After an extended absence – during which he premiered his opera, “1984” – Lorin Maazel returned to his New York Philharmonic last week. His program comprised Wagner, Bruckner, and Berg, three composers very much linked to one another. But then, if we start down that road – what two composers aren’t linked, in some way?

The Wagner that began the program was the “Siegfried Idyll,” and this is a dangerous piece for Maestro Maazel: Would it be mannered, over managed, interrupted? The piece needs to unspool, to unwind, to be, in a sense, let alone. On Friday night, Mr. Maazel was in no mood to let it alone. He committed big ritards, and fussy phrases, and otherwise stalled the motor of the “Idyll.” The horn playing did not flow easily, and between that and Mr. Maazel’s overmanagement, the “Idyll” sounded effortful – and that is a bad quality for this piece, effortfulness.

Joseph Robinson almost redeemed the performance toward the end, by singing beautifully on his oboe, and Mr. Maazel should be credited with a nice texture: This was not a cluttered rendering. But he also made truth-tellers out of his worst critics, who say that he has never met a piece he didn’t strangle. (That’s not true.) As he conducted, I couldn’t wait for the “Siegfried Idyll” to be over – and that shouldn’t happen, ever.

I have a feeling that, if this great musician heard a tape of this performance, he wouldn’t like it.

The “Idyll” out of the way, the soprano Deborah Voigt slipped onstage to sing Berg’s Seven Early Songs. She showed many of her strengths, including her musical intelligence and a clean, clean German. In her best moments, she reminded me of her Sieglinde (“Die Walkure”), than which there will never be a better one. Miss Voigt often hints at huge power in reserve, and – even in these songs – she released a little of that power.

In recent times, New York has heard Renee Fleming sing these songs in a slinky, dreamy way, and heard Christine Schafer sing them in an otherworldly, uncommonly psychological way. Miss Voigt was more straight-ahead, more solid – and that did the songs no harm. She ran into problems, however, in the third song, “Die Nachtigall,” where intonation went south. (But Carter Brey had no problem on his cello, a prominent instrument here.) A subsequent song, “In Zimmer,” might have been more intimate – even with a symphony orchestra, even in Avery Fisher Hall. But Miss Voigt is hard to gainsay. The word “Sehnsucht” (roughly “longing”), which ends the song “Liebesode,” sounded like it.

One and all simply have to accept that Miss Voigt’s voice is different now, different from 10 years ago, even five years ago. On Friday night, I had a specific memory, of this singer with the New York Philharmonic, in “Andromache’s Farewell,” by Barber. It was a big, gleaming ocean liner of a voice, plowing smoothly and beautifully through everything. That voice has acquired what car salesmen call “character dings” (marks, dents, and scrapes that make a vehicle stand out). But one can no more stop the changing of a voice than stop the sunrise in the east.

The big work on the program was Bruckner’s Symphony No. 3, a piece that Mr. Maazel should do stunningly, when he’s on (and when his forces are responding – and they do, when he’s on). So…?

The symphony started promisingly, with the conductor all business, no-nonsense. Trumpeter Philip Smith never sounded better, or smarter. But before long, Mr. Maazel began severe management of the piece. There’s no doubt he understands Bruckner: the composer’s building blocks, what it takes to express his monumentality. But the development of the first movement sounded more clinical than heartfelt or organic. And the orchestra was too seldom together: How lovely it would be if these people had a month really to work on the piece. The Bruckner Third cannot be dispatched like the “Poet and Peasant” Overture.

The slow movement began with a nice, chorale-like warmth, but Mr. Maazel was soon placing notes, rather than allowing them to occur naturally. Every note was conducted. Doesn’t he always do this? Not at all (witness a Schubert Ninth, and a hundred other performances I can think of).

In the third movement – a Brucknerian scherzo – we had the best playing of the night, and this playing indeed had inevitability, the forward-moving, almost sneaky power it should. The Trio, however, was sloppy and flaccid.

And the finale? Where it should be tense and muscular, it was, usually. But Bruckner, in part to relieve tension, breaks into some odd dancing music, and this might have been more graceful, more lilting – and more accurate. What cannot be denied is that the ending was impressive: Bruckner coursing along in his beloved D major, which takes over from his beloved D minor. This was not a failure of a performance, by any means. But from Lorin Maazel, one wants, and expects, a home run.

***

Carnegie Hall ended its 2004-05 season with its hair down, hosting a performance of “South Pacific,” that Rodgers & Hammerstein inspiration. The performance, on Thursday night, was taped for broadcast on PBS next spring. The orchestra was that wide-ranging bunch, the Orchestra of St. Luke’s – and the singers?

