Slava and Martha: a pair to sell out Avery Fisher Hall. Which they did. On Wednesday night, the New York Philharmonic began its current subscription series, whose guest conductor is Mstislav (Slava) Rostropovich, and whose soloist is Martha Argerich, the adored pianist. They are two of the most exciting musicians in the world, even if the pianist is sometimes more exciting than she is musical. The program was Shostakovich and Prokofiev, two composers Mr. Rostropovich knew well. How important that is in music making is an open question.

The concert began with one of the happiest, zippiest pieces in all of music: Shostakovich’s “Festive Overture.” This piece requires crispness, alertness, the best articulation. It should be on a knife’s edge, or on a tight, tingling string. When it is played with the right precision and spirit, you can hardly stay in your seat.

Mr. Rostropovich’s account did not begin well. The fanfare was labored, not thick with anticipation. And then when the music turned “festive,” it was a little limp, flaccid. The orchestra also committed several wrong notes, which was unexpected, at least by me. The most interesting thing about the performance was that Mr. Rostropovich turned around on the podium, to conduct the extra brass positioned in the hall’s first tier, on either side of the stage. Pity the players weren’t together, however.

Decades ago, when he was announcing boxing, Howard Cosell used to say, “Crowd roared, but the blow didn’t land.” One might say the same of the “Festive Overture” on Wednesday night: The crowd roared, but the piece really hadn’t delivered its punch.

Do yourself a favor, if I may: Before you die, listen to Karel An ycerl’s recording of the “Festive Overture,” with the Czech Philharmonic. (You will find it in IMG Artists’ Great Conductors series.)

After the overture, Ms. Argerich came out for the first of her two concertos. This was Shostakovich’s Concerto No. 1, for piano, trumpet, and strings. A few weeks ago, Ms. Argerich played Beethoven’s Concerto No. 1, with the Philadelphia Orchestra in Carnegie Hall. On that occasion, she stretched and warped the more lyrical portions – such as the piano’s opening measures – and then rushed and pounded the faster portions. Damned if that exact same pattern didn’t show up in the Shostakovich concerto. At least there is a consistency!

Shostakovich this may be, but the music need not be quite so percussive. The Concerto No. 1 is not a pound- or slap-fest.

In the second movement, Ms. Argerich showed little tenderness, and she missed a lot of notes – shocking for so pyrotechnical a pianist, in such simple fare. And those accents – they’re from outer space. It’s as though a person were talking normally, and then shouted a word for no reason. We can all appreciate eccentric genius, but there must be some genius, to go with the eccentricity.

In the closing sections, the music turns nutty, and Ms. Argerich did it justice.

The evening’s trumpeter was the Philharmonic’s principal, Philip Smith, who has tremendous facility. His technique and tone – or tones, rather – seem to come with no effort at all. Mr. Smith is a great effort-hider, if he experiences it (as he must, now and then).

After intermission, Ms. Argerich turned to another Piano Concerto No. 1, Prokofiev’s – and here, at the beginning, messing around with rhythm is absolutely impermissible. Prokofiev demands a steady, unyielding pulse. Ms. Argerich behaved, although her – and Mr. Rostropovich’s – panting was overdone. As she played, Ms. Argerich showed her phenomenal technique, which is so dependent on the looseness of her arms, and the positions of those arms. The technique – when she is thinking – is well-nigh perfect. She did much of the elfin, nimble, cat-like playing for which she is famous. And by the time she was through, she had delivered a stupendous account of the Prokofiev First.

In the final pages, she seemed to want to go much faster than Mr. Rostropovich was willing to go, and they were not together – Mr. Rostropovich seemed to be ignoring her. I believe he was right.

He closed the concert with one of the great symphonies, the Prokofiev Seventh. It began with a joke of an entrance, unfortunately: ker-plunk, or ker-ker-plunk. The entire account was a bit strange: Tempos were slower than they normally are – including from Slava – and an inertia threatened to take over. The conductor avoided extremes, which was admirable. But the symphony was missing some of its flavor: the cackle, the bite, the zany wonder. The Allegro portion of the second movement – one of the most exciting things in music – was almost dull. And the third movement, Andante espressivo, while adequate, had little bloom.

Mr. Rostropovich’s Prokofiev, like his Shostakovich, is supposed to be inarguable, straight from the horse’s mouth. But Mr. Rostropovich has conducted Prokofiev better – including this symphony – and will again. Incidentally, a traversal by this conductor of the complete “Romeo and Juliet” remains a high point of my concert going experience.

And you have heard his Bach, right, on the cello? He did not live with Bach – as he did with Prokofiev, for a time – is not a man of the 18th century, is not German, is not a Lutheran. But when he plays those suites: They seem straight from the horse’s mouth.

That is simply being a musician – a super-musician.