Bach: The Well-Tempered Clavier, Books 1 and 2 Roger Woodward - piano (Celestial Harmonies)

Some great singers know how to modulate their beautiful instruments for long vocal life; others push technique and expression to the limits in countless concerts of a lifetime before burnout. Baritone Christian Gerhaher, it seems, belongs to the beautiful and the secure. I'm glad to have heard his Winterreise, a far from lonely journey given the partnership of pianist Gerold Huber, but it always felt like a songbook entrusted to a calm exponent of truth and wisdom rather than the first-person narration of Schubert's heartbroken winter wanderer.

How odd that Musorgsky, a composer sanctified beyond his very individual deserts for making social statements in his art, should be feted by an orchestra, or rather an orchestral management, which says music and politics don't mix.

It’s not like we’re short of operas. Thousands of works spanning over 400 years make up the western operatic repertoire. Of these maybe 100 get a regular airing in contemporary opera houses, with only about 20 making it into the popular consciousness. For the rest, a trip outside the archives is rare indeed, with many scores still vainly awaiting their “modern premiere”. So why then, with so many works to choose from, do directors persist in returning to Bach – who famously never composed an opera – for inspiration?

Stately females sailed the corridors like grand multicoloured liners. Grown men in boaters and Union Jack waistcoats raced balloons to the Royal Albert Hall ceiling. Beachballs. Streamers. Flags. Fancy dress. One St George's Cross read "Votes for Women!" My first thoughts were: how lovely, in a way, that the mentally ill are allowed a day out like this.

This week there's another new Mahler symphony recording, along with some disquieting British piano music and an enjoyable disc of originals and transcriptions played by a young Baltic accordionist.

After filing for bankruptcy earlier this year, the Philadelphia Orchestra seemed poised to be the flagship cultural casualty of the financial crisis. Five months on and the bills continue to rise, but in the best Titanic tradition the band are determinedly playing on. It’s been five years since we last heard them at the Proms and their return last night under Chief Conductor Charles Dutoit saw a capacity crowd turn out to show their support and to hear the glossy music-making for which this orchestra is so justly celebrated.

You can count on one thing at the Proms: that the sound, if not on this occasion the cut-off point, of the extraterrestrial, wordless ladies’ choir at the end of Holst’s The Planets will scatter stardust through the Albert Hall solar system. Even, that is, if the performance is less than good, and last night’s was better than expected given reports of the same team’s near implosion in Beethoven’s Ninth. Hardly your average programme, either, with an unexpectedly lovely tone poem by featured composer Frank Bridge, and a surprisingly engaging float through the near vacuum of Sir Harrison Birtwistle’s almost new Violin Concerto.

You can count on one thing at the Proms: that the sound, if not on this occasion the cut-off point, of the extraterrestrial, wordless ladies’ choir at the end of Holst’s The Planets will scatter stardust through the Albert Hall solar system. Even, that is, if the performance is less than good, and last night’s was better than expected given reports of the same team’s near implosion in Beethoven’s Ninth. Hardly your average programme, either, with an unexpectedly lovely tone poem by featured composer Frank Bridge, and a surprisingly engaging float through the near vacuum of Sir Harrison Birtwistle’s almost new Violin Concerto.

Earlier this year, conductor Manfred Honeck revealed to me his love of old vinyl: the crackle, the fizz, the lost musical traditions. His performances are marinated in this obsession. The idiosyncrasies of his interpretations hark back to a time when the rules were fewer and the colours brighter. Last night was no different. His Mahler Five steered clear of the sleep-inducing modern fixations with orchestral homogeneity and tastefulness and instead jumped right off the deep end.