“OH, NO,” said a reader I bumped into on Monday morning. She had just bought her Herald and was reacting to my review of the Scottish Chamber Orchestra and Richard Egarr, whose picture was splashed across the page. “But I thought you liked Egarr: I thought you were a fan”, she said.

I am; a huge fan, and have been for many years. His versatility is brilliant. He is a master of communication, and in the most appealing and engaging way. He can take the most complex issues in music and make them accessible to Everyman. From Handel to Beethoven, from the little-known music of French composer Mehul, to the most familiar rum-ti-tum tunes in Gilbert and Sullivan, Egarr has a relaxed and ever-informative attitude. He’s a man who is genuinely fired with inspiration and enthusiasm when talking about music. He’s also game for a bit of adventure with perhaps a touch of mischief.

I’ve never met the man but, many years ago, in my feature-writing days, I interviewed him on the telephone in relation to a gig he was conducting in Scotland. He was great fun, very lively, and with a sparkling sense of wit and humour. We talked widely, including a natter about JS Bach, and specifically about the Third Brandenburg Concerto. That’s the one where Bach, instead of writing out a proper slow movement, simply laid out a cadential sequence of a few chords upon which the harpsichord player could improvise anything from a wee cadenza to a fully-blown movement. Musicians have had a field day with it ever since. I’ve even heard a full piece by a completely different composer inserted into the slot. Egarr had his own notion: he said he had an ambition to play a fully-fledged cadenza in the style of Wilhelm Furtwangler in the space. Because we were on the phone, I couldn’t detect whether there was a glint of mischief in his eyes.

He’s a master musician and a great bloke. What I was complaining about in my review was the sheer speed at which he took Beethoven’s Pastoral Symphony. Of course he could do it with style and panache. And of course the SCO gave it right back to him: they could play like this standing on their heads. But something got lost in the speed. The Pastoral is not a light, comfy stroll in the countryside: it’s a full-scale and, in its own (and Beethoven’s) way a very meaty large-scale symphony. Never be duped by that old fallacy about Beethoven’s even-numbered symphonies being lightweight in comparison with the mighty monsters, numbers three, five, seven and nine. It’s just not true. Wherever you go in Beethoven’s music you will find meat and drama.

But this question of speed at a cost is, I think, a real issue today, and especially for chamber orchestras and period bands. I sense the cost of high speed is something of the spirit, natural weight, personality and character of the music itself. It really has to be tested by music lovers, whose own instincts will tell them, despite the superficial brilliance of what’s going on in front of them, whether there is any real integrity and fidelity to the composer’s wishes for his music. And remember this. Because a performance is branded “authentic” or “historically-informed” means absolutely nothing. All that counts is what comes out in performance, and how it is received by the most important ears and minds in the concert hall: not the conductor’s, not the orchestra’s, but yours, the listeners’.

Last week’s example by Richard Egarr and the SCO was by no means the worst I’ve heard. That dubious honour probably lies with the recording of Beethoven’s Eroica made by conductor Jordi Savall and his period band, Le Concert des Nations, which goes like a gale and strips the Eroica of its grandeur, its impact, its revolutionary dimensions, its weight and its drama. The Eroica remains one of the most revolutionary moments in symphonic history, here reduced to a hiccup. Savall’s citing of the metronome marks does absolutely nothing to offset the fact that his Eroica is lightweight, which the symphony is not: not for one bar or for one second.

The SCO, incidentally, a few weeks back, did much better with Robin Ticciati when they ventured into their first confrontation with the music of Anton Bruckner and his Fourth Symphony, the Romantic. Yes, the speeds were high; yes, the pace was fleet: but Ticciati brought the spirit and that intrinsic sense of Brucknerian weight into the performance without dragging it down to an elephantine pace. He got that critical balance dead right. That made it not only convincing but authoritative. And that is the responsibility of conductors today, in this “anything goes” era.