March is a good month for those who love the Verdi Requiem. (And that ought to be everybody.) Lorin Maazel and the New York Philharmonic will perform it in a subscription series, starting on March 29. And Robert Spano and the Atlanta Symphony Orchestra performed it in Carnegie Hall on Saturday night. This may not have been an unforgettable account of the Requiem – but it was awfully good, and it reminded us, if reminding we needed, that this is one of the most inspired works extant.

From 1996 to 2004, Mr. Spano led the Brooklyn Philharmonic. He has been in Atlanta since 2001. I mentioned the orchestra, but I should have mentioned, in the same breath, the Atlanta Symphony Orchestra Chorus – first, because we’re talking about the Verdi Requiem; but second, because this chorus was founded by the king of choral conductors, the late Robert Shaw. The chorus is made up of 200 volunteers, who practice weekly. The ASO couldn’t have a better chorus if they paid them. (Maybe they’d have a worse one.)

Both the orchestra and the chorus sounded splendid on Saturday night. Much of this Requiem was a sonic thrill.

You could have quarreled with various things that Mr. Spano did, but he was always in the realm of interpretive reason. The Requiem can be conducted more severely, in a more driving manner. Mr. Spano often took his time – but so does Verdi. And I should note that Mr. Spano seemed to enjoy conducting the Requiem. That may seem a small thing – or an obvious thing – but it makes a difference, musically.

The Atlantans had with them a worthy quartet of soloists, and outstanding among them was the mezzo-soprano, Stephanie Blythe. She is known for her big, beautiful voice, but she is also a smart singer, a bona fide musician. You sat up a little straighter when she sang. The voice, as always, was glorious, and huge: Even when singing casually, she could ride through the orchestra, chorus – everybody. And I must say that, in the Liber scriptus, particularly, she was a model of solidity and command.

Also solid and commanding was the bass – or bass-baritone, in this case – Greer Grimsley. What a gleaming and regal instrument he owns! And he deployed it wisely.

Frank Lopardo has a smaller tenor than we usually hear in the Requiem, but that tenor gets the job done. It acted as a trumpet in Mr. Lopardo’s opening cry of “Kyrie.” In the Ingemisco – the Requiem’s tenor aria – Mr. Lopardo started very,very softly. Inwardly. And then, when he shifted volume, the timbre of his voice changed completely. It was a different voice altogether. This was also true elsewhere in the Requiem, and a bit strange.

The soprano was Andrea Gruber, who has made quite a name for herself in Verdi. For example, she was recently Aida at the Metropolitan Opera. In the Requiem, she rolled out a wonderful carpet of sound – but, all night long, all Requiem long, she fought the flats. She was flat in the Recordare (a lousy time to be flat). She was flat in the Agnus Dei (another lousy time). She was flat in pretty much everything. But she sang gutsily, and she delivered a particularly gutsy Libera me (the final section of the Requiem, and a tour de force for soprano – and orchestra, and chorus).

Opera lovers must hope that this extremely likable lady doesn’t sing herself out. She favors punishing roles, and performs with abandon. Then again, who wants to live mousily?

A couple of footnotes, to end on: In the Tuba mirum, Mr. Spano had trumpets in the rafters of Carnegie Hall, creating a surround-sound effect. This was way cool (to use technical critic’s language). Sitting onstage, Ms. Gruber grinned like mad at this effect.

Second, Mr. Spano paused between the opening two sections, to let latecomers in. This was unfortunate, in my view. I believe that the storm of the Dies irae needs to begin immediately. I further believe that, if you present a concert with no intermission, you should start 10 minutes late, or 15, instead of the usual five. Then you keep going! Or pause when it creates the minimum musical disturbance.

But, as I said – the stuff of footnotes.

***

Last week, Avery Fisher Hall turned into an opera house, for about an hour. The New York Philharmonic devoted the bulk of its subscription program to “Duke Bluebeard’s Castle,” Bartok’s one-acter. Conducting was Christoph von Dohnanyi, the veteran German maestro. But isn’t he Bartok’s countryman, a Hungarian? No, his grandfather, the composer Ernst von Dohnanyi – or Erno Dohnanyi, if you prefer the pure Hungarian – was. Christoph is a Hamburger.

In any case, Mr. Dohnanyi displayed great understanding of Bartok’s opera, leading an alive and gratifying performance. (I attended on Thursday night; the program was repeated on two subsequent nights.) The week before, Mr. Dohnanyi had had to withdraw from the Philharmonic concerts, owing to an illness. It was good to have him back in action.

For almost two decades – 1984 to 2002 – Mr. Dohnanyi was music director of the Cleveland Orchestra. He is now chief conductor of the NDR Symphony Orchestra, in his hometown, as well as principal conductor of the London Philharmonic.

“Duke Bluebeard’s Castle” is based on a fairy tale, and a bloody one: The duke brings home his latest wife, and she confronts the dread seven doors of the castle. Wonders and horrors ensue (mostly horrors). Written when the composer was about 30, this is one of Bartok’s best works, imaginative and well crafted. It requires just the two singers: Duke Bluebeard and his unfortunate wife, Judit.

In filling these roles, the Philharmonic could hardly have done better. Anne Sofie von Otter, the Swedish mezzo-soprano, was Judit. So many acres have been devoted to praising her, I should only add a plot or two more. Seldom has a singer been so complete: Ms. von Otter can sing any repertoire, and sing it as though owning it. Her voice is superb, her technique assured, her intelligence supreme. On Thursday night, she had the entire measure of Judit.

Just one, small detail: Mezzo though she may be, she let out an excellent high-C scream. The singer intended to scream, mind you – Judit had opened one of those doors.

And portraying Bluebeard was the German baritone Matthias Goerne, he of that impossibly gorgeous voice. He sang this part in rounded, elegant lines, but he did not lack for incisiveness. Sometimes, Mr. Goerne can get a little lazy and dreamy in lieder, but this opera was a different story: Mr. Dohnanyi would not let him laze (and neither would Bartok, really). Mr. Goerne was an uncommonly beautiful Bluebeard, yes; but he also summoned tremendous authority.

In conducting the opera, Mr. Dohnanyi was surprisingly expansive, even voluptuous, in spots. But the performance was by no means loose, marching along as Bartok intends. There was due foreboding in the beginning; and then awful, awesome exploding. This being a concert performance, we had no production – but we didn’t need one. One could see the drama in the musicmaking, from all concerned. (The Philharmonic’s supertitles, I must say, didn’t hurt.)

May I offer a ranking? Best is a good production; second best is no production; and third best is a bad production.

Finally, I should mention that Ms. von Otter wore a blood-red dress. So she, and Bartok, chilled before a note was sung or played.

The program had opened with a performance of Schubert’s “Unfinished” Symphony. The initial pages were promising: hushed, correct, beautiful. A bit later, the unison playing in the low strings was something like heavenly; so was the unison playing in the violins. The whole Philharmonic sounded wonderfully warm.

But there were technical glitches: Attacks tended to be poor. And one squeak in the woodwinds (I believe) made Mr. Dohnanyi jerk his head around.

Worse, Schubert’s first movement became too conventional, musically – too blah, too uninvolving. The power that the composer imbeds did not emerge.

The second movement was outright bad: sloppy and indifferent (blah-er than the first). It may well be that the orchestra, in rehearsal, spent little time on the Schubert, concentrating on the opera. This second movement was far too slow, and wayward. It is marked Andante con moto. (“Moto” means “motion,” remember.) Christoph von Dohnanyi – to paraphrase Austin Powers – seemed to have lost his moto.