This article is taken from the May 2026 issue of The Critic. To get the full magazine why not subscribe? Get five issues for just £5.
The dismissal of a conductor in Boston is more than just a load of posh tea dumped in the harbour. Coming as it does in America’s 250th anniversary year, the act is emblematic and its backlash unending. It seems to reflect an acute erosion of foundational values.
Boston is Boston. Named in 1630 after a little English town and ruled by bankers who shunned the Irish masses, Boston cultivated a glassy accent and a quaint courtesy that kept the streets clean and the mayors (mostly) out of jail. Symphony Hall, a bike-ride from Harvard University, has a Palladian portal and a near-perfect acoustic.
The Boston Symphony is the least adventurous of US orchestras, which has always suited Boston just fine. The composer Elliott Carter told me that, when he was a boy, the exit signs meant “this way if they play Brahms”. The Viennese exile Ernst Krenek, at a November 1938 afternoon premiere of his piano concerto, heard one Henry Jamesian lady whisper to another: “Conditions in Europe must be dreadful”.
To this day, Bostonians like to quote an Audrey Hepburn line: “Nothing can go wrong in Symphony Hall”.
Except it has, and for some time. Back in the 1950s, the ruling classes passed over homegrown genius Leonard Bernstein in favour of humdrum Europeans. Amends were made in 1973 with the appointment of Beatle-topped Seiji Ozawa, who fixed tours to China and Japan and earned millions in donations from his tech bros at Sony.
But Ozawa stayed one decade too many amidst player discontent and some pretty shoddy playing. His successor, James Levine, was way past his sell-by and dogged by a history of sexual predation.
Fortune suddenly smiled. Jumping in for Levine in 2011 a young Latvian, Andris Nelsons, electrified orchestra and audience in Mahler’s ninth symphony. Nelsons had previously captured the City of Birmingham Symphony on the strength of a half-hour acoustic test. Brummie musicians said he made Monday mornings feel like fun.
By the time he joined Boston in 2014 Nelsons was an exciting interpreter of Tchaikovsky, Mahler, Sibelius and Shostakovich. He was approachable, unpretentious and a man of his time — the first conductor to take paternity leave when his child was born, a scale of priorities that resonated with a younger public. Most of all, he was a musician from the toes up, dancing through his scherzos, physically communicating inexpressible mysteries.
As his command of English improved, intellectual limitations were noticed. Nelsons was not widely read nor particularly curious. He was happiest in a rehearsal break for Lohengrin with a stein of beer in his fist and a Bayreuth wurst leaking down his chin. But there are few great minds left in his profession and what Nelsons lacked in bibliography and gastronomy he made up for in boundless charm.
One of his first acts in Boston was to throw the opening pitch for the Red Sox at Fenway Park. Tell me, what’s not to like?
At Symphony Hall, Nelsons recruited Jonas Kaufmann to attempt Wagner roles he would never act on stage. He embraced the venerable composer Sofia Gubaidulina, last of the post-Soviet oracles. Thanks to Nelsons, Boston was the only US orchestra with a record contract, its music and fame retailed the world over.
The recordings were outstanding and the musicians swelled with renewed pride. When executives muttered about aging audiences, Nelsons said: “Maybe classical music appeals relatively late in life. There’s nothing wrong with old people coming to concerts.” This cut against current truths and would be added to his sins when the wind turned.
After Covid-19, many subscribers never returned. The board called for an action plan. Nelsons had meanwhile taken a parallel job at the Gewandhaus in Leipzig.
The board recruited a tough-talking V-P from the Los Angeles Philharmonic to shake things up. She shook too hard and was gone in 18 months. Undeterred, they hired a second V-P from the LA Phil — Chad Smith, who made no secret of his impatience with Nelsons’ old-world outlook.
Smith wanted a more woke conductor. Having briefed a New York Times critic that Nelsons was on the skids, Smith changed his maestro’s contract from fixed-term to rolling. A few weeks ago, he announced that the next season would be Nelsons’ last.
The sacking was unprecedented. I cannot recall a single instance when a music director was fired whilst enjoying the unanimous support of the musicians. Worse, this is Boston, where good manners matter more than good management. Here was the Boston Symphony acting like a New Orleans nightclub owner with a recalcitrant pole-dancer.
The board issued a statement saying they faced “challenges” of falling attendances and shrinking finances over the past 20 years. But these were hardly the conductor’s fault. The Boston Symphony has amassed $700 million in its endowment, enough for it to play to empty halls for the next half-century. It’s not about money.
The musicians, shocked to their ties and tails, came out in freezing winds to embrace a tearful Nelsons before TV cameras on the steps of Symphony Hall. The Berlin Philharmonic expressed “high esteem” for Nelsons and solidarity with the musicians.
The Globe, bible of Boston Brahmins, published a blunt editorial calling for “honest answers”. It said the orchestra was being torn apart, “and for what, exactly?”
Consider the state of the nation. In the White House, a president rules by caprice and malice. The tone has changed. The symphony orchestra, symbol of civilisation, is devalued. Boston, bastion of civility, is beset by barbarians. This is no tea-party. God bless America.
