It was to be a meeting of three remarkable talents: Bobby McFerrin, Alison Krauss, and Edgar Meyer. But, at the last minute, Ms. Krauss had to cancel, owing to flu. So this voice of an angel was not heard at Carnegie Hall on Thursday night. But her friends, Messrs. McFerrin and Meyer, were. And they were joined by two less famous but highly worthy musicians.

The concert launched Mr. McFerrin’s “Perspectives” series at Carnegie Hall. The idea was that this unusual, scatting “vocalist” would meet up with bluegrass. Mr. McFerrin’s official bio states that he is “music’s last true Renaissance man.” Mr. McFerrin should be ashamed to have that sentence in his bio. It’s not true.

A more obvious Renaissance man was on the stage with him (and younger, too). Mr. Meyer is one of the best double-bass players in the world, in the classical, jazz, and bluegrass realms. And he is also a composer: writing with formidable skill in all these genres.

We are further given to understand that Mr. McFerrin has a four-octave range. Really? Marilyn Horne, a phenomenon of range, had a two-and-a-half-octave range. Does Mr. McFerrin have 18 more notes (including half steps)? Hmm …

In any case, Mr. McFerrin started the concert by himself, singing, or scatting, something, without accompaniment. Or rather, he accompanied himself, throwing in bass notes under a melodic line. The voice has a pleasant rasp — and, yes, a serious range (whatever the data points). After a while, Mr. McFerrin started tapping his chest for percussion.

So, this is his shtick. And it is a very impressive shtick. Perhaps most impressive is Mr. McFerrin’s sense of pitch. Before he began, some sort of instrument, to the side of the stage, gave him an A. He started singing in the key of A. And he ended his piece, quite a few minutes later, perfectly in A. This is very, very rare, ladies and gentlemen.

In time, Mr. Meyer came out to join him, on his double bass. They improvised a slow duet together, or at least it appeared to be an improvisation: Musically, it had nothing to offer. They were just doodling, noodling, aimlessly, nodding at each other all the while — as though they were doing something profound. Why crowds accept this, even love it, is a mystery of the age. It’s like we are drugged, or hoodwinked.

Later, Mr. Meyer played a piece on his own: something ghostly, shuddering, slightly abstract. Toward the end, he unleashed a little of his considerable virtuosity. Mr. Meyer is a cool cat, and he moves and plays like a big cat — and he makes his instrument, the double bass, another big cat.

Joining Messrs. McFerrin and Meyer were two musicians associated with Alison Krauss: Sierra Hull and Ron Block. The former is 16 years old, a mandolinist and a singer. On the mandolin, she is wonderfully adept — unshowy and musical. And she is a lovely singer. At first, she was a bit breathy, but in general she was pure and unaffected. Indeed, her whole personality was that way. A native Tennessean, she puts an amazing vowel in the word “town,” for example.

Mr. Block is a very capable, natural-seeming guitarist and banjo player. He is also no slouch of a singer. His contributions to the evening were more than marginal. He seemed a modest musician with plenty to be immodest about.

In the course of these affairs, Mr. McFerrin descanted nicely with Ms. Hull. He also did a hilarious, dead-on imitation of a string instrument, tuning. And he sang a country song — bluegrass song — pretty much on his own. This, he did dully, and somewhat parodically.

Indeed, Mr. McFerrin had a strange attitude throughout the evening. He imitated and mocked country speech. This would not be permitted toward many groups, but toward country folk, yes. He seemed to think it was a riot to be among these goobers. Particularly vulgar was his yukking it up during a song about Christ’s love.

Less ha-ha, about this Hee-Haw, would have gone a long way.

Ms. Hull, Mr. Meyer, and Mr. Block did a fair amount of performing as a threesome. And, before launching one number, Mr. Block issued a kind of apology: He said that the song was just a simple old thing, without sophistication.

It was “You can have her, I don’t want her.” (No, not the polka.) “She didn’t love me anyway. She only wanted someone to play with. All I wanted was love to stay.”

Frankly, it was about the most touching and musical thing of the whole evening.

This was a strange night, for sure, but it also contained much musical merit. And Bobby McFerrin is a marvel — a miracle — of intonation.