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Some concert programmes feel less like a sequence of pieces and more like a story unfolding – and this is definitely one of those evenings.

One of the central works in the programme is Edward Elgar’s Cello Concerto, a piece that has an incredibly direct, almost confessional quality. Written in the aftermath of the First World War, it carries a sense of a world that’s been shaken to its core. What I find so striking about it is how personal it feels: even in its biggest moments, it never loses that sense of intimacy, as if the music is speaking quietly but very honestly.

The first half of the concert circles around similar ideas, but from different angles. Rather than telling a clear-cut story, the music reflects on conflict, memory, and tension in ways that are sometimes subtle, sometimes unsettling. It’s music that draws you in and asks you to really listen – to colour, to atmosphere, to what’s happening beneath the surface. I didn’t want to put together a programme that simply contrasts pieces; it felt much more exciting to create something where everything is connected.

After the interval, the perspective shifts—but the sense of flow continues. The two pieces presented move forward without interruption, almost like a single, constantly evolving landscape. There’s a moment I particularly love, where the music of Scriabin begins to ‘take over’ so gradually that you might not notice it straight away—and then suddenly you catch yourself thinking: “Wait, is that still Wagner, or has something new taken over?” That kind of transformation is an absolutely thrilling thing to experience in a concert hall.

What excites me most about this programme is exactly that feeling of discovery. It’s not about sitting back and waiting for a ‘main event’, but about being part of a journey where each piece opens a door to the next. The connections, the contrasts, the slow shifts in sound and character – they all build something larger than the individual works.

And right at the centre of that experience is the cello itself. There’s something about its sound that feels incredibly close to the human voice—warm, vulnerable, and immediate. In Elgar’s concerto especially, it’s as if the music is speaking straight to you, without any filter.