My last encounter with Olga Borodina as a songstress was a particularly memorable one, and I daresay it was for her as well. In May 2001 she postponed a Carnegie Hall recital literally at the last minute, a hastily scrawled piece of paper taped over the poster out front our only greeting. Ms. Borodina was suffering from allergies and gamely attempted to forge ahead a week later with James Levine at the piano. The afternoon was challenging, but the half-empty hall was populated by a dedicated group that admired her courage.

She has since triumphed in the opera house and, as recently as this past Wednesday night, performed strongly in an otherwise very weak reading of the Symphony No. 2 of Mahler, with the Kirov Orchestra conducted by Valery Gergiev. On Saturday evening, she reprised some of those same Tchaikovsky and Rachmaninov songs that she had attempted when not at her best.

Perhaps I am fated never to hear her sing this repertoire under ideal conditions. Apparently, the Egyptians did not construct the Temple of Dendur with the song recital in mind, as the reverberations of the room are reminiscent of an airplane hanger. But discounting the surroundings, it was well worth waiting the four years to hear this program.

Ms. Borodina’s voice is actually a little heavy for my taste, and I find its bulk to be an impediment to a totally inclusive expression of emotion, but I realize that this is a personal perception and am willing to overlook it in favor of a more catholic view that her instrument is especially powerful, pure, and pleasing. Technically, she is a paragon of pitch control.

Beginning with Tchaikovsky, she exhibited her extremely secure bottom, almost that of a contralto, in “Only he knows who.” Her opera training kicked in as she demonstrated fine acting ability in “The frightening moment,” the one song in this set whose words were actually written by this composer of such delicate sensibilities. Ably assisted by the properly self-effacing but still dramatic pianist Dmitri Yefimov, she traversed the folk element in “Why?” and the romantic in “The first meeting.”

Ms. Borodina worked hard to rein in her huge voice in order not to overwhelm in this echo chamber, whose parabolic phenomena make choice of seat paramount for the serious listener. When she attempted a lighthearted reading of “Serenada,” however, the weight of her instrument simply would not allow for the proper dexterity. But this lack of agility was soon forgotten with a spectacular rendition of “Once again, as before, I am alone,” complete with slight pause and superhuman projection. I remember that in the ill-fated recital at Carnegie, this was the same song that ended her Tchaikovsky set and, even though suffering through a nasal disaster, she was still able to bring it off impressively.

After intermission was Rachmaninov. These songs are a little deeper, a little more complex than the Tchaikovsky, and Ms. Borodina invested them with a full dramatic range, especially in the theatrical “You are as beautiful as the flower.” The big voice took over for “In the silence of the secret night,” a magnificent opus contrasting the quiet of nature with the screaming of the mind, and for “Oh, do not grieve,” a perennial favorite, performed this night with spine-chilling clarity and unabashedly full-throated operatic splendor.

Although the crowd implored her to offer “Carmen” during the encore phase, Ms. Borodina limited her gifts to three very quiet French and Spanish songs. She seemed to be reminding us that she can dazzle softly as well.

***

So many of the masterworks of the 20th century were greeted with disdain by both the public and critics that one could be forgiven for thinking that no great modern symphony was acclaimed immediately. There are, however, notable exceptions. Perhaps no work was so eagerly awaited as the “Leningrad” Symphony of Dmitri Shostakovich, released during the siege.

This piece of music galvanized global opinion and forged a common bond among former enemies throughout the civilized world (the acerbic Bartok parody notwithstanding). The evacuated Leningrad Philharmonic performed it often in the early days. The score was smuggled out of Russia on microfilm. The American premiere broadcast under Toscanini is one of those evocative frozen moments of musical time that all discophiles cherish.

In 1942, Time magazine honored the composer with a cover. He was depicted in a fire brigade helmet, just another common member of the Jacquerie, living on rats and determined to outlast the Nazi horde. The grim determination on his face, however, was put there by his own political leaders, who mounted a siege of this fragile genius long before Hitler ever looked east.

The resulting symphony is a most relentless essay and one that takes an iron will to perform successfully. Friday evening’s concert by the New York Philharmonic was supposed to be a part of their “Visions of the Beyond” series, with Christoph von Dohnanyi slated to conduct, among other spiritual works, “Atmospheres” by Gyorgy Ligeti, a piece that I have heard him lead expertly on two separate occasions. But maestro called in sick rather suddenly.

His replacement, Semyon Bychkov, wisely avoided the unfamiliar and complex Hungarian modernist in favor of a symphony that the orchestra has actually performed quite stirringly under Kurt Masur and – with only principal clarinetist Stanley Drucker and perhaps a couple of back-benchers in the string section left to bear witness – Bernstein.

It is tempting to state that the particular problem with this performance was that it was too loud, but that is not exactly correct. Many parts of this symphonic essay are meant to be played loudly – Shostakovich is a loud composer. More accurately, the issue was that this orchestra cannot “do” loud – whenever they attempt to enunciate above a mezzo forte, they lapse into imbalance and poor intonation.

Mr. Bychkov, of course, cannot solve this problem in just a few days: He was left to preside over a blowsy cacophony on more than one occasion. What he did not provide was an overlay of refinement and humanity. There is so much more to this tonal poetry than the barbarism of the besiegers. In this reading, there seemed to be only a rough portrait of the Hun, without the contrasting gentleness of the victims. Missing were the heroes. And the ghosts.

Robert Schumann, upon first hearing the Piano Concerto No. 4 of Beethoven in Leipzig, remarked, “I sat in my place without moving a muscle or even breathing – afraid of making the least noise!” As both a critic and a melancholic connoisseur of pianism, he would have been pleased with the playing of Mitsuko Uchida, the only holdover from the original von Dohnanyi program.

Hers is a light and airy conception of the work, dependent on a feathery and yet steely touch that produced a rainbow of diaphanous sound. Unfortunately, this delicacy contrasted notably with the leaden accompaniment of the Philharmonic strings. It was like watching one of those nature documentaries about that little bird that lives on the back of a rhinoceros.

Especially in the Rondo vivace, her ebullience shone through in spite – or perhaps because – of the dull background. When only the anemic violas were her accompanists, the resultant combination was almost comical. Although Ms. Uchida eschewed the opportunity for a cadenza in this third movement, her profound superiority to her fellow musicians left the distinct impression that she was performing solo.

I suspect that some of my readers will find my closing comment relevant and some will not. Both pianist and concertmistress Sheryl Staples were dressed to the nines. The ensemble was in white-tie concert attire. The decision of Mr. Bychkov to conduct in his shirtsleeves seemed not only incongruous but downright disrespectful.