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Though it surges with overwhelming force and menace, it was a coincidence that Holst finished sketching the first movement, ‘Mars, the Bringer of War’, just before the First World War broke out. As the composer’s daughter Imogen explained, at the time Gustav ‘had never heard of a machine gun and the tank had not yet been invented’. ‘Mars’ opens with an unsettling march rhythm (with five beats to the bar rather than the more regular four) that is repeated in one guise or another throughout the piece. The threat is unnerving from the start, even though it begins from a distance, but it’s not long before we are consumed by it. We hear strange, swirling harmonies, shrieking brass and rumbling timpani before a burning climax that quickly fades. After fast scurrying in the wind section, the Bringer of War delivers a series of brutal blows – the gaps of silence in between are equally terrifying – before the final bludgeon.

By contrast, ‘Venus, the Bringer of Peace’ begins with a radiant choir of French horns and winds. Then, gently pulsing alternating chords create the backdrop for airy celestial harmonies that suggest an alluring, mysterious realm. This cohesive entity is coloured occasionally by intimate solo touches (violin, oboe, clarinet and cello). ‘Venus’ is also where we hear the bell-like celesta for the first time in The Planets – creating an impression of distant twinkling stars.

As you’d expect from ‘the Winged Messenger’, Mercury is … well, mercurial – nimble, fleet-footed – supported by buoyant violins and then glockenspiel, spewing out a busy Morse code-like message. Mercury is carried along on the lightest current, soaring effortlessly, and occasionally tumbling just as easily. The quicksilver movement never stops – the energy is almost breathless – but Holst cleverly casts the fast-moving lines across different parts of the orchestra, not only sharing out the load, but adjusting the instrumental colour along the way. At the end, this ethereal spirit vanishes as quickly as he appeared.

‘Jupiter’ starts with a similar energy to ‘Mercury’ but now we’re back to enjoying the more ‘block’-like texture of the full orchestra. Aptly for ‘the Bringer of jollity’, there’s a strong dance element. ‘Buoyant, hopeful and joyous’ was what Holst was looking for. At one point the swinging tune is cleverly split between the two timpanists (four hands playing six drums rather than the usual four drums), who fill in the notes between them like bell-ringers – but a lot faster! Then, at the heart of the movement comes a complete change: a broad, majestic tune on full, rich strings that probably sounds familiar. More than 20 years after he wrote The Planets, Holst set this tune to the words ‘I vow to thee, my country’, now practically a second national anthem in England. It’s hard not to hear this exalted melody without patriotic stirrings but, as the composer’s daughter Imogen noted, ‘Alas … nothing could be less appropriate … When Holst first wrote that tune he had no idea there would ever be anything solemn about it.’

Now, a little distance past the halfway point, comes ‘Saturn, the Bringer of Old Age’. Flutes (including the rarely used bass flute) and harps play slowly alternating chords, a reminder of the relentless ticking of time. Then, above a quiet march-like bass line, the brass start up a sad procession. But perhaps there’s nothing mournful about marking the passage of time. Instead, even if the tread seems sometimes heavy, there’s a sense of journeying on into ever vaster and more wondrous realms. There’s beautiful strangeness, but danger too, signalled by clattering tubular bells. The music dies down and the mood changes again with a fragile combination of extremes: gentle double basses rising from below and heavenly harps descending from above. Organ pedals add sub-bass vibrations before the movement closes, in an atmosphere of serenity.

This launches in with a bold invocation in the brass – a four-note figure (G–E flat–A–B) whose German note-names spell out the musical letters of the composer’s first name and family name-initial, ‘Gustav H.’ (In German the note E flat is ‘Es’ and the note B is ‘H’, so G–E flat–A–B becomes GuStAv H.).

What follows is a series of quirky dances, as if recreating the comedy and fantasy of Dukas’s The Sorcerer’s Apprentice. With an army of apprentices mobilised, the first dance arrives on the kooky bassoon; the second is a lolloping (but full-throated) tune in strings and horns, which could almost be a drinking song. Most absurd of all is a tune beginning low in the tubas that builds to an over-the-top gladiatorial march, reaching a climax with a gaudy swoop all the way up the organ keyboard.

This clears the way for a moment of suspended beauty, but then the marching apprentices attempt to re-engage, only to be crushed by a screaming, full-orchestra discord. The ending, though, is quietly mysterious …

… and its out of this same hushed world that ‘Neptune, the Mystic’ emerges, radiant with gently pulsing light. The harmonies here are perhaps the most alluring and other-worldly in the whole suite. Holst chooses his instruments carefully and writes for them in a way that maximises their shimmer, ripple and sparkle. There’s only one other colour that can draw us further up into the ether, and that’s the sound of offstage soprano and alto voices. At the Proms, this is always a spine-tingling moment, as the singers are placed on high in the Royal Albert Hall’s uppermost level, the Gallery. Is this the sound of angelic voices or just the luminous harmony of the spheres? Either way, the choir physically retreats towards the backstage area and the ethereal sounds fade into nothingness.