Riccardo Muti was scheduled to be in town this weekend, to lead his New York Philharmonic in two types of music shamelessly neglected by modern American orchestras. But with Mr. Muti under the weather, the Phil reached all the way across the river, plucking Brooklyn Philharmonic conductor Michael Christie to hold things together.

Other than a precious few warhorses, English music is virtually never heard in the concert hall on this side of the pond, but, even more mysteriously, neither is much of the music of 20th century America. At last summer’s Bard Music Festival, the life and work of Sir Edward Elgar was celebrated, but some critics, in a desperate attempt to seem hip, dismissed his music as “colonial.” This is patently absurd, of course, but his music can be categorized as nostalgic, romantic, sweet, and wistful. No piece better embodies these qualities than the Violin Concerto, which the Phil offered with Pinchas Zukerman as soloist.

Things began badly. The orchestra produced a very harsh sound for the introduction, a grating timbre that only deteriorated when Mr. Christie brought them to double forte a bit further along the opening allegro. This was certainly not the visiting maestro’s fault; he had precious little rehearsal time to do any major surgery on the body philharmonic. Mr. Zukerman answered with his usual metallic tone. For a work that depends on subtle changes of instrumental color, this was a disappointingly monochromatic reading. There was little sweetness in Elgar this day.

Once we became accustomed to this inappropriate sound, however, the concerto went along swimmingly, Mr. Zukerman a model of romantic vibrato and phrasing, the ensemble, mostly relegated to accompaniment duty, pleasantly following along. There were even moments of beauty. Elgar’s cadenza is not played by the violin alone. Rather the strings divide at each desk, one player bowing and the other strumming a quiet background. This section was actually quite lovely in this realization. But it was too little too late.

When Antonin Dvořák came to America, he found a country whose composers were completely in the thrall of Europe. Dvořák advised to sing in their own voice. Not much has changed in over 100 years. When the Philharmonic journeyed to Pyongyang last month, they presented that most famous of all “American” pieces, the Symphony No. 9 of … Dvořák. If we discount the occasional transitory piece of contemporary music that domestic orchestras feel some misguided obligation to program, American music is largely ignored. Aaron Copland fares better than most of his brethren, but he has been relegated to the novelty act in such pieces as “Rodeo” and “Appalachian Spring.” His Symphony No. 3 was written during and just after World War II, and, like the corresponding fifth symphonies of allies Vaughn Williams and Prokofiev, reflects a sense of the indomitable and the hopeful. Copland was interested in changing colors as well, but unlike Elgar, accomplishes his goal by employing obvious, even blatant, techniques.

Mr. Christie seemed more in his element here and led a rousing performance. He may simply have been more familiar with this work than the Elgar — nothing is so difficult as to have to lead another man’s program — but the Philharmonic musicians were also at the top of their game. The piece is a popular one — “Fanfare for the Common Man” and all that — so the concert ended on a positive note. The local brass section had a very good day.

In his book “Unfinished Journey: Twenty Years Later,” Yehudi Menuhin tells the story of his first trip to England to record the Elgar concerto. During the run-through, Sir Edward stopped him before he even got to the second subject and said that he was sure that everything would be fine and left for the races. I’m afraid that Mr. Christie needed just a little more preparation time.

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Edgard Varèse was not on the program on Thursday evening, but I thought of him often as I experienced the world premiere of Benedict Mason’s “Sonata” performed by the superb young pianist Hinrich Alpers. Mr. Alpers, having won the William Petschek competition at the Juilliard School, made the most of his opportunity to present his debut recital at a major New York venue. With Alice Tully down for repairs, he received his baptism by fire in the cacophonous cauldron of Zankel Hall.

When Varèse wrote his “Ameriquérs” for orchestra, he was painting a picture of a cherished vision of America, a European’s imaginary view of a land of rugged individualism and limitless opportunity, of vast spaces and wild ambitions. Mr. Mason has a similar mood in mind, describing the piece as “a bravura work using primary colours” — forgive the strange spelling; he’s a Brit. Mr. Alpers offered an extremely enthusiastic performance, emphasizing those Day-Glo hues while employing such techniques as playing with his elbows and navigating the uppermost region of the keyboard with icy strength. A little too much running up and down the ivories with glissandi, but overall this sonata is an interesting effort, jazzy in spots in the same Roaring ’20s manner as is that Varèse tone poem. It is doubtful that anyone could communicate it better than Mr. Alpers.

Mr. Alpers began his evening with a gorgeously liquid reading of the Sonata No. 10 of Alexander Scriabin, a stunning display of chiaroscuro technique and poetic phrasing. Right from the start it was clear that this was not just another talented student, but rather a mature professional trapped in an acolyte’s body. A student of Jerome Lowenthal, Mr. Alpers passes all of the mechanical tests with apparent ease, but exhibits that rare quality of understanding of the music and, most importantly, what is happening between the lines and staves. It is dangerous to predict — for all I know, he may want to become a dentist — but a fine career as a performer awaits him.

In addition to the Beethoven Opus 111, Mr. Alpers traversed the problematic landscape of the Sonata in F Sharp Minor, Opus 11 of Robert Schumann. Critics have always been divided about this piece. Franz Liszt, a stranger to Schumann at the time, talks about its “richness and fertility” in a Gazette musicale review from 1837, while Schumann friend and mentor Ignaz Moscheles pronounced it “labored, difficult, and somewhat confused.” Both men, however, are right, and it takes a strong hand and an old soul to pull it off successfully. Mr. Alpers was just the man for the job.

Seemingly unconcerned with the trains loudly whizzing by, he spent much delicate effort creating just the right mood for the aria movement, an homage to the composer’s beloved Clara, only to have his intricate construction ruined by an egregious cell phone that rang many times near its conclusion. Visibly shaken, Mr. Alpers ran off of the rails a couple of times in the difficult scherzo that followed, but righted himself in time to prevent any significant damage. As a totality, this was music making of the highest order. Remember this name: Hinrich Alpers.

Mr. Mason is perhaps best know for his soccer opera “Playing Away,” but has also written a series of works based on the acoustical conditions of particular concert venues. Imagine what he could do with a noisy place like Zankel Hall.