At the opening of the New York Flamenco Festival at City Center, neither the staccato rat-atat of heels, the parade of colorful costumes, nor two exciting debuts could offset the creeping fatigue. Six soloists took the stage during an evening that ran so long that it basically skipped its culminating fin de fiesta.

Nonetheless, the debuts of Olga Pericet and Manuel Liñán were stunners. From the moment Ms. Pericet strode onstage for her first American “Cantiñas,” she held the audience rapt. Her bright, mischievous eyes sparkled above her strikingly beautiful gown. That dress — a pink and rose confection that fell to the floor like a carpet of petals — proved to be both flash and substance. Midway through the number, she bounced the skirt’s long train around, whipped it into the air with a flick of her hips, and reached out a hand and caught it — a trick as impressive as it was sweet. “Señorita, eh!” murmured one of the singers approvingly.

With her youthful verve and her ready smile, Ms. Pericet was nothing like those great ladies of flamenco who, ripened by age, suggest incalculable depths of earthy experience. Some of her steps were like fun party moves, others like athletic feats. Occasionally, a charming shrug or a graceful turn appeared like a little fillip. She marched around a bit, like a child queen, and when she was finished, she blew a kiss on her way to the wings.

Mr. Liñán danced his “Soleá” with terrific flair, making dramatic use of every tempo shift, his liquid wrists unfurling deliberately, arrestingly. His gestures — like hiding his eyes behind his hands — had calculated impact, and his strutting commanded attention. More than most flamenco performers, Mr. Liñán showed the rare ability to create moment-to-moment suspense onstage; you wanted to see what he would do next. Even as he strode offstage, he dashed back out for one last sally in the spotlight.

The two were joined by Marco Flores — who also acquitted himself handsomely in his American debut — in the unremarkable unison numbers that opened and closed the first act. These ensemble sections served only to add unnecessary length to an act that was already more than full.

The evening’s second act didn’t have the spark of the first. Fuensanta La Moneta, also making her first appearance in America, was a stagier dancer. In a “Seguiriya,” Isabel Bayón exuded sincerity, looking the audience firmly in the eye; her pared-down, emphatic dancing was the opposite of flashy. In contrast, Joaquín Grilo, preening about in a white suit, was clearly from the school of emoting, clutching his jacket with an anguished expression.

Each act had its own excellent musicians, and both groups provided the requisite soulful songs, palmas, and shouted encouragements. There was something odd in the contrast between the reticent, polite audience and the musicians’ casual murmurs and cheers; the performers had to feed off voices behind them as they faced a weirdly quiet house. One imagines that there are some venues in the world where a flamenco gala is more like a rock concert, but given the staid atmosphere Thursday, the performers seemed almost to be stranded on a remote island.