SALZBURG, Austria — In 1967, Herbert von Karajan established the Salzburg Easter Festival. He wanted a little showcase for his Berlin Philharmonic. And that showcase continues to this day, under the leadership of Sir Simon Rattle.

Sir Simon did not conduct Friday night’s concert; that honor went to Seiji Ozawa. And the concert was dedicated to Karajan, the centennial of whose birth is being celebrated this year.

Mr. Ozawa is now one of the world’s senior conductors. But he is still lithe and balletic, still a little gymnast. And he still has a huge mop of hair — only now it is gray-white.

This concert began with Beethoven’s Violin Concerto in D major, one of that composer’s greatest works, and one of the greatest of all works. The soloist was Anne-Sophie Mutter, the strapless wonder. Have you ever seen her shoulders covered? Me neither.

And she gave one of the strangest performances of Beethoven’s concerto one will ever hear. It was a mixture of first-class playing and low-class playing. It was almost unbelievable.

Ms. Mutter started very weakly: weak in sound, weak in conception — weak in everything. As the first movement proceeded, she made some very odd musical choices: in dynamics, in tempo. She applied extravagant, unconvincing rubato. And her technique was decidedly un-Mutter-like: She chopped up the music, sawing away; she was often far from the center of the note; she squeaked. No, this was not like Ms. Mutter at all.

But, at times, she was satisfyingly like herself. She demonstrated some extraordinarily beautiful soft trilling. And the cadenza was remarkable: It was rough and squawking, in a way; but it was also individualistic and arresting.

As for Mr. Ozawa and the Berlin Philharmonic, they were superb in this movement, as they would be throughout the concert. Beginning the concerto, the timpani sort of sneaked in, perfectly in tune. Mr. Ozawa proved both vigorous and elegant. He was obedient to Beethoven’s note values. And he knew how to handle that pulsing motif. Mr. Ozawa exhibited an almost Kurt Masur-like discipline — something I had not known from him. The music had all the beauty and nobility it deserves (at least when Mr. Ozawa and the orchestra could do something about it).

Every section of the Berlin Philharmonic delivered, but the horns merit special mention: The control and musicality with which they play are almost unnatural.

In the middle movement, Ms. Mutter continued to have problems: Her intonation was shaky, her rubato was weird. But she was daring, in a way. She was daring in dynamics and daring in tone quality — how she varied it. rather than “daring,” you might say “extreme.” At times, Ms. Mutter played almost as if bored with the concerto, and therefore trying out new things. To me, it was Mr. Ozawa who kept the music on track and alive, while Ms. Mutter was off experimenting.

But she could still remind you that she is a champion: There is a startling violin lick before the Rondo begins, and Ms. Mutter played this brilliantly. And, as a rule, she was smart and enjoyable in the Rondo. There was still that intonation, and still some of that rubato. But this movement was interesting and exciting, with Ms. Mutter imparting little surges. As for Mr. Ozawa, he was fresh, springy, and wonderful.

The audience applauded robustly and at length; Ms. Mutter offered an encore. Before she began, Mr. Ozawa took a seat in the orchestra — not in a chair, but on a very low riser, with his little gymnast self. And Ms. Mutter played a Bach sarabande (D minor). In it, she was wise, heavenly, accomplished — just right. Not for those bare shoulders alone did she achieve her starry status.

After intermission, Mr. Ozawa and the Philharmonic performed a symphony: Shostakovich’s No. 10, in E minor. This is a masterwork, and these forces played it like one. The orchestra sounded fantastic, of course — but it was not merely beautiful. There was some growl and grit in its Shostakovich. Mr. Ozawa was absorbing and elegant, always elegant. But you could still smell the fear in this music, as we should. Shostakovich’s Tenth is shot through with tension. Mr. Ozawa did not commit the error of laxity, even when the music gave the appearance of calm.

Technically, the orchestra was well-nigh immaculate. You did not have to worry about an entrance or any similar detail. The Berlin brass made themselves heard without blaring; sometimes, they merely insinuated themselves. This orchestra boasts a marvelous clarinetist, a marvelous oboist, and other marvelous woodwinds. Who was that flutist, by the way? It was Emmanuel Pahud, who has a significant solo career, even as he belongs to this orchestra.

Good as the Berlin players were, it was Mr. Ozawa who made this performance. He has a big reputation — and, on this evening, he was equal to it. As the audience applauded, on into the night, Mr. Ozawa bowed several times to Eliette von Karajan, the conductor’s widow. And, with a sweet, beatific look on his face, he pointed upward.

* * *

The next night, Saturday, Sir Simon Rattle was in front of his orchestra. And he conducted a program of Dvořák, Busoni, and Brahms. On the first half was a single piece: the Dvořák Cello Concerto. And the soloist was one of Austria’s own, Heinrich Schiff.

Mr. Schiff is a very distinguished cellist. But he did not have it on Saturday night. Put plainly, he was not quite able to execute the Dvořák Cello Concerto. For whatever reason, the technique was not there. But he contributed some lovely ideas — musical ideas. And he was valiant, in a way: giving it his all despite technical distress. He played with a noble, almost hungry, spirit.

Sir Simon conducted the concerto with exceptional care and expressiveness. It was almost as though, with his soloist suffering, he was selling the music all the more. He was muscular, sweeping, and heartfelt. He was charged up, exhorting his troops, come what may.

And we were reminded of what a superb piece this is. You almost can’t hackney the Dvořák Cello Concerto.

The second half began with the Busoni: a study from his opera “Doktor Faust,” called “Intermezzo (Sarabande).” This is a haunting piece — a mysterious, ghostly, slightly macabre dance. And the Berlin Philharmonic played it appealingly. Pizzicatos were loose, as pizzicatos seem to be in orchestras all over. But they were not ruinous.

And the program ended with a mighty symphony, Brahms’s First, once dubbed Beethoven’s Tenth. If I say that Sir Simon’s account was “conventional,” I don’t mean to put it down: I mean to say that it was not eccentric, willful, or anything of the sort. It was sensible, and musical, and successful.

The orchestra began with a poor entrance — but there was not much wrong after that. The work moved along with inexorability. The playing was appropriately brawny, then appropriately refined. The third movement flowed soothingly, delightfully. And two players, in particular, might be singled out: Mr. Pahud, the flutist, and Stefan Dohr, the French hornist. They were so good, it was almost cruel — cruel to other flutists and French hornists.

The final movement — that great hymn — was just as we want it: soulful and filling. It was also exciting (a quality it does not always have). Clearly, Sir Simon was loving it, marveling at it — amazed at what Brahms had achieved.

When it was all over, the audience called Sir Simon back again and again, pouring out its ovations. They do this here in Salzburg. Even when the New York Philharmonic is hot, they are mostly interested in getting a cab. Ah, well: different place, different circumstances.