Experts commonly cite Gustav Mahler’s Symphony No. 3 in D minor as the longest work in the common repertoire, and its immensity was evident just by looking at the stage of Marian Anderson Hall before a single note was struck.

Nearly every section was studded with substitute musicians—eight horns! Two harps! A battery of percussion!—while the conductor’s circle sat empty, awaiting a full female chorus and mixed children’s choir. Mixed unassumingly among the instrumentalists was Joyce DiDonato, singing the alto solo for the first time. Following a towering performance of Bruckner’s Seventh Symphony the weekend before, the programming seemed intent on announcing a theme of grandeur for this season.

I decided to take a maximalist approach to the work as well, attending all three performances over the course of the run. My schedule and my wallet rarely allow me to see something more than once, and as a reviewer writing on deadline, I often find myself in the position of synthesizing an opinion in the frenetic moments after I’ve left the concert hall. There’s nothing wrong with that—it reflects how most audiences interact with a piece of music—but the opportunity to live with the Third Symphony for a few days not only deepened my appreciation for it, but it gave perspective on the subtle evolution of an orchestra’s interpretation.

Given its size and scope, this symphony isn’t programmed all that often—the Philadelphians last played it in 2017. And based on social media evidence, it appears the orchestra and Yannick Nézet-Séguin had about two days of rehearsal before the first public performance on Thursday, October 3. Perhaps that accounted for a certain tentativeness in the sprawling first movement, where themes develop episodically and minutely in an almost Brucknerian fashion.

There was an undeniable power in the overall effect, but also a piecemeal quality: entrances and intonation that were less than precise, rests that seemed to linger a moment too long. Nézet-Séguin usually likes it loud, especially in grand works, and sometimes he appeared to be substituting volume for ideas. It did not feel like the most auspicious start to a work that requires a real sense of shape, and shepherding.

Imagine my surprise and delight, then, when the shagginess seemed to coalesce entirely just sixteen hours later, at the Friday matinee concert. A seamless interpretation emerged, stately one moment and exhilarating the next, which captured the music’s expression of the unpredictable character of nature. It felt wild and messy in terms of temperament, but the newfound subtlety of the repeated motifs, as well as the profound lyricism of the harmonies, suggested complete control by Nézet-Séguin without the effect of feeling stage-managed. This was exactly how you launch such a complex work.

The second and third movements unfolded with superb contrast, lyrical tranquility followed by wild energy. Both sections offered great opportunities to highlight fine solo playing within the Orchestra. My companion for Saturday night’s finale performance, a Mahler novice, said he was nearly moved to tears by the unassuming quality of the violin solos in the second movement, played with gorgeous attention to detail by concertmaster David Kim. I was struck especially by the menacing nature of the posthorn in the third, performed offstage by newly appointed principal trumpet Esteban Batallán. In the past with this Orchestra, I’ve heard this section sound courtly and elegant—here, Batallán infused it with a real sense of looming threat. The placement of the posthorn behind the conductor’s circle gave the impression of an insurgent creeping ever closer to interrupt a pleasant repose.

The announcement of DiDonato as the fourth-movement soloist initially gave me pause. Without shortchanging her artistry in any way, I wondered if the inherent lightness and transparency of her tone would contradict the dire text of Nietzsche’s Midnight Song, an existential warning to the world. I needn’t have worried. Deploying her voice as an absolutely secure and columnar instrument—no vibrato at all—DiDonato expressed the anguish of humankind’s folly in an interpretation that only gained in complexity with each performance. She made every word count, and each repeat of Tief (“deep”) took on greater meaning. Equally valuable here was principal oboe Philippe Tondre, almost a duet partner, who extracted an anxious klezmer flair with slightly smudgy glissandi.

The flexibility of DiDonato’s instrument was appreciated in dialogue with the choruses in the fifth movement, and both the adult women and mixed children’s choirs sounded on top form.

What a shame, then, that Nézet-Séguin hid DiDonato in the middle of the orchestra, on a riser between the harps and clarinets. Nézet-Séguin has a penchant for placing singers in orchestral works anywhere but front and center, and while I can respect the idea that the vocal soloist is part of an intricate tapestry in this work, it withheld DiDonato’s expressivity from wide swaths of the audience. She was not visible to me at all on Thursday evening, sitting in the third row from the stage, and even from prime critic seats on Saturday night, her face was often obscured. The voice may be an instrument, but a singer is not a tam-tam drum. How they perform matters as much as the sounds they make.

It was hard to stay mad, though, when on each night, the Adagio final movement enveloped the hall in a manner that rendered even the most fidget-prone in the audience completely rapt. Nézet-Séguin luxuriated in the rich final chord, then tried in vain to hold the silence at each conclusion. With every successive performance, the applause crept in sooner. Although it might have killed the dramatic effect, it was understandable.

The Philadelphians repeat their performance for New York audiences at Carnegie Hall on October 15. I doubt I’ll make it up there for another viewing, but I encourage all our Gotham Parterrians to grab tickets.

Photos: Jeff Fusco