Prom 23 and 26, Royal Albert Hall, London

How do the seasons sound? Haydn knew...

As if to counter Knotgrass Elegy, Sally Beamish's dystopic oratorio on modern farming premiered two weeks ago, last week's pastoral offerings at the Proms presented life on the land as one of prelapsarian bliss. At Monday's Late Night Prom, the Academy of Ancient Music gave a delightfully breezy performance of Handel's Arcadian idyll, Acis and Galatea. Then on Wednesday the Austro-Hungarian Haydn Orchestra presented The Seasons, Haydn's other great oratorio.

Written just over a decade after the French Revolution and on the cusp of the century that would see the progressive industrialisation of Europe, Haydn's celebration of nature and agricultural labour is as politically astute as The Tweenies. Thankfully, it's easier on the ear. The Enlightenment's love affair with the natural world forms the body of the work: the renewal of spring, the heat of the summer, the bounty of autumn, and the mists of winter. But the notion of self-determination is absent. Simon, Hannah and Lucas (the three vocal soloists) aren't characters so much as symbols: of benign patriarchy, obedient femininity, and eager youth. And boy, do they ­ and their supporting cast, the chorus ­ love their work. Harvesting? Great. Spinning? Terrific. Shepherding? Don't mind if I do. Had Simon, Hannah or Lucas left their rustic paradise to work in the household of Count Almaviva, I doubt much sedition would have occurred.

Did the irony of performing an extended hymn in praise of diligence and simple living to an audience of peri-wigged aristos in the Schwarzenberg palace not occur to Haydn? Perhaps his childhood as the son of a village wheelwright was bathed in retrospective sentiment (in this depiction of rural life there is no mention of tithing or droit de seigneur). But whatever the social inequalities of 19th-century Austria, Haydn had a sharp memory for sounds, colours, temperatures, flavours and textures. The Creation may be the finer work in terms of structure, but The Seasons shows Haydn's talent for evocation at its greatest: the finest gradations of light are there, the tiniest differences in character, and a vivid menagerie of insects and animals. Only the humans are poorly painted; which explains, I suppose, why poor, politically and emotionally intuitive Mozart was the better composer in opera.

With their intended conductor and soprano having flown the coop (to Bayreuth and sick-bed respectively), the AHHO could be forgiven for being a little subdued. The chilly progression from winter to the first haze of spring is a creaky start to a long programme (mysteriously given with only one interval) but under their replacement conductor, Helmuth Rilling, the players further dragged their feet. Within a few movements it became clear that this was by policy rather than accident, and I found myself wishing that Rattle or Norrington were at the helm. Or Mackerras. Or Harnoncourt. (I could go on, but you get the point.) Rilling's measured exposition of The Seasons was so respectful that he made no attempt to distract from its dramatic shortcomings. There's a lot to be said for not giving in to the urge to excite in an extrinsic manner, but he could have found a compromise.

No matter. If you were prepared to allow the music to unfold in its own time, there were plenty of delights; the woodwind solos deliciously painting flora and fauna, an unruly cockerel, the thrumming of fish in a stream, the swarming of bees, and ­ most effectively ­ that sudden drop in pressure before a conflagration. That Haydn managed to capture the alteration in acoustic before thunder, and the spit-spot rain (here a flute) before the downpour (tutti with horns and kettle-drums) is a miracle of observation and invention. And if you have to hear a dozen variations on the same 2/4, tonic/dominant singspiel aria, then these are the right soloists. Neal Davies gave a consummately good-natured, alert and elegant performance of Simon's arias, striding easily across the long-legged intervals of Seht auf die breiten Wiesen hin. John Mark Ainsley sounded vulnerable but sang the part of Lucas with a level of sophistication and artistry this chump of a character barely deserves. But Simone Nold ­ flown in to replace an indisposed Susan Gritton as Hannah ­ won the heart of this listener. Nold's voice has a fluid transparency ideally suited to Haydn's exultant soprano arias, capturing the benefit of the Albert Hall's capricious acoustic even at its quietest. This was lovely, gracious singing delivered with genuine sympathy.

I'd love to be able to say something about the string playing of the AHHO, but too much of it disappeared beneath their characterful brass and woodwind. Unfortunately, this was another instance where those listening to a properly balanced live broadcast at home would have had the advantage; an advantage I took on Monday for the Ulster Orchestra's premiere of Ian Wilson's Man-o'-War. As much as I admired the Vanbrugh Quartet's recording of his String Quartets, I hadn't expected Wilson's orchestral writing to be this powerful. As he explained in the pre-Prom interview, he was playing on both definitions of the title ­ the Portuguese jelly-fish and the naval vessel ­ hoping to convey a sense of threat. It worked. Even sitting on the laundry-basket in my kitchen, I found Man-o'-War both extremely disturbing and technically impressive ­ hints of Ruders, hints of Prokofiev ­ which meant I was torn between admiring his scoring and worrying about a poisonous metal boat with a gloopy underskirt. Judging from the applause the live impact could only have been greater. The excellent playing of the Ulster Orchestra under Dmitri Sitkovetsky no doubt helped (their Mozart, Shostakovich and Part were equally fine), as did the artful tuba solo of David Dowell, but Wilson's talent is an exciting one. Let's hope his next commission is for a much longer piece. I can't wait.

a.picard@independent.co.uk