It was quite challenging in the 1960s and 1970s for audiophiles to keep up with the volume of Mahler releases after Leonard Bernstein opened the floodgates. My own collection includes dozens of recordings of the Third Symphony, but not one can hold a candle to a live BBC broadcast from 1973 conducted by Pierre Boulez. Mr. Boulez was on hand Saturday evening in front of the Lucerne Festival Orchestra at Carnegie Hall, substituting for an ailing Claudio Abbado. Could he catch lightning in a bottle for a second time?

Mr. Boulez seems to have lost a good deal of his bounce since 1973 (who among us has not?), although his loyal fans could classify this current reading as restrained, dignified, and analytical. Fans of Gustav Mahler might simultaneously deem it emotionless, enervated, and lugubrious. Mahler excerpted the first movement of his Symphony No. 2 as a stand-alone piece and renamed it Totenfeier, but the opening movement of the third is even longer. Mr. Boulez employed such a glacial tempo that this introduction, designed to be a compendium of martial and popular tunes recalling the composer’s rural boyhood, turned into more of a slog. The exciting effects constructed by Mahler’s use of layering — placing one melody atop another, leading to stunning reprises of the original material — was severely compromised at this snail’s pace. Besides, isn’t it the Fifth Symphony of Mahler that is supposed to begin with a funeral march?

The ensemble, essentially a pick-up orchestra, was quite good in the beginning of this performance, with special mention to the horn section. As the work wore on, however, the horns’ precision and intonation suffered significant deterioration. There were some magical moments, particularly the offstage post horn solos in the third movement, but they were too infrequent.

The audience didn’t help either. Mahler prescribes a 10 minute interval after the first movement — logistics of bringing the choirs onto the stage require it — and so it was perfectly legitimate for all to converse with their neighbors. But the crowd apparently took this license as an entitlement, and resumed their chatter after the conclusion of each succeeding movement, even when Mr. Boulez chose to begin the following section without pause.

“What the flowers of the meadow tell me” was defined by a lack of Viennese flair, an absence of the charming lilt that is signature Mahler. “What the animals of the forest tell me” was noticeably humorless. A pattern began to emerge, as if Mr. Boulez was consciously attempting to purge his rendition of any coloration or emotional overlay. Analysis gone mad, he forgot about the original intention of the composer to entertain.

But when Swedish contralto Anna Larsson arose, rather amusingly as tall standing on the floor as Mr. Boulez on the podium, the evening improved exponentially. She possesses a remarkably rich lower register, and sang her Nietzschean verses with considerable gravitas. Unfortunately, her part is short, a mere blip on this most gigantic of symphonic radar screens, and soon just a memory. For one so committed to absolute fealty to the score, Mr. Boulez apparently missed Mahler’s explicit instruction for movement five, “merry in tempo.” The American Boychoir and the women of the Westminster Symphonic Choir had little opportunity to be merry and bright as the conductor reverted to his somber tempo, rendering the “bim-bams” of the children joyless.

No movement in the entire literature is as prone to conductorial excess as the finale of this magnificent tapestry. In defense of Mr. Boulez, he certainly did not attempt to milk this highly charged essay for gratuitous emotion, but how he can possibly define his approach as “deeply felt” — another of Mahler’s score markings — is beyond me. He opened this Adagio at a relatively high volume which, in and of itself, was not objectionable, but then quickly discovered that he had no place to go, no more insistent dynamic level to which to aspire. When he tried to institute a large, gradual crescendo, the ensemble was forced to enter territory fraught with danger, as witnessed by the overblowing in the brass and a general unraveling of the blending of the strings. A work this great deserved better.

Mahler himself did not conduct his longest symphony during his three years in New York, leaving the premiere at Carnegie Hall waiting some 22 years after its creation, when Willem Mengelberg introduced it with the Philharmonic. That performance was undoubtedly considerably closer to the work’s emotional core than this current one.

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Up and coming Dutch violinist Janine Jansen joined the New York Philharmonic on Friday evening at Avery Fisher Hall for what they are calling “The Tchaikovsky Experience,” an exploration of all of the symphonies and some of the concerti. There was much to like about her playing, even as the performance as a whole was a decidedly mixed affair.

What separates a very good from just a competent fiddler in this piece is his or her ability to vary the repetitive solo passages. Ms. Jansen adopted a wise plan, using dynamic contrast to insure a fresh approach to every reiteration of thematic material. She was especially eloquent at lower volume levels, intoning lovely cantabile passages softly and impressing with little decrescendos in the midst of dramatic utterances. It should probably go without saying that her dexterity was superb; no harmonic or fast digitization was less than accurate.

Sadly, though, the orchestral accompaniment was leaden. From the very first note, the assembled strings were stuck in molasses. Lorin Maazel’s heavy pacing reminded me of the work of another Russian composer, the polka Igor Stravinsky composed for the Barnum & Bailey elephants, only without the humor. That humor made an appearance only as a black corollary, as Ms. Jansen continued to play in a sprightly manner in spite of the brown study of her mates. Our conductor’s decision to muck around with differing tempi within individual phrases was just too precious for words.

There is room for this young fiddler to grow. Her sound was not ideal for the Tchaikovsky; a bigger voice with a somewhat darker hue could carry her into the upper echelon of players of this beloved work. Also, an indefinable sense of Slavic flavor has yet to enter her arsenal. At the end of the day, this was a rather sanitized, European effort.

The Fourth Symphony is a knocked down, dragged out 15-rounder that should leave both players and listeners feeling bruised and battered. After the concerto, talk at intermission centered around a healthy skepticism that Maestro could pull it off. But, ever full of surprises, Mr. Maazel led a stunning performance, crisp, biting, electric.

Some highlights included ghostly effects in the violas and celli, remarkably precise pizzicato passages, not just in the Scherzo, which is built around these pluckings, but, even more notably, at the conclusion of the Andantino, and pinpoint entrances and instantaneous exits of the drums. The Philharmonic brass had a great night, the trumpets — with a lot to do — spot on. Mr. Maazel was on his best behavior, not attempting to recompose Tchaikovsky, but instead letting the man breathe. The aggregate sound? Well, this is about as good as the Philharmonic can play, so let’s just accept it and move on.