Icon: Leonard Bernstein

Bernstein didn't just pour his soul into the glorious mess that is Mass — he also ladled in gospel, Godspell, Handel, reggae, rock 'n' roll and every other timely reference he could think of in 1971. The result is pure Bernstein — which is to say it isn't pure at all, but a mixture of the silly and the sublime, all of it hugely earnest. Subtitled "A Theater Piece for Singers, Dancers, and Players," the two-hour work combines the seriousness of his symphonies, the high drama of liturgical music and the grooviness of a be-in. Mass has traditionally been the province of Bernstein acolytes, but Kristjan Järvi is just young and European enough to bring to it a new, crisp, and bracingly unsentimental point of view.

To Bernstein, and therefore to the generation he influenced, Charles Ives was the quintessential American composer. A brusque original with no patience for preciousness or dry convention, Ives wrote music that was at once naïve and overwhelmingly complex. That was the kind of contradiction that Bernstein could embrace with one of those cosmic bear hugs of his, and he performed Ives passionately — so passionately, in fact, that he has been accused of modifying the Second Symphony with his baton, on the fly. The insecure composer listened to the 1951 premiere live on the radio, rather than let the audience witness his delights and agonies in the hall. Bernstein, however, ensured that the symphony became an instant classic.

Bernstein only occasionally swirled his toe into the more dissonant currents of the 20th century avant-garde. But as the West Side Story "Mambo" shows, Bernstein had Latin rhythms in his Massachusetts-born bones. (How he got them there isn't quite clear). This disc demonstrates the kind of modern music he really loved, pairing a couple of south-of-the-border cravings by the decidedly un-Latino Aaron Copland with a smattering of works from a large and varied continent. What the recording lacks in cogency it makes up for in vigor — you can practically hear the swish of Bernstein's hips. Silvestre Revueltas's sensational Sensemayá earns its ear-splitting climax, and in Villa-Lobos's Bachianas Brasileiras, No. 5 the buoys of influence have bobbed from Bach to Brazil and up to New York.

Could there be a more Bernstein-ready symphony than Beethoven's Seventh? The undertow of wildness, the serene moments always threatening to explode into supernovas of ecstasy, the third movement melody suspended between blitheness and regret — these emotional extremes were Bernstein's element. He didn't like to keep his feet on the podium, and this symphony hardly hits the ground, either. Being a member of the New York Philharmonic while he was conducting it must have been a hair-raising ride, and the recording captures that seismic energy. Warning: Do not listen to this recording while driving, because you will find yourself going 95.

Bernstein did not discover Mahler — Mahler took care of that himself — but he did make sure he would never be overlooked. They belonged to different cultures and different times, but they had a lot in common. Both were Jewish, both were world-class conductors who could never find enough time to compose, and both translated their obsessions into music of irresistible potency. Any exploration of the relationship between these two music directors of the New York Philharmonic should begin with the First Symphony, a piece (and a performance) magnificently unafraid of extremes.

Bernstein recorded Messiah in the innocent year of 1956, before the authentic performance practice movement had annexed baroque music and pointed out the errors of his ways. Somehow, even without the shawms and sackbuts and pistonless trumpets that later became obligatory, Bernstein managed to make Messiah exciting. Make that fabulously — albeit incorrectly — thrilling. To him, this was drama on a celestial scale, and he didn't just conduct the New York Philharmonic and the Westminster Choir; he unleashed them.

Bernstein had little interest in the image of Mozart as a precious, stockinged charmer; he wrote music full of shadows and yearning, replete with omens of Beethoven and intimations of Wagner. Mozart at his most poised and gracious was not really Bernstein's thing, but he wrung the pathos out of the late works with gusto. The last movement of the 39th Symphony hurls itself out of the gates and doesn't let up until it hits the final cadence. No. 41 (the "Jupiter") has the heavy tread of a tragic opera. This is not Mozart to boost the IQ of babies or soothe a slow commute. This is Mozart that quickens your pulse.

Bernstein was a theater man, and a Broadway maven might reasonably regret every hour Lenny spent on the podium or fussing over a symphony as an hour he didn't spend writing another show. Like any pro, he turned out his quota of duds (remember 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue?), but On the Town is a practically perfect mixture of poignancy and glee. The original Broadway cast of 1944 reassembled for this 1960 recording, restoring songs that had been trimmed out of other versions and redeeming the misguided movie. It's almost impossible to listen to this disc without getting "Carried Away."