Yes, he is a born showman. Any conductor who can persuade the brass section of the venerable Gothenburg Symphony Orchestra to divest their jackets and their Swedish reserve and shuffle a samba in immaculate unison while a capacity Albert Hall audience claps along to Tico Tico will always have to plead guilty to that charge.

But what’s so impressive about Gustavo Dudamel – the tiny Venezuelan whiz-kid who’s the hottest property in classical music – is that the showmanship goes with serious musical intelligence. Indeed, the really notable aspect of this hugely enjoyable Prom was that he selected two works regularly overegged with synthetic excitement – Ravel’s La Valse and Berlioz’s Symphonie Fantastique – and yet produced performances that were elegant, restrained and balanced in every sense: instrumentally, expressively and dramatically.

If anything, I would have liked more flamboyance from the winds in the Ravel. But the Berlioz sounded ethereally beautiful until a March to the Scaffold that was properly rasping and grotesque. And if you like big bells – who doesn’t? – I’ve never seen a bigger pair than those the Gothenburgers brought for the Witches’ Sabbath. I hope they weren’t flying EasyJet: the excess baggage charge would have been phenomenal.

But neither the bells nor the dancing brass in the second encore (the first was a sonorously soporific piece of Stenhammar) were the night’s most striking visual element. That came from the Swedish clarinettist Martin Fröst, who not only played the UK premiere of Anders Hillborg’s Clarinet Concerto (Peacock Tales), but also danced it – in a mask, while the stage lighting flickered from lurid red to moody blue to mellow yellow.

He’s an astonishing performer. His choreographic efforts – a mixture of Bob Fosse, Marcel Marceau and Michael Jackson in his moonwalk phase – are almost as nimble as his clarinet playing. And the concerto, which required the excellent orchestra to hum chords as well as play them, is a series of brilliantly etched moods – reflective, virtuosic, sinister or exhausted. I felt exhausted just watching Fröst.

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