To wrap up its season, Great Performers at Lincoln Center had the Los Angeles Philharmonic in, for two concerts. The first, on Friday night, was all Russian: Mussorgsky and Shostakovich. The second, on Sunday afternoon, offered Ravel, Ives, and Adams. Both were led by L.A.’s excellent music director, the Finn Esa-Pekka Salonen.

Opening Friday night’s concert was not quite “Night on Bald Mountain,” but “St. John’s Night on Bald Mountain.” This is Mussorgsky’s original tone poem, not the one we all know, which is Rimsky-Korsakov’s refashioning. To program original Mussorgsky is trendy right now. But the original is not always better; the refined, or “Europeanized,” is not always an adulteration.

With his first downbeat in “Bald Mountain,” Mr. Salonen unleashed hell. Mussorgsky himself described the piece as “ardent and chaotic,” and that is how Mr. Salonen treated it. His dynamics were sudden and a little shocking. The orchestra played with precision and abandon (a nice, unusual combination).And this performance was a sonic delight – a sonic feast – which you’re not supposed to get in Avery Fisher Hall. You can, with the right forces.

Next on the program was Shostakovich’s Concerto in C minor for Piano, Trumpet, and Strings, Op. 35. (This is more commonly known as Shostakovich’s Piano Concerto No. 1.) We had heard this work about a month before in this hall, from Martha Argerich, Mstislav Rostropovich, and the New York Philharmonic. (The trumpeter was the Philharmonic’s fine principal, Philip Smith.) And, if I may, the best recording I know of this work comes from Yefim Bronfman, with this same L.A. Philharmonic, conducted by Mr. Salonen.

The soloist on Friday night was Alexander Toradze, who first came to international attention in 1977, when he finished second in the Van Cliburn Competition. Seldom have silver medalists made such a splash. Back when we were less attentive to distinctions, we called Mr. Toradze a Russian pianist – but he is Georgian, as indicated by that “adze” in his name. He now teaches at Indiana University, South Bend.

His approach to the Shostakovich concerto was quite individualist; also extreme. He opted for bigness – even grandness – over a neat clarity, and playfulness. This concerto can be almost Ravelian. Mr. Toradze took the work quite seriously – he treated it as a masterpiece. Other pianists treat it as a bit of a lark, or novelty: sardonic, sarcastic, cracked.

Mr. Toradze allowed himself plenty of rubato, and he was free with emphases. He has the gift of pounding without really pounding – that is a Russian-school gift. And, throughout, his soft playing was exemplary.

In his hands, the second movement, Lento, was what critics like to call “daringly slow.” Actually, it was too slow, for the music was deprived of momentum. I was expecting a very fast final movement, in keeping with Mr. Toradze’s extremes. But it was unusually measured, and super-emphatic. Mr. Toradze is an ever interesting musician.

All in all, he made this concerto his own, while leaving some for Shostakovich. You would not call this a definitive version, but Mr. Toradze made a case.

Joining him on the trumpet was the orchestra’s James Wilt, who fulfilled his role admirably. Occasionally, though, he was a little blunt, and he tried to rush the ending, which was regrettable.

The second half of the concert saw a symphony, Shostakovich’s Tenth. This work is said to depict Stalin’s time, but we must not be too dogmatic. The Los Angeles Philharmonic produced a very rich, warm, even Brahmsian sound – quite unusual for this work, and this composer. It was not Mravinsky and the Leningrad Phil. – but it wasn’t wrong. The first movement was sad, soulful, and unrelenting.

The next movement could have been faster, ruder, more rattling. This music typically punches you in the face; on Friday night, it sort of kissed you, extra hard. The third movement had a nice walking tempo, or – more appropriate to say – a nervous walking tempo. I would have liked a heightened sense of dark humor, but Mr. Salonen had his own ideas. As for the final movement, it was quite beautiful – although short on tension, terror. This was a very Romantic reading, a reading without much danger. But – as with Mr. Toradze – the conductor had a case.

The L.A. Philharmonic boasts many outstanding first-desk players: In this symphony, we heard a smooth, unwavering clarinet; a stylish, affecting flute; an assured, sinuous oboe; a bassoonist who bobbled a little, but not seriously; a French hornist who played with considerable freedom.

Altogether, we heard a top-flight orchestra led by a top-flight conductor (who also composes), in an interesting and worthy program. The concertgoer got his money’s worth, even if he was sitting in the most expensive seat.

