Nicola Benedetti, Queen Elizabeth Hall, London <!-- none onestar twostar threestar fourstar fivestar -->

No concessions to the warm weather for the Philharmonia, who turned out in tails and glum faces for a potentially family-friendly concert. The starchiness was fortunately blown away by Sir Roger Norrington's fresh approach to familiar pieces and by the disarming presence of Nicola Benedetti in Tchaikovsky's Violin Concerto.

Still 19, she drew a large audience, mainly from the upper half of the family spectrum. For those close to the business and of a certain age, she does inspire a certain response akin to parental pride, mixed with relief that the musical system can still produce at least this one victory of musicality over hype.

The business has already made her a BBC Young Musician and given her a record contract, reflecting the fact that Benedetti has the gift of communication in spades: an ability to make the music seem larger than life by sheer eagerness of musical personality. Her playing had a natural sense of proportion, as in the middle movement where long phrasing and lyrical directness allowed the melodies to breathe. The essential instincts and techniques were all there, coupled in the faster music with forthright and, it has to be said, at times loud projection.

Intensity, rhythmic subtlety, the tragic dimension in Tchaikovsky - all these will come as life brings its surprises and need not be prodigally rushed. Her traditional, generous vibrato made for an interesting clash with the near total lack of vibrato in the orchestral strings. This is Norrington's way, reckoned to be true to period even in Elgar, whose Symphony No 1 was enabled to go with an athletic flexibility. At times the players sounded as though they were trying to suppress what came naturally, but the overall concept was a thing of wonder. The fluctuations of speed in Elgar's long first movement added up instead of cancelling out, giving the piece a cogent dramatic shape. A fizzy, violent Scherzo went through its gradual transformation into withdrawn stasis in a patient, painstaking way that registered every expressive nuance in between.

As the Adagio unfolded, introspection became an idyllic serenity, impinged on by menacing muted trombones. A fast, fierce finale relaxed temporarily into its luscious episode of Wagnerian strings, but the ending was another shock. It conventionally carries a triumphalist pomp that evokes images of the British establishment trying to slam the door on dissent. Here Norrington launched a wild, crazed sprint that reclaimed it brilliantly for the artistic spirit.