Prom 14: BBC Scottish Symphony Orchestra/ Brabbins, Royal Albert Hall, London <br></br>Prom 12: BBC Symphony Orchestra/Davis, Royal Albert Hall London

Last week the Proms played host to one of the most talented sopranos on the international circuit. Radiant of appearance and luminous of tone, her singing had an unparalleled directness of expression. No, I'm not talking about Renee Fleming. I'm talking about Danish soprano Inger Dam-Jensen, whose subtle and unselfconscious performance of Britten's Rimbaud cycle Les Illuminations with the BBC Scottish Symphony Orchestra was one of the loveliest I have heard (and this includes tenors). A shame then that the hall was half empty.

What is it about the Proms and hype? The two concerts I saw last week perfectly illustrate the problems of over-inflating one product to the detriment of the other. Sure, the BBC Scottish SO don't enjoy the same reputation as the Philharmonia (Ms Fleming's backing band of the following night) or the London-based BBCSO (who got the big weekend spot). Sure, Ms Fleming is big business (hence her elevation to BBC2), whereas Dam-Jensen's career is still growing (hence her relegation to BBC Knowledge). But does Sally Beamish (whose Knotgrass Elegy was premiered by the BBCSO) merit more attention than fellow composer Stuart MacRae (whose violin concerto received its first performance two days later)? I don't think so. Clearly it's easier to generate excitement over a crassly tuneful oratorio about pesticides than it is to arouse interest in an unashamedly modernist violin concerto.

But back to the sopranos. I can't claim to be talent-spotting in the case of Dam-Jensen (she won Cardiff Singer of the World back in 1993), but I would like to put in a word for her in case she's down as a warm-up act for Ms Fleming again. This is a ravishing voice. Equally at home in coloratura – the florid explosions of energy in Marine were as artfully liquid as a roccoco fountain – and legato – her coolly shaded lines in Being Beauteous were delicious – Dam-Jensen shows signs of becoming something wonderful; a soprano with beauty, strength of tone, and an apparently normal-sized ego. Seemingly uninterested in lipsticky divaisms, she simply got on with the job of singing Britten's music. How odd that putting the music first should be such a rarity.

Putting the music first was also what conductor Martyn Brabbins tried to do. Brabbins (an expert in "difficult" music) is not unemotional, but his principal interest appears to be in analysing strands of sound. This worked a treat in the MacRae and the Britten, less so in Berlioz's Le Corsaire (he was hampered by a laggardly woodwind section), and not one smidgen in Strauss's Also Sprach Zarathustra, where his subtleties were totally ignored by a trigger-happy brass section. But how subtle can you be with this phallic monstrosity? What is the appeal of this daft paean to size? Is it a boy thing? Like rally-driving, or seeing how far you can pee? I just don't get it. The best analogy I can find for what I feel when I hear the first blind thrust of Also Sprach is the kind of horrified fascination you feel when confronted with an improbably large male member in a documentary on the sex industry. Sadly, this fascination is short-lived. Even more sadly, Strauss's piece isn't (Kubric took the best bit for 2001). In any case, having heard what the brass players of the New York Phil sing to the main theme (the words of which modesty forbids me to reveal) this is one piece I cannot take seriously.

Until the Strauss, an air of seriousness dominated this Prom. Even violinist Tasmin Little – no stranger to eyelash-batting – backgrounded herself in the MacRae, with a quiet and restrained performance. But, in the composer's own words, this is an "anti-concerto" where the traditional soloistic glories are reserved until the final movement; a kind of reward for not getting too uppity before. It's a serious, brutal work where beauty appears fleetingly in a bleak, skittering landscape. I can't say I was impressed by the Scherzo (movements with that moniker seem doomed these days), but the first, second and fourth movements were a fine example of honest, old-fashioned, modernism. The sole criticism I have is that MacRae – whose favourite artist, the programme notes told us, is Mark Rothko – seems to lack a sense of proportion. I'd extrapolate from this information (and the music) that his favourite author might be Camus, his favourite colour, grey. But at only 25 years of age he's got plenty of time to read Barthes and Fitzgerald, look at Paul Klee, and learn how light can complement darkness.

And so to the Beamish; a densely populated (children's chorus, adult chorus, three vocal soloists, the BBCSO, a dance band, and – God help us – the ubiquitous solo saxophone) and remarkably derivative lament on the chemical rape of the countryside. Though Britten, Turnage, and Schnittke all made their presence felt in the patchwork, the work's nearest stylistic relative is probably Michael Berkeley's Hiroshima oratorio, Or Shall We Die?. But, at the risk of offending ecologically concerned readers, such portentously crashing chords, apocalyptic gut-churning sentiments, and guilty self-flagellations do seem somewhat more appropriate to a bomb that killed x million people than they do to the use of pesticides on arable land. What next? A cantata on the horrors of dog-poo in parks? Well, it is dangerous to small children! Leaving aside the complex issue of modern farming techniques (Beamish is against them), Knotgrass Elegy showed a disdain of technology in general; why else would the sequin-jacketed Tempter (Brian Asawa) have a microphone? And then there is the text. Berkeley worked with Ian McEwan, so whatever else you might think of Or Shall We Die?, its libretto is razor-sharp. Beamish, alas, was working with a local poet whose work she chanced upon in her village shop. "We are sick," sang the (excellent) New London Children's Chorus about a dozen times, until the immortal final stanza was heard: "Monoculture ... cash incentives ... global surplus ... subsidies ... Bare fields – spent, gaunt – silent". Me too.

a.picard@independent.co.uk