Last week, the Metropolitan Opera Orchestra and Chorus gathered in their house. They were led by their chief, James Levine. And they performed Verdi’s Requiem. That is no opera, although it has operatic stretches. What were they doing?

They were giving this performance in honor of Luciano Pavarotti, the legendary tenor who died about a year ago. Pavarotti sang many Verdi Requiems, including on special occasions — much like this. He no doubt would have appreciated it.

The first measures of the work were very Levine-like: muscular and robust, rather than ethereal. That is certainly one approach. Mr. Levine always injects his Verdi with a lot of Classical discipline, making it sound like Beethoven. He would have conducted the Missa Solemnis pretty much the way he conducted the Verdi Requiem last week.

There is probably not a better conductor of this work in the world right now. But that doesn’t mean you could hail everything Mr. Levine did. The Sanctus — sometimes described as the Requiem’s scherzo — was shaky. All personnel could probably have used another rehearsal or two. The closing section, Libera me, was exceptionally fast and a little unvaried: The range of dynamics could have been wider, for example.

At one point, Mr. Levine had been so loud for so long, he had nowhere to go.

To speak in large terms, this was not a mountaintop performance. It did not grip and transcend as it might have. Still, it was a Levine-led Verdi Requiem — and how bad could it have been?

I remember when Mr. Levine conducted the Requiem in Carnegie Hall seven years ago. His soloists were Renée Fleming, Olga Borodina, Marcello Giordani, and René Pape. This was truly a mountaintop experience. After the applause died away, and the orchestra and singers left the stage, people kind of lingered in the hall, reluctant to leave. They didn’t talk much; they just sort of milled. I think they wanted to remain in the atmosphere of the performance. I have never witnessed anything like it.

Last week, Mr. Levine’s singers included Ms. Borodina and Mr. Giordani. The latter, as the tenor, occupied a tricky position: the Pavarotti position. One can imagine that it was both an honor for him to be in the quartet and a bit of a burden.

He did not have his strongest, steadiest outing. In his initial pages, he slid around, which some people regard as genuinely Italian. Other people demur. He was also imprecise — not to say wrong — in his rhythm. He would continue to slide, and sob, throughout the Requiem; he would also continue to have trouble with rhythm. In addition, he suffered some flatness. And, at a critical moment, he was simply sucking gas. That is not uncommon for tenors in this music.

But Mr. Giordani always maintained dignity and poise. And he projects such decency, you root for him, come what may.

Like Mr. Giordani, Ms. Borodina suffered some flatness — very rare for her. For example, in the Agnus Dei, she was “low,” while the soprano was on pitch. The mismatch was jarring to the ear.

But the fact remains that Ms. Borodina is one of the great Verdi Requiem mezzos ever — along with Stignani, Horne, and your other favorites.

The bass was Ildar Abdrazakov, who sounded very, very Russian — even more Russian than the mezzo did. He also sounded magnificent. Mr. Abdrazakov is both clean and rich, which is a lucky combination. (Pinza and Siepi were two who had the same lucky combo.) And he sang with admirable discipline and sense.

Our soprano was Barbara Frittoli, who was touching: sincere, honest. Honesty in singing goes a long way. She had some “technical difficulties,” as they say in the television world: She grabbed at some notes — but she caught them. At other times, she was weak, feeble, and frayed. And, in the Libera me, you sometimes couldn’t hear her — more heft would have been welcome. Yet she brought understanding and heart.

The Recordare, incidentally, should be rated one of the most beautiful things in all of music. And Ms. Frittoli and Ms. Borodina — along with Mr. Levine and his orchestra — handled it superbly.

Finally, let me commend the Metropolitan Opera for two somewhat extraneous things: There was no announcement beforehand, no speech. Everyone knew what we were there for, and no talking was necessary. And they did not ask the audience to refrain from applause after. That never works — people always applaud, and then they are viciously shushed, which spoils everything.

Plus, who liked applause more than Pavarotti?