In the 1950s, a groundswell of speculation turned into a torrent of rumors as piano aficionados venturing behind the Iron Curtain returned with tales of a great virtuoso. “Wait until you hear Richter!” they would say. The Russian Sviatoslav Richter finally arrived in America in 1960, and he turned out to be as phenomenal as advertised.

Opera fans went through a similar experience a decade earlier. The Swedish soprano Birgit Nilsson was a legitimate star in Europe in the 1940s, but she didn’t make her Metropolitan Opera debut until 1959. By then she was recognized as the Wagnerian of her age. For an entire generation, Birgit Nilsson was Brunnhilde.

Nilsson was always a bit of a technical anomaly. Hardly a paragon of pitch control, she was a superb molder, shaper, and holder of notes. She would sometimes only approximate notes on the way up, but then could belt out five perfect high C’s in a row. Her voice was incredibly huge and commanding, ringing the rafters with initial sound and marvelous echo.Her stamina was unwavering: The listener didn’t fully appreciate her unique talent until the final moments of a long Wagnerian effort, when she sounded as fresh and powerful as she had five hours earlier. One similarity between her and Maria Callas was that New Yorkers missed much of their prime years, since Nilsson stayed away from the United States for five seasons due to a dispute with the IRS.

Nilsson died this past Christmas, and Tuesday evening the Metropolitan Opera Guild presented a tribute in her memory at Alice Tully Hall. Tenor Thomas Stewart offered his reminiscences and rare video clips, including the trio from the end of Act II of Gotterdammerrung with himself as Gunther, Nilsson as Brunnhilde, and bass Josef Greindl as Hagen. Although the image and sound were a bit grainy, the strong character in Nilsson’s voice was unmistakable.

Mr. Stewart also showed part of the film about the making of the Georg Solti “Ring” cycle, at the time the most adventurous project ever attempted in the recording studio. In it, Nilsson sings the “Immolation Scene”: At the moment she calls for her horse Grane – an extremely serious point, since they are about to leap into the fire together – the stagehands bring a real horse into the studio. Not only does Nilsson, known for her infectious sense of humor, start to laugh, but Maestro Solti, not known for his, breaks up as well.

Dame Gwyneth Jones, no mean Brunnhilde herself, served as the evening’s hostess. She was assisted by the singers Irene Dalis, who performed with Nilsson many times at the Met,and Evelyn Lear.They told many wonderful stories and shared many memories, although the proceedings were marred by the poor quality of the videos and their early transistor-radio sound quality.

Ms. Jones related how Nilsson was singing Brunnhilde in “Siegfried” at the Vienna Opera. When Wolfgang Windgassen walked through magic fire to awaken her, he took away her shield only to find the “do not disturb” sign from her hotel room pinned to her chest. Mr. Stewart told of how, when he wore sandals while singing with Nilsson in “Elektra,” she used to tickle his toes at the most inopportune times.

Every memorial service has its solipsist, and this evening it was Lauren Flanigan, who shamelessly told stories of her youth, even reading to us all from the journal she kept as a teenager. The connection? Well, apparently one afternoon she took a master class with Nilsson.

But the rest of the opera stalwarts realized it was not all about them,and they presented an interesting program.There were filmed tributes, including one by the longtime Tristan to her Isolde, Jon Vickers, who called her “the rock of Gibraltar.” We heard how Nilsson sang both Elisabeth and Venus in the same performance of “Tannhauser,” how she refused to sing at the conservatory in Stockholm because she was concerned that the vocal coaches there would ruin her voice, how she cherished the headline “Swedish Isolde Wears Out One Tristan Per Act” when she appeared at the Met with three tenors in one evening. And many of us remembered that her recording of “I Could Have Danced All Night” is as good as it gets.

There have been several Brunnhildes at the Met since Nilsson’s era; some, especially Hildegarde Behrens and, more recently, Olga Sergeyeva, have been very good. But none can match Nilsson’s presence, her majesty, and the indefinable feeling that here was the character herself in the flesh. For sheer vocal power, she was unrivaled. She truly was the daughter of the gods.