On Wednesday night, Carnegie Hall opened its season, with what amounts to its home orchestra: the Philadelphia. They are part of the furniture (to coin a phrase). If the New York Philharmonic had succeeded in ditching Avery Fisher Hall, the Philharmonic would be Carnegie’s home orchestra. But instead – those “fabulous Philadelphians,” or, these days, sometimes-fabulous Philadelphians, or – perish the thought – once-fabulous Philadelphians.

The gala concert was all Strauss. Christoph Eschenbach – who begins his second season as the Philadelphia’s music director – was on the podium. Soloists were two of music’s superstars: Renee Fleming and Yo-Yo Ma. The hall, like the audience, was dressed up, and PBS cameras were rolling for future broadcast. Under the circumstances, it was a special shame that the concert was so bad.

It began with “Don Juan,” one of Strauss’s astonishing symphonic poems. The orchestra was lush, as always, not having lost “the Philadelphia sound.” That sound fills and envelops Carnegie Hall extraordinarily. But it’s not necessarily perfect – or sufficient – for every piece. Heaven knows Strauss asks for lushness, but “Don Juan” could also use some astringency, some edge. That was missing. Sonically, this was “Don Juan” smothered in pillows.

Mr. Eschenbach, as is his wont, sort of bulled his way through the score, not bothering with the niceties. He generated a lot of noise, but Strauss provides a variety of dynamics. I frequently describe this conductor as “high-energy” and “coiled” – and that he was.

But in the work’s slow section – with the oboe solo – Mr. Eschenbach was altogether too slow. This, also, is typical, from such a conductor. Where is moderation? To add insult to injury, this section was dull, flat (though not in pitch – that fault came elsewhere).

When he returned to Strauss’s fleetness and rhapsody, Mr. Eschenbach again bulled, allowing for little mirth, or insinuation, or flair. And he had been so loud, all through, he could not increase orchestral volume for climactic purposes.

Perhaps worse, the orchestra was sloppy, with its attacks amazingly poor. This was especially true in the work’s final pages, where precision of attack is probably most important. Notes did not sound together; it was as though Rockettes were kicking on their own.

Next on the program were the “Four Last Songs,” that autumnal group, as its title suggests. Renee Fleming is a great Strauss singer – as she is a great singer overall – historic in such roles as the Marschallin (“Der Rosenkavalier”) and Arabella. But this was not her best night, and did not properly represent her in the “Four Last Songs.”

In the first song, “Fruhling,” she showed off her bold, pulsing lower register. She also did a lot of sliding, early. Clearly we were in for one of Miss Fleming’s slidefests. Moreover, her top – her upper register – wasn’t nearly as free and easy as it usually is. She did some uncharacteristic straining.

The orchestra was appalling, with more of those bad attacks, and hardly any finesse, hardly any nuance. In addition, it was far too loud, obscuring the soloist. And virtually absent was the right Straussian brooding, or inwardness, or dreaming.

In the second song, “September,” it was difficult to judge Miss Fleming, so overwhelming was the orchestra (not in a good way).And one simply gave up on anything like a clean attack from the Philadelphians – Mr. Eschenbach simply wouldn’t give you one. When you could hear Miss Fleming, you could hear that she was grabbing at high notes. Again, this is awfully rare for her.

You could say that it was to the credit of the conductor and the soprano that they did not make these songs too precious; they did not handle them with kid gloves; they weren’t afraid of them. But without some profundity, some mysticism, we really don’t have the “Four Last Songs.”

The final song – “Im Abendrot” – began with an especially egregious attack. And the orchestra would clunk its way through the rest of the song. Miss Fleming was repeatedly flat. And – as I have suggested – these leave-taking songs never took their leave, clinging stubbornly to the earth, to the everyday.

And then – would you believe? – there was an encore. An encore, after the “Four Last Songs”? What happened to the “Last”? The effect of this group should be so transporting, so numbing – so final – nothing more can be said. But this effect was never achieved. So when Miss Fleming launched into “Cacilie” – the rapturous Strauss song that functions as her usual encore – she broke no mood. She just offered more of the same.

Did she sing it well? Yes. But its intrusion into the program was bizarre.

And the Philadelphia Orchestra’s playing is increasingly bizarre. Some of us noted last season that the group, for the first time, was sloppy – technically subpar. In the past – under Wolfgang Sawallisch or Riccardo Muti, or Ormandy or Stokowski – you might have quarreled with interpretation. But technique was beyond question. Now, however – I think of a Mahler performance, in particular – even technical competence can’t be taken for granted.

Closing Wednesday’s gala affair was “Don Quixote” – a second Don! – Strauss’s musical depiction of the Cervantes tale. Members of the orchestra, on their own, know what to do here. There was some impishness, some humor – some outstanding solo work (e.g., from Ricardo Morales, the principal clarinetist). But mainly this was a staid, unremarkable performance, the possibilities of the score barely touched.

It was not Yo-Yo Ma’s fault. Sometimes his, let’s say, strong personality gets in the way of music, but Strauss’s cello part lends itself to such personality. The cellist can even ham it up. Beyond that, Mr. Ma, of course, boasts one of the great string sounds in all of stringdom. And he understands that “Don Quixote” is very much an ensemble piece: He coordinated nicely with the violist, Roberto Diaz – serving as Sancho Panza – and others.

Those attacks I keep harping on? Well, the last one wasn’t so much kerplunk as ker-kerplunk.

This is not the kind of humor Doktor Strauss had in mind.