The mastery of ultimate survival in show business is to rise to what you are irreducibly best at, then give it honestly to your audience. For artists with remarkable longevity, that germ becomes ever more subtle yet powerful, sending reviewers into paroxysms of prose as they attempt to get to the core of a Karajan or a Bruno Walter. And yet for the artist, the way seems ever clearer, and this ease of expression translates once again to the audience as mastery.

With Marin Symphony on Sunday evening, the essence of Gunther Schuller's mastery was charm. The repertory was excellently suited to his personal strengths both as conductor and musical statesman, rewarding the audience's willingness to follow his lead. The lightness and gaiety of Francaix's L'Horloge de Flore, the good-hearted slyness of Beethoven's Eighth Symphony, the tropical revelry of Gottschalk's Symphonie Romantique, all underlined the ongoing theme of unassuming fun. In the collective context, a synergy was created that brought fresh insight into each work.

That said, however, the standout performance of the evening was far from symphonic, occuring after Schuller had reduced the size of the Marin Symphony to 16 players for a performance of six classic rags. The full-bodied sound of a symphony orchestra gave way to a combination of tones that had the sweetness of chamber music, the lustiness of a marching band, and the spirit of a rollicking jam session. The piano, basic arbiter of ragtime, receded into the background of the texture as the band struck up the Maple Leaf Rag. With flute, oboe and clarinet joining a string quartet in pushing the melody, the banjo and the trumpet crashed in on choruses, altering the basic rhythmic expectations within the phrasing. The deft but insistent high-stepping of tuba and trombone became the dominant line, elegantly escorting the group across the stylistic contradictions and cultured outrageousness of this visionary music.

Ragtime Nightingale, Devillish Off-beats

In most kinds of music containing traps or drum sets, the presence of a bandleader is metrically superfluous, reduced more to shaking his arms and grooving in front of the musicians. But Schuller conducted with real engagement and depth during subtler moments, as during the introduction to Joseph Lamb's Ragtime Nightingale. This bandleader was first-class music historian as well, explaining, between numbers, the significance of hallowed names like Lamb and Marshall, pondering the origins of the word Swipesy, and edifying the audience regarding the modernity of the tone clusters in Artie Matthews Pass-Time Rag #4. Then he redeemed his place as time-keeper in first managing the devilish off-beats of Eubie Blake's Charleston Rag, then getting the crowd up on their feet with a rave-up rendition of James Reese Europe's Castle House Rag.

With its mass and energy, Louis Moreau Gottshalk's Symphony Romantique, subtitled Night in the Tropics, would seem the obvious follow-up. Yet its musical naiveties and slickness rang oddly after the gutsy ramble of the ragtime kings. The first movement opened like a lost page of young Mendelssohn, tender and understated for the massive complement assembled. As the development intensified, the march that burst forth through the fabric was pure Romantic Pop.

Gottschalk lacks the sense of proportion of a Mendelssohn to pull this kind of thing off, however. Certain motives lingered far too long, reaching toward the indulgence of the Mahler and Strauss to come, but without that deep-down angst to reward the patience of the listener. Moments of mystery and humor emerged from the calculated episodes that were genuine Southern French-American brilliance, particularly the pre-jazz cornet solo that opened and closed the movement.

Clamour of Tropical Melody

The restlessness of the following Fête had the violinists bobbing in their seats. A four-man group of percussionists rapped out a tumba francese on congas, snare, and tambour as the orchestra rattled through a parade of mostly harmless, jolly Caribbean tunes. The fughetta development that unwound in the center of the movement, harked back once more to Mendelssohn in wit and craft, but ended as Gottschalk when a triumphant clamour of tropical melody broke loose.

Throughout, Schuller connected the music to his vision. It was easy to disregard the youthful indiscretions of Gottschalk in the face of the conductor's fascination for the music's place on the landscape of American culture. Placed in the same program as Beethoven's Eighth, an equalizing sense of celebration was exchanged. Schuller allowed the gentle humor of Beethoven's parody of theater music to come through in the second movement, moderated the interactions within the trio in the third, encouraged the wildness and roughness of the fourth.

He proved the most considerate of partners to oboist Margot Golding in a mutually superb rendering of Jean Francaix's L'Horloge de Flore (The Flower Clock), guiding her through the delicate tour de force as she glided warmly over the tenderness of 3 a.m.-- Poisonberry and galloped into the moto perpetuo of 9 p.m.-- Night-Flowering Catchfly. In short, his style captured an ardent fascination with music of celebration and humanity, raising the definition of musicianship beyond the execution of sounds. And he made us just as fascinated.

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