***

The New York Philharmonic is determined to make a big deal out of Alan Gilbert, the young American conductor. He has been named one of the orchestra’s three main guest conductors, along with Riccardo Muti and David Robertson. There is a “human interest” element here, in that Mr. Gilbert grew up with the Philharmonic, having parents who were violinists in it.(His mother still is.) But what happens when the rubber hits the road, or the baton hits the air?

Mr. Gilbert led the orchestra on Thursday night, in a program that began with a seldom-heard legend by Dvoryak called “The Noon Witch.” This requires color, verve, shape, imagination. It did not get any of this on Thursday night.

The Philharmonic’s account began with a bad entrance, and sloppiness would continue. Worse was the musical effect, or lack of effect: The piece was dull, plodding, empty of magic, not very suggestive – without interpretive alertness.

Interesting about Mr. Gilbert is that he is intense, wired, on the podium. Almost every gesture is forceful, and even when he’s conducting something modest, he looks like he’s conducting the final pages of Beethoven’s Fifth. This provided a lesson – a redundant lesson – in conducting: Andre Previn, lethargically waving at an orchestra, gets more from his players than Mr. Gilbert did. A mysterious art, conducting.

Following the Dvoryak was the Barber Cello Concerto, written in the late 1940s. This is not the composer’s best work, as even we Barberholics must admit, but cellists can’t look gift concertos in the mouth. The soloist in this concert was the Philharmonic’s own principal, Carter Brey. It was a happy day for this orchestra when Mr. Brey quit his solo career to join them. Very few players of his quality sit in orchestras.

One of Mr. Brey’s hallmarks is technical command, but that was not apparent at the beginning of the concerto: The cellist’s intonation, for example, was off. Again, this is extremely rare for Mr. Brey. But he soon gained control, to give an excellent performance. Some cellists – and others – let this concerto be too easygoing, but Mr. Brey gave it great definition, and some muscle. He has an instinct for phrasing, and he handled Barber’s long lines superbly.

The second movement is the most successful of the three, probably because it is a song – and Barber was nothing if not a masterly writer of songs. I should say, too, that the sound of the cello approximated the composer’s own voice, which was a baritone. (Barber was a trained singer.) Mr. Brey played with due songfulness, and his fellow cellists – and other strings in the orchestra – did the same.

In the finale, Mr. Brey’s technical facility, rhythmic care, and ample musicality came to the fore. It’s good to report that Carter Brey still plays like the standout soloist he was. Joseph Silverstein – for years the concertmaster of the Boston Symphony Orchestra – used to say (something like),”For every hour of orchestral practice I do, I have to do three hours of soloistic practice, to keep myself in proper shape.” Mr. Brey is in proper shape.

The second half of the concert began with a work of Henri Dutilleux, born in 1916 and still at his desk. Elliott Carter – born in 1908 – can call him kid. The work was “Mystere de l’instant” (“Mystery of the Moment”), which consists of ten brief sections, unrelated to one another. They have a certain pride in randomness. That’s what modern music needs: more randomness! It was distressing to see that the Philharmonic’s program notes referred to “Mystere de l’instant” as a “masterpiece.” It is a creditable work, as all of Mr. Dutilleux’s are – but a masterpiece? Such abuse of our language leaves us poorer. For if “Mystere de l’instant” is a masterpiece, what word do we have left over for the Missa Solemnis, or Schubert’s late C-major symphony, or “Parsifal”?

A friend of mine suggests we say “true masterpiece.” Okay, but what comes after that? “True true masterpiece”?

I should say, for the sake of purest accuracy, that the Philharmonic’s program said,”20th-century masterpiece.” What do we make of that qualification, “20th-century”? Was the last century so inferior that it requires lower standards for “masterpieces” – sort of the compositional equivalent of the insidious “race norming”?

In any case, Mr. Gilbert and the orchestra gave a worthy account of the Dutilleux. And they closed with a Haydn symphony – making for an unusual ordering of a concert, but a smart one. Too bad the performance of the symphony – Haydn’s No. 90, in C major – could not have been better. It started with a terrible entrance, even worse than we had in the Dvoryak. But that is a mere technical detail. The music needed more bounce, grace, concision, beauty. The second movement featured some good flute playing by Robert Langevin, and the oboist, Sherry Sylar, was another bright light. But though the four movements of the symphony weren’t disastrous, there was nothing distinctive about them, either – no musical specialness. They were just … semi-okay.

Oh, yes, there was something distinctive: In the last movement, Mr. Gilbert played with Haydn’s false endings, causing the audience to applaud prematurely, and turning around and grinning at them. That was nice.

Overall, I strongly suspect Alan Gilbert can do better. He probably already has, in subsequent iterations of this subscription concert. But once you’ve been anointed by the musical powers-that-be – does it matter?