When Roberto Abbado’s uncle Claudio was appointed music director of the Berlin Philharmonic, he celebrated by programming the glorious Symphony No. 1 of Gustav Mahler for his maiden concert. Now it is the nephew’s turn, as Roberto led the Juilliard Orchestra at Avery Fisher Hall on Monday evening in the same piece, arguably the first modern symphony.

Reviewing student performances is a tricky business. What standards should we enforce? It is important to remember that these are some of the very best young instrumentalists in the world, but they are still works in progress. Still, a conductor who stands before them is never granted a free pass.

This night, the orchestra did not sound as polished as it does under one of its regular conductors. The string section, particularly the cellos, had a certain soupy quality to them that limited any construction of the beautiful. Concerts at American conservatories tend to be on the careful side, but Mr. Abbado was so concerned about committing any major gaffes that his band sounded dull, dull, dull. The Kraeftig bewegt second movement was foursquare to the point of tedium. Missing in in action were the lively rhythms that Mahler loved from his youth and the Upper Austrian clumsiness that bestows upon this particular movement so much nostalgic charm. The individual student musicians were playing splendidly, but the totality was banausic, quotidian, unacceptable. On the plus side, the Juilliard brass had a great night though, while the horns intoned superbly their own personal lines, they often sounded flabby in their phrasing decisions. The horn soloist in particular was quite lyrical, even poetic. But all this good effort was lost in a sea of flaccid interpretation that can only be laid on the shoulders of Maestro Abbado.

Tibor Serly was an obscure Hungarian-American violist whose 15 minutes revolved around 17 measures of the Piano Concerto # 3 of Bela Bartok, which he orchestrated after the composer left them incomplete on his deathbed. Bartok raced with the clock to write this piece for his wife, Ditta Pasztory, so that she would have a vehicle with which to eke out a living after his impending demise would leave her penniless. Like all of Bartok’s financial schemes, however, this one failed, the world premiere instead being given in Philadelphia by his friend Gyorgy Sandor.

Doubtlessly, Icelandic pianist Vikingur Olafsson has played this concerto much better in innumerable practice sessions, but perhaps the tension of a major New York debut tied his fingers a bit in the outer movements. He was born to play the piano. Very tall with incredibly long fingers, Mr. Olafsson was masterful in the chorale-like second movement, producing sounds of echoing spirituality. The two faster movements were marred by a disconnect with the orchestra, the piano often sounding much louder than the accompaniment. In spots, it seemed Mr. Abbado was on a different page or plane than his soloist.

I must confess to only knowing the Berceuse elegiaque of Ferruccio Busoni through the Erwin Stein transcription written for Arnold Schoenberg’s private soirees. This original version for chamber orchestra had its world premiere at the last concert ever conducted by Mahler, who soon thereafter left New York and died in Vienna. Mr. Abbado led his reduced forces in a suitably spectral rendition, but left out the loveliness that reinforces and enriches the graveside memory.

The night as a whole was a frustrating dichotomy of fine playing and poor interpretation. These dedicated young people deserve better.