LPO / Jurowski, Royal Festival Hall, London

For the first 30 seconds or so of Alexander Zemlinsky's Sinfonietta, the intriguing start to this terrific London Philharmonic concert, you wonder if there has been a mistake – a misprint, a misappropriation. It sounds and behaves like Walton in all his nervy, syncopated, rebelliousness. A wry smile (or should I say, smirk) completes the impression. But a distracted waltz is lurking just beneath the surface, and that places us in Vienna of 1934, hurtling towards certain change.

Zemlinsky's strange little would-be symphony is not quite sure what it is – or, indeed, what it wants to be. It hints at an extravagance now past, and seems to mourn its passing. But a deeper disquiet is apparent. Jewish elements try but fail to assert themselves. The shadow of censorship looms. And for that reason alone it was shrewd of Vladimir Jurowski to present it as a kind of prequel to Erich Korngold's Violin Concerto, which was written in Hollywood just after the war and is free to rejoice in its own gorgeousness.

The movies were Korngold's refuge in exile and the most wonderful thing about this concerto is its shameless indulgence. Melodically and harmonically it lays fair claim to being the most erotic music ever written. Nikolaj Znaider intensified that feeling through his refinement, his beautiful sound, his insinuating way with the work's abundance of blue notes. With chromaticism once again a dirty word, Jurowski and the LPO laid down the orchestral textures (shimmering with vibraphone) like black satin sheets of adultery.

And then came Shostakovich, playing fast and loose with the masks of comedy and tragedy. His Sixth Symphony is one of music's great deceptions – the composer's most searching Largo swiftly subverted by the short, sharp, shock of slapstick comedy. The trick here – and, of course, Jurowski was on to it – is to accentuate the imbalance by suspending all sense of time and motion in that long opening movement and allowing the music to create its own space. The moment where it shifts into major-key consonance was extraordinary, a little like being lost but suddenly spotting a familiar landmark.

But then Shostakovich hits you with humour. Jurowski's tempi were pretty scary in themselves but so, too, was the malevolent clowning of the LPO woodwinds. This is the piece with the killer piccolo.