The pianist Louis Lortie played a very waltzy recital at Carnegie Hall on Saturday night. From beginning to end, it was nothing but 3/4 time. (If another meter made an appearance, it was a brief one.) Most important – programmatic idea aside – this was a distinguished recital. Mr. Lortie, a Montrealer, is one of the best pianists we have.

You know Ravel’s “Valses nobles et sentimentales,” of course. But did you know that they are based on the “Valses nobles” and “Valses sentimentales” of Schubert? Mr. Lortie began with some of those, and he played them superbly. He was rich and grand, but not overstuffed. He always knew where the melody was; the fifth finger of his right hand, in particular, can sing. He applied the pedal shrewdly. He was genial in these waltzes, without being bland. His oom-pah-pah had a Viennese character – was not a straight one-two-three.

Although his technical fluency was great, his musical taste was paramount. It would be that way for most of the evening.

After the Schubert, he went into – what else? “Soirees de Vienne”No.6 by Liszt, making use of these very Schubert waltzes. No. 6 is forever associated with Wilhelm Backhaus, who, in old age, played it with nearly excruciating nostalgia. Mr. Lortie did not play it like Backhaus; perhaps he’ll have to wait until he’s 80. He was a bit rigid at times, and he did some ill-advised rushing. Probably he meant to be impetuous; he came off as vulgar, however.

Speaking of vulgarity: The next piece on the program was Liszt’s transcription of “Un Bal,” from Berlioz’s “Symphonie fantastique.” Mr. Lortie treated it like a Lisztian pro, throwing off octaves almost worthy of the old devil himself. In other pyrotechnical stretches, Mr. Lortie would have been even more successful with looser arms.

He then turned to a pair of Liszt’s “Valses oubliees,” Nos. 1 (the famous one) and 2. Both were done with sympathy and style, and No. 2 had a remarkable ghostly quality. Late Liszt tends to mysticism, and Mr. Lortie brought that out.

The first half of the recital closed with another Liszt transcription, this one of the Waltz from Gounod’s “Faust.” Mr. Lortie was as swashbuckling as you could have asked. He played very loudly without pounding. In fact, this piano was somewhat muted (or poetic, you could say). It was a Fazioli piano, not a Steinway. Did you know that pianists were allowed to play anything other than a Steinway?

In the second half, Ravel had the spotlight, though first Mr. Lortie played the Five Variations on a Theme of Franz Schubert by Helmut Lachenmann. The composer wrote these when he was a student in Stuttgart, and they constitute some skillful playing around with a “German Dance.” Mr. Lortie performed them with refinement and care.

Then, those “Valses nobles et sentimentales,” followed by another Ravel biggie, “La Valse.” Was it really necessary to do both? Probably not, but Mr. Lortie had a theme going here.

At the outset of “Valses nobles … ,” Mr. Lortie was without much charm or sauciness. This was not Dinu Lipatti’s beloved recording. But there was charm, and some sauciness, later on. Mr. Lortie was more effective in quieter moments than in extroverted ones. His soft playing is exquisite. In parts of this work, Mr. Lortie was slinky and sly, and his deliberate tempos were persuasive. Rarely do you hear the “Valses nobles et sentimentales” so intimate.

Mr. Lortie went directly into “La Valse,” pausing not at all. And it was a marvelous beginning – arising almost imperceptibly out of some French-Viennese soup. As Mr. Lortie continued, he was amazingly clear, and amazingly beautiful, too. There was not a hint of bombast. Critically, Mr. Lortie did not try to imitate an orchestra (Ravel’s piano transcription came later). He was thoroughly pianistic, without much sacrifice of excitement.

There would be encores, of course, and I thought Chopin’s C-sharp-minor waltz would be an excellent one, to begin with. But Mr. Lortie played Debussy’s “Plus que lente” – and played it dreamily. Next came a bit of a curveball: “L’Isle joyeuse,” by the same composer. I didn’t care for the stuttering in the climactic section, but this was a first-rate account.

Finally, Mr. Lortie served up some Chopin – the G-flat-major waltz, rendered with panache.

Mr. Lortie is something of a throwback, and this was an old-fashioned evening. Thank heaven. We have enough of pianists coming out in black shirts, buttoned to their necks, and playing mathematical exercises from the 1970s. Not that Mr. Lortie can’t, or shouldn’t, play those. He is a versatile pianist, and – as I remarked earlier – one of our best.

***

On Thursday night, the Metropolitan Opera revived Verdi’s “Don Carlo,” in John Dexter’s 1979 production. This is an endlessly powerful opera, and the company presented it powerfully – not flawlessly, but powerfully.

Begin with a performer in whom there was no flaw: That was the Italian mezzo-soprano Luciana D’Intino, making her Met debut as Eboli. One would say that a star is born, except that Ms. D’Intino has considerable experience, in Europe and South America. This is a singer with a stunning instrument, rock-solid technique, and loads of personality. She is a classic Verdi mezzo.

