For another? To be frank, there might have been a little less excitement in the air (and less cheeks in the seats) had the ONS been clear and billed for the ‘An Evening of Unpopular Poems’ programme.

Fortunately, this subterfuge worked in everyone’s favor. In fact, the real surprise of the “Symphonic Surprise” was not so much to learn the identity of the pieces and their composers. It was the lingering feeling long after that we should probably make this secret program more routine.

Conventional knowledge tells us that the public has no appetite for unknown repertoire. But it turns out that if you keep them completely in the dark, alienation suddenly becomes tantalizing . Want people to spend their evening munching on sound poems about 10th-century Norwegian rulers and water goblins stealing their daughters? Just refuse to mention the menu.

On Thursday — and in repeat performances on Friday and Saturday (which is why we’ve curbed this “surprise” review) — the orchestra offered a four-course serving of symphonic poems: Bedrich Smetana’s 1861 “Haakon Jarl”; “Vodník” (or “The Water Goblin” by Antonin Dvorak in 1896); Max Reger’s 1913 “Der geigende Eremit” (one of a series of four-tone poems based on paintings by Arnold Böcklin); and Sergei Rachmaninoff’s “Bohemian Caprice” (which Noseda prefaced as “not a symphonic poem, but close enough”).

The symphonic poem is one of those forms that can be faked and smudged a bit. Many of them came into existence just before the turn of the 20th century, when all sorts of formal, harmonic and aesthetic locks began to loosen in the arts. It’s a form well suited to wild bursts of late romantic passion and sudden flashes of futuristic inspiration – more sketchbook than canvas. In the great city of a symphony, the streets and alleys of keys and tempos can help you find your way. A symphonic poem is more like a path in the woods.

Noseda has a gift for storytelling – and not just when he remembers he has a microphone up there, but also in his interpretation of music. He knows how to pool and release energy, play with rhythm and force. It has the equivalent of the comic rhythm of the conductor. You can’t really touch those parts without that kind of sensitivity. (To get an idea of ​​what I mean, ask Siri to read you a bedtime story.)

This skill was on full display in the Smetana. “Haakon Jarl” charts the turbulent reign of the titular Norse ruler who fought Danish King Harald Bluetooth’s attempts to Christianize Norway. Funny stuff, I know. But the orchestral narrative made the story gripping, even if you disassociate yourself from the details.

Deep, rich strings in unison opened the story like a strong wind through a fjord. The body of music swelled with gusts and rose in bristling climaxes. Adriana Horne offered sparkling harp interludes before a charming woodwind passage traversed by Peter Cain’s bass clarinet. The play tightened and accelerated into a hornet’s hover before resolving into a string farewell so heroic you half-expected credits. (Accessories to Jauvon Gilliam for this titanic tympanic finish.)

Dvorak’s “Water Goblin,” adapted from Karel Jaromír Erben’s poem, was also expertly told — the icy, crystal-clear surface etched by the strings barely concealed a lurking threat beneath. Violas crept over pizzicato bass punctuation as Noseda whipped up a whirlwind of violins. A rhythmic pattern tapped throughout sounded like a tether tied to the shore – a wisp of hope. Noseda refused to tell us the full story of what happened to the girl taken from the lake by the goblin. (Unlike this performance, it’s not pretty.)

The Reger was a marvelous example of musical ekphrasis—that is, of poetry about art. “Der geigende Eremit” is inspired by Böcklin’s portrayal of a hermit playing the violin, and concertmaster Nurit Bar-Josef delivered an achingly beautiful reading that felt more like a performance. Noseda later described the piece’s “long state of ecstatic beauty”, and in its bright, sustained textures you can detect Reger’s life as an organist. Aside from the surprise marimba solo brought in by someone’s phone, it was a flawless performance.

Rachmaninoff’s ‘Bohemian Caprice’ – which follows in the footsteps of Rimsky-Korsakov’s ‘Capricho español’ and Tchaikovsky’s ‘Italian Capriccio’ – provided a rousing finale, with shimmering strings and magnificent contributions from flautist Aaron Goldman, clarinetist Lin Ma and cellist David Hardy. The entire percussion section was above the many tambourines, rattles and gongs of this propulsive piece, culminating in an explosive finale.

A “Symphonic Surprise” may have been a little late for Halloween, but its signature trick turned out to be a real treat. Bags containing largely discarded deep cuts, forgotten symphonic poems, and canonical duds are a great way to smuggle new repertoire into the room.

But can adventurous programs like this receive such a warm welcome without the shroud of secrecy? Orchestras in general should press these buttons more often and their audiences. They might be surprised.