For years, the New York Philharmonic performed its annual “Messiah” in the Riverside Church, but this week they are at home, in Avery Fisher Hall. The venue should not make much difference, or any: Right musicianship can turn any venue into the right one.

Last year, the Philharmonic hired an English early-music specialist to conduct Handel’s great oratorio; this year, they have another one, Nicholas McGegan, who is music director of the Philharmonia Baroque Orchestra, in the San Francisco Bay Area. On Wednesday night, he had another such orchestra in front of him: an itty-bitty New York Philharmonic, serving as a “period” band. Once a year, the Philharmonic feels a need to transform itself this way. Once a year, they feel the need to become t h e Collegium Musicum Scratchum Rushum Granolum Absurdum.

This is a shame and a vexation. Why can’t the Philharmonic give an unapologetic, full-bodied “Messiah”? They don’t have to go crazy; no one’s asking for bloating. But a little richness, majesty, and grandeur would be nice. We used to say, “Let Poland be Poland.” We might now say, “Let the Philharmonic be the Philharmonic” — and leave the wheat-germ versions of “Messiah” to other groups.

The heart sank right with the opening Sinfonia: It was a tight, dry, ugly little thing. It was rushed and soulless — and none too accurate, either. Things would not look up much. When the orchestra began “And the glory of the Lord shall be revealed,” you heard no sound — how dispiriting! The New York Choral Artists sang well. But they were required to sing in a bouncy, piping, “period” way. If a hint of vibrato had crept out, the Period Police would have swooped down and arrested somebody.

Introducing “For He is like a refiner’s fire,” the orchestra generated no excitement: They sounded like mosquitoes at a picnic, buzzing around, kind of annoyingly. The swell you should hear in “And He shall purify the sons of Levi” was absent. In “O thou that tellest good tidings to Zion,” the Choral Artists sounded like a bored checkout clerk, giving a price. “For unto us a Child is born” was light, airy, breezy. It had the speed and texture of Mendelssohn’s “Midsummer Night’s Dream” Scherzo.

“Surely, He hath borne our griefs” sounded like cartoon music — ultra-fast and wacky. It was as though a record was being played at the wrong speed. “All we like sheep” was another peppy ditty, so fast that the chorus couldn’t handle it. “Lift up your heads” was somehow especially disheartening: staccato, pin-pricky, and almost insulting.

When the Hallelujah Chorus came, so did the mosquitoes. The music had almost none of the royalty or uplift it deserves. People stood for the chorus, but more out of duty and habit, I believe, than out of any inspiration or pleasure.

As for the four vocal soloists, they were adequate, sort of. The tenor was Philippe Castagner, filling in for an ailing John Mark Ainsley. In “Comfort ye,” Mr. Castagner had a terrible time: He was bleating and uncertain. Moreover, he interpolated some strange, soupy ornamentation (not really according with this “Messiah” overall). In “Ev’ry valley,” he took big, blunt breaths, needlessly breaking up the line. Later in the oratorio, he was far more assured.

The bass, Nathan Berg, brought life to the proceedings when he first sang. He was authoritative and musical — not pretty or elegant, but feeling. Later, however — in “Why do the nations so furiously rage together?” — he was puzzlingly vulgar in his passagework. The mezzo-soprano was Margaret Lattimore, and she sang decently — with a decent richness, a decent authority. But she was underpowered at times, and not quite convincing in the wonderful music Handel gives her.

Our soprano was Celena Shafer, who was earnest and animated. Sometimes she was guilty of stridency, but at least she sang as though she believed in something. “Rejoice greatly” was rushed and unclean — but at least the soprano seemed happy to be singing it. This counted for a lot, on this evening.

Unlike last year’s English early-music specialist, Mr. McGegan was not grimly academic. Indeed, he was often exuberant, in his tidy, just-so way. But he produced such a small, insignificant “Messiah.” There was simply too little of the gravitas — or spiritual confidence — that this music needs, from any group. You know what chorus was perfect? “His yoke is easy, His burthen is light” – scherzo-like. Unfortunately, too many of the other choruses were this way, inappropriately.

Also, Mr. McGegan had some peculiar ideas about ritards, and inserted some odd pauses — as in the aria “I know that my Redeemer liveth.” It must be said, however, that he ended the oratorio well: with a fairly moving chorus of “Amen.” It was less sparse and unsatisfying than all the foregoing.

There is no need for the Philharmonic to give a “Messiah” that conforms to modern notions of historical correctness (notions that are disputable in any case). There is a middle ground between Sir Thomas Beecham’s bells and whistles and the current parsimony. I can think of two other Englishmen — Sir Neville Marriner and Sir Colin Davis – who occupy that middle ground magnificently. What counts is what is musical.

Maybe we can all agree that there can be different types of “Messiah” from different orchestras, choruses, and conductors. The Philharmonic should not cheat itself, or its audience, by abandoning its essential Philharmonic-ness. And, as they will soon embark on a communist-dictatorship tour, perhaps they will appreciate this Maoist slogan from the 1950s: “Let a hundred flowers bloom, let a hundred schools of thought contend.”