Weird and Wonderful.

Yuri Temirkanov is the conductor of both the St. Petersburg Philharmonic and the Baltimore Symphony Orchestra. (When I say St. Pete, by the way, I ain't talkin' Florida.) That's the way it is with conductors these days: You have an orchestra on only one continent, and you're a chump, a provincial. Three is preferable.

The St. Petersburg Philharmonic, of course, used to be the Leningrad Philharmonic, which for a historic 50 years was led by Yevgeny Mravinsky. This is the longest major-orchestra tenure on record, beating Eugene Ormandy at the Philadelphia Orchestra by six years. Mravinsky was the great unknown conductor of the 20th century-unknown in the West, that is. His life, unfortunately, spanned almost exactly the life of the Soviet Union. Mravinsky didn't jet around much.

Temirkanov took over in St. Petersburg in 1988, having made a reputation with the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra in London. He made many recordings with that institution, including a famous one of Rachmaninoff's Symphony No. 2, which was arguably the most stirring account of that much-traversed work ever recorded. Sadly, it is "nla"- no longer available-supplanted by a more recent one with the St. Petersburg, which doesn't reach the same height.

For three nights in March, Temirkanov brought his Russian orchestra to Carnegie Hall. Each of their concerts consisted of a major Russian symphony and a Rachmaninoff piano concerto, featuring a top-flight soloist. (There are four Rachmaninoff concertos, so one had to be the odd-man-out: That was No. 4, probably a wise choice, if you have to cut someone.)

Temirkanov is a most unusual and most fascinating conductor. He's tall, thin, and gangly-all arms. He does without a baton. His build is not a bad one for a conductor, and they come in all shapes and sizes. (Ormandy faced most people's navels.) Temirkanov looms over an orchestra, bending in, sweeping those arms, willing the players to do whatever's in his head. He's almost always unconventional, and sometimes maddening, but you indulge him, because he's deeply musical.

On Night One, the pianist was Yefim Bronfman, a Russian-Israeli- American (not an uncommon combination, or trajectory, today). Bronfman is, quite simply, one of the finest pianists in the world, a master of almost any music. His Mozart is impeccable, and he's unsurpassed in the big Romantic works. Of his recordings, perhaps the most brilliant is that of the two Shostakovich concertos, along with the piano quintet. Kiddies and their parents-as well as others of good taste-know Bronfman from his appearance in Fantasia 2000 (in which he plays the first movement of the Shostakovich Second, with James Levine and the Chicago Symphony Orchestra-serving as Leopold Stokowski and the Philadelphia in this second Fantasia).

With the St. Petersburg, Bronfman played the Rachmaninoff Concerto No. 3, and he was at his technical and musical best. His playing was clear, clean, and sumptuous. If there can be a refined Rach 3-and there can be-this was it. In Bronfman's hands, the concerto wasn't a showpiece-or merely a showpiece-but a work of delicacy and beauty, to go with the passion and fire. He made this old, whipped work new. The word "artistry" is way overworked-particularly by PR types-but Bronfman has it.

The symphony on the program was the Shostakovich Fifth, a pivotal work for that composer, written in 1937. Temirkanov delivered a very strange, but still compelling, performance-no surprise there. Beauty of sound is not a hallmark of this orchestra, and neither is technical proficiency. So what is? Well, there's the peculiar musicality of the conductor. He kept a focus, kept bearing down on the score. For all its technical problems, this account was chilling, bleak, and rattling. The slow movement was exceptionally profound and moving. Temirkanov's tempos were idiosyncratic, and his dynamics were odd, too. You would never encourage a young conductor-or any-to follow suit. Temirkanovness only works for Temirkanov.

Several years ago, he was guest-conducting the New York Philharmonic. When he was through, a distinguished critic sitting next to me shook his head and said, "He's so weird"-which he did not mean, necessarily, as a condemnation. It was just true.

On this first night, Temirkanov and the St. Petersburg played two encores, the second of which was a not-so-sharp "Death of Tybalt" from Prokofiev's Romeo and Juliet. (Every Russian orchestra, from time immemorial, has typically played one of two encores: that and the Trepak, or Russian Dance, from The Nutcracker.)

