano virtuoso Arcadi Volodos - doing a very good impression of a snow shovel in Tchaikovsky's First Piano Concerto - was dealing with that.

AfroCubism, Barbican

The Malian/Cuban supergroup play one of the most life-affirming gigs of the year

In theory, AfroCubism should have been one of the most exciting world-music releases of the year; how could you go wrong with a supergroup composed of Cuban and Malian musicians working towards combining their musical styles in a new and exciting manner? In fact, originally this get-together was meant to take place 14 years ago for what became the multimillion-selling Buena Vista Social Club album. But passport problems prevented the Malian musicians from being able to take part.

Sonny Rollins, Barbican

More than two hours of magic from US sax colossus

"Being asked to introduce this artist”, began the compere, “is like being asked to introduce God." Fans of Eric Clapton, of course, might beg to differ. But in jazz terms, Sonny Rollins, self-proclaimed “saxophone colossus”, has indisputably been on the all-time A-list since his early work with Miles Davis and Thelonious Monk. He is also on a particularly exclusive part of that list of jazz greats: those still alive. Yet even amongst those few, whose resilient ranks include both Cecil Taylor and Ornette Coleman, Rollins’s London Jazz Festival performance represented a quite remarkable feat of stamina.

Mustonen, London Symphony Orchestra, Gergiev, Barbican Hall

More rubbishy Mahler from Gergiev but Mustonen bends time in Shchedrin

There's no denying Gergiev's genius. At the right time, in the right repertoire, with the right orchestra, it flashes up with the clarity and energy of an H-bomb. When hawking the Russian tradition he's able to conjure up more colour and fantasy than you'd find in a playschool. But there's no denying something else, too. His Mahler stinks. And I don't know how many damning write-ups he needs to receive for him to stop putting us through it all. I mean, if he doesn't care about us, can't he at least think of poor Mahler? It is his anniversary. Anyway, all one can say about last night's Barbican concert is, thank Christ for Olli Mustonen.
 
There's no denying Gergiev's genius. At the right time, in the right repertoire, with the right orchestra, it flashes up with the clarity and energy of an H-bomb. When hawking the Russian tradition he's able to conjure up more colour and fantasy than you'd find in a playschool. But there's no denying something else, too. His Mahler stinks. And I don't know how many damning write-ups he needs to receive for him to stop putting us through it all. I mean, if he doesn't care about us, can't he at least think of poor Mahler? It is his anniversary. Anyway, all one can say about last night's Barbican concert is, thank Christ for Olli Mustonen.
 

Shun-kin, Complicite, Barbican Theatre

Puppetry taken to stunning heights in a story of a blind musician

Complicite’s Shun-kin delivers sex and violence aplenty. A warped, wilfully kinky fusion of the two lies at the core of the play and its central relationship – sexy, edgy material with just the right degree of poetry to help smooth its way across the sophisticated palate of London’s theatre-goers. Yet to dwell on this is both to misunderstand and misrepresent Simon McBurney’s generous drama.

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