Eboli has two main pieces to sing: the “Moorish song” in Act II, Scene 2, and the famous aria “O don fatale.” Now, the first can be a nothing, a throwaway – but Ms. D’Intino made it very interesting, gave it real character. The audience applauded this nothing song for so long, Ms. D’Intino was forced to nod, and the applause would have gone on longer if the conductor hadn’t cut it off. Give the audience an A for perceptiveness.

As for the big aria, Ms. D’Intino simply slashed through it, in true Eboli style. One could easily name 10 historic Ebolis, off the top of one’s head. I’m not sure I’d choose to hear any of them over Thursday night’s Luciana D’Intino. Honestly.

In the title role was the tenor Richard Margison, and he had a real struggle in Act I. But he persevered, gaining strength as the evening went on. He acquitted himself with honor.

Elisabeth was portrayed by the soprano Sondra Radvanovsky, who made a big impression as Elena in Verdi’s “Vespri Siciliani” earlier in the season. She was admirable on this occasion too, acting with her voice (along with other devices). The voice has a brooding, foreboding quality, suited to Elisabeth, for whom one always fears. As some of us have commented before, there’s a little Callas in Ms. Radvanovsky. Her upper register was fairly free, and her dynamics were intelligent. Volume is not a problem for her, as she can sail over a large chorus. Dramatically, she hardly put a foot wrong: When she says, “Va, va” – “Go, go” – she means it.

One bothersome trait was in evidence, however: Ms. Radvanovsky overrolls a single Italian “r.” She fails to make a distinction between the single “r” and the double one. Curious, and, as I say, bothersome.

King Philip was one of the great King Philips of our age, Ferruccio Furlanetto, in top form. His technique was assured, and his characterization is pretty much nonpareil. Mr. Furlanetto’s is a complicated Philip, which is what the king deserves. The aria “Ella giammai m’amo” was a killer – a killer in its poignancy. And the Met Orchestra’s cellist gave it a huge assist.

Joining Mr. Furlanetto for one of the most skillful and inspired stretches in Verdi – the encounter between Philip and the Grand Inquisitor – was a veteran Grand Inquisitor, Paata Burchuladze. He, too, was in excellent form. To hear those two seasoned voices resonate through the house was a privilege.

Rodrigo was the perpetually underrated Dwayne Croft – underrated because he is utterly consistent and reliable. If he would struggle just a bit, or go off the interpretive rails, he would be a more “interesting” singer. As usual, his sound was smooth and gleaming, and he looked smart in his “baritone boots,” as Sherrill Milnes used to call them.

The page was Sandra Lopez, who delivered news firmly and proudly, and another news-deliverer – Dimitri Pittas as the Royal Herald – was gloriously clarion. He had just a few notes, but made the most of them.

That Met Orchestra was notably fine, the strings warm and accurate, the clarinet and oboe gorgeous, the horns gratifyingly correct. (And I should re-salute the cello.) “Don Carlo” makes many demands on a chorus, and the Met’s was equal to them.

In the pit was a much-praised, much-hired conductor, Fabio Luisi, making his Met debut. He did some things well. For example, celebratory choruses were vigorous without being bombastic. And where Verdi asks for a bit of whimsy, he got it. Mr. Luisi was never incompetent, although there were some shaky moments, managerially.

If the conducting was not incompetent, it was not exemplary. The great, stirring duet between Don Carlo and Rodrigo was flat – flat in spirit. This was mainly because Mr. Luisi exaggerated ritards, and, in general, phrased with gross obviousness. Nor was there enough majesty or swagger in the orchestra. All night long, the score could have been exploited more advantageously. But perhaps I should not sniff at competence, in an era of poor conducting.

John Dexter’s production? It does not grow old, and with three or four or six good Verdians on the stage, this is about as satisfying as grand opera gets.

***

Finally, a bit of news (or further news): On Friday night, the Met resumed Rossini’s “Barber of Seville,” and we were supposed to hear tenor star Matthew Polenzani in the role of Almaviva. But he was indisposed, so a different tenor, Kenneth Tarver, got to make his Met debut. What an opportunity for him. Was a star born? That would be stretching it, but Mr. Tarver was creditable. He is a pleasant tenore di grazia, and if he was a little tight in Act I, that was understandable. He loosened up some, and seemed to be enjoying his experience. It’s not every night that you can step into a star’s shoes, as in a storybook. Mr. Tarver – a well-traveled tenor in any case – did not blow it.

“Don Carlo” will be performed again March 7, 10, 14, 24 & 29 at 7 p.m., March 19 at 1 p.m., and April 2 at 7:30 p.m. (Lincoln Center, 212-362-6000).