They were headed by Reba McEntire, as Nellie Forbush. She seems to be an Inc., as her bio tells us she “has produced 29 albums and 30 number-one songs, and has expanded to include films, Broadway shows, the hit television sitcom ‘Reba,’ and, recently, a clothing line.” She will need a perfume, to complete the portfolio.

Her Emile de Becque was the Broadway star Brian Stokes Mitchell, whose credits include “a celebration of Senator Ted Kennedy during the 2004 Democratic National Convention.” Once you’ve done that, how much higher can you go?

Bloody Mary was Lillias White, Lieutenant Cable was Jason Danieley, and Luther Billis was Alec Baldwin – whose hair, vast and set, was one of the most impressive things onstage.

The cast was greeted with an immense, screaming ovation by the Carnegie Hall crowd, with Ms. McEntire sort of sneaking in at the end, causing the crowd to scream all the more. I don’t believe I’ve ever heard a louder sound in Carnegie Hall, and this includes Martha Argerich’s accentuation in Mozart. Throughout the show, we watched some funky, kaleidoscopic lighting on the back wall, which was not obviously an enhancement.

The Orchestra of St. Luke’s played the overture sturdily. It was not clear that anyone had put in much practice time. The conductor, Broadway veteran Paul Gemignani, was not big on musical subtlety, but he was a competent manager of affairs.

Beginning this concert version of “South Pacific” were the two children, Jerome and Ngana, to sing “Dites-moi.” Now, a couple of seasons ago, my colleague Fred Kirshnit and I had an amusing argument about whether it was permissible to criticize children – this came up after a “Carmen” at the Metropolitan Opera. We decided no. (Or I think Fred’s wife decided for us.) So, I will not criticize the children, who were scrumptious and gifted: Alexio Barboza and Alex de Castro. I will instead criticize an anonymous coach, for they were not taught to sing the word “Dites” correctly.

Soon the leads, Ms. McEntire and Mr. Mitchell, came to the fore, and the crowd screamed again. Everyone in this performance used scripts and scores, by the way, when memorization would have been lovely – more an enhancement than the kaleidoscope. But people think that scripts and scores are mandatory in concert performances. Strange.

Ms. McEntire, an Oklahoman, talked much as Nellie might sound, for Nellie is from Little Rock (“Small Rock,” as Emile first says). Mr. Mitchell put on an accent that was not quite French, but maybe French-ish – vaguely Continental, or at least foreign. And I should note that both performers looked the part: Ms. McEntire fresh, ingenuous; Mr. Mitchell suave.

One problem was that Ms. McEntire simply couldn’t – or wouldn’t – sing a note. What I mean is, she scooped and fished around everything. There was not a note that she didn’t slide up to – and these were big slides, such as you’d get at Six Flags Over Georgia, not little, merely annoying ones. She did not sing one syllable on the button. Made you never want to criticize Renee Fleming again.

But don’t all pop singers, and country and western singers, do this? Not on your life – Dolly Parton doesn’t, for one.

Mr. Mitchell gave us a decent “Some Enchanted Evening,” which included at least one mainly acceptable interpolation of his own. He did not, however, take that enchanting E at the end (on the “go” of “never let her go”). But he would in reprises, with varying success.

The men’s chorus whipped off their evening jackets to reveal black muscle shirts, causing the audience to scream very, very loud. Then they delivered a hardy, if rhythmically imperfect, “There Is Nothin’ Like a Dame.” One of the best things about this evening was the female chorus, which was sassy, fetching, and persuasive, particularly behind Ms. McEntire in “I’m Gonna Wash That Man Right Outa My Hair.”

Mr. Baldwin was charismatic and skillful as Luther Billis. The accent he chose sounded – to me – like that of a classic New York cabbie, not seen anymore, but heard in black-and-white movies. Mr. Baldwin did some singing, too, which was characterful and fun.

The best voice of the evening belonged to Ms. White, our Bloody Mary, and she knows how to use that smoky instrument, too: She was both correct and stylish. Mr. Danieley was all right as Lieutenant Cable, and the main job of his love interest, Renita Croney (Liat), was to look pretty, which she did to perfection. Mr. Danieley looked like Cable, too. This evening, if nothing else, was a visual success.

And it served to remind what a great score “South Pacific” is, and what great lyrics it has, from Oscar Hammerstein’s grandson. In my experience, there are two groups of people who appreciate “South Pacific” – and “Oklahoma,” and some of the others: the masses, and the musicians – meaning, the real musicians. They know this material’s worth. The middlebrow people – those with a little education, who know enough for dilettantism – can scoff at “South Pacific,” or condescend to it. If they had any sense, they’d give a limb or two to have written the least of the songs.

And what is the least of these songs? I would nominate “Younger Than Springtime,” but that is almost certainly a minority opinion.