The Seasons, Gabrieli Consort, Barbican, review Haydn's last oratorio, The Seasons, has always been in the shadow of its mighty neighbour, The Creation, not least because of its lame text. Conductor Paul McCreesh has produced a new translation of the original German words, and on Saturday it was unveiled in a performance by the Gabrieli Consort and Players. What a comfort it was to immerse ourselves in Haydn's orderly world. Here there's no global warming to mess the seasons up. Winter is snowy, but there's a roaring fire to come home to. Summers are baking hot, but conveniently provided with shady trees. Like Haydn's music in general, the piece celebrates the sane middle ground of life. The trouble with the golden mean is that it can seem a tad dull, but McCreesh avoided that. He launched the Introduction with a tremendous clattery din, representing the last squalls of winter before Spring. Later on, in Summer, Haydn conjures up an orchestral tempest that makes Beethoven's storm in the "Pastoral" Symphony seem not quite so original after all, and the orchestra made it thrilling. The sharp flavour of the period instruments meant that Haydn's numerous pictorialisms - twittery piccolos for birds, tripping violins for gambolling sheep, rustic dances with bagpipe drones - were charmingly vivid rather than twee. Really they were the stars of the show; the chorus and soloists just had to admire God's handiwork, which they did in tones that struck the right balance between outdoors straightforwardness and high-art sophistication. McCreesh's translation was a shrewd simulacrum of lofty 18th-century diction, softened for modern ears. Soprano Christiane Karg looked as wholesome as apple pie in her green frock, and made a sound of ringing clarity. Singing the tale of the country girl who outwits the would-be aristocratic seducer is hard to do without sounding arch, but Karg pulled it off. The combination of her tender innocence with tenor Alan Clayton's, with grey-haired Christopher Purves providing the hearty baritone voice of experience, added another layer of symbolism. It was all a delight, even the last chorus, which turns the grey skies of Winter into a moral lesson. What remains when ambition and riches melt away? Only virtue. An old-fashioned sentiment, but it could turn out to be useful yet.