On Night Two, the pianist was Leif Ove Andsnes, a popular young Norwegian about whom there's a lot of "buzz." He has been the subject of many feature pieces, all of which comment on his smarts, dedication, and wardrobe (which tends to the hip). Andsnes has a wide repertory, all of which he plays ably. He does two things that will forever endear him to critics: He participates in chamber music, and he programs a lot of contemporary music. For many, playing chamber music is next to godliness-and playing new music is godliness itself.

With Temirkanov, Andsnes did the Rachmaninoff First, a problematic concerto, one that gave the poor composer fits. Andsnes is not a Rachmaninoff player in the traditional sense: He doesn't have a big, lush sound, and he doesn't sweep grandly across the keyboard. But he has many virtues, one of which is almost frightening clarity. He couldn't be muddy if he tried. His playing can be rather stiff, however: He tends to hammer at the keyboard, from the top. Yet he is a convincing musician. He played with abandon and care at the same time (not as impossible as it seems). Also, his affection for this concerto- something of a stepchild in the literature-was obvious and touching.

He, too, played an encore: a Rachmaninoff prelude, which was lovely, but which was also self-conscious and rather precious-as if the pianist were saying, "See how nicely I'm shaping this?"

After intermission, it was the Shostakovich Symphony No. 7, nicknamed "the Leningrad." This opus was written in the teeth of World War II-in 1941-and a good performance of it is pulverizing. Fair or not, the expectations for the Leningrad Philharmonic in the "Leningrad" Symphony are very high.

Temirkanov gave us a reading that wasn't nearly as crisp or bracing as some. It was a little flabby and, as ever, individualistic (which can be a polite way of saying "weird"). But it was packed with emotional power. There is some wizardry about Temirkanov. Often he is an exciting conductor, taking you on a wild ride with him, along an unfamiliar route. Some nights, he reminds me of Stokowski, another wizard (and batonless, too).

Following the "Leningrad," Temirkanov and the orchestra played one of the most unusual encores I have ever heard, or witnessed: the great "Nimrod" variation from Elgar's Enigma. This could not have seemed unlikelier: an English hymn, intruded into this Russian festival. But it washed away the brutality of the Shostakovich Seventh, providing a kind of benediction-letting us know that everything was okay, after all. It was perfect.

Night Three featured a most welcome visitor: the pianist Dmitri Alexeev, whose recordings are well known-and well regarded-but who is seldom heard in the flesh in this country. Several well-known pianists were in the hall, suggesting that they, too, were eager to have a peek at Alexeev. Outstanding among his recordings are the complete preludes of Rachmaninoff, along with other works, such as the Etudes-tableaux. Alexeev also participated in one of the most unusual recordings I can think of: an album of spirituals with the soprano Barbara Hendricks, in which Alexeev improvises-or so it seems-jazz accompaniments. A black American soprano, a Russian pianist, and jazzified spirituals: Only in America (so to speak).

Alexeev's concerto was Rachmaninoff's Second, and it seems certain that the pianist did not have his best night. For one thing, he and Temirkanov were just about never together. I'm surprised they connected on the handshake following the final notes. Alexeev's playing was somewhat sloppy and blurred, but it had moments-many moments-of great beauty, particularly in the Adagio. He delivered a rather dreamy, Chopinesque Rach 2, with a minimum of bombast-greatly appreciated.

Then Temirkanov, departing from Shostakovich, led the orchestra in Tchaikovsky's Symphony No. 4. I will say again: The St. Petersburg Philharmonic is far from a technical marvel. It can sound remarkably rag-tag. Can an orchestra be both rag-tag and formidable? Yes, if musical qualities come to the fore and carry the day, as, with the St. Petersburg, they often do. Much of the Tchaikovsky was a mess, and none too beautiful: but Temirkanov told a story-this is a symphony with a "program"-and kept us on the edge, or close to the edge, of our seats.

I had thought that the Elgar was a strange encore. But no: On this final evening, Temirkanov offered an arrangement of "Deep River." Surely he meant this as a tribute to his American audience, although it seemed a little odd to hear this great spiritual in New York City- Atlanta might have been more natural. But it was a wonderful gesture. And then-you could have bet half your life savings-they played the Trepak.

Ending a rich, curious, and laudable series.