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A recent work by Andrew McIntosh, the latest undertaking by Igor Levit and a high-profile tribute to Mieczyslaw Weinberg are among the highlights.

Try the contrast of the forceful demands and questioning replies in the opening of his K. The slight smile in Viotti’s voice renders Didon oddly genial for her anguished farewell in “Les Troyens,” but Viotti rises to the dramatic heights of Sapho’s “Ô ma lyre immortelle,” finding her own elegant way into the poet’s quiet — yet still epic — devastation. But by the time of the Seventh Symphony (1964), for strings and harpsichord — the latter played, surprisingly, by Kirill Gerstein, better known as a pianist of high repute — Weinberg’s language is his own: awash in ambiguity, its long melodies unwinding without a clear terminus. There is some alchemy by which this alleged mezzo can sweep through a two-octave cadenza in Orphée’s “Amour, viens rendre à mon âme,” quickly turn the figures of Semiramide’s “Bel raggio lusinghier” and saucily twirl through Rosina’s “Una voce poco fa.” Viotti’s wide range and sensitivity are probably where the similarities with Viardot begin and end, but why cheapen such beguiling singing with speculative comparisons? Coming between the two larger works, the First Flute Concerto (1961), delightfully played by Marie-Christine Zupancic, offers a quick burst of Neo-Classical charm. The 19th-century diva Pauline Viardot entered the annals of opera history with her fiercely intelligent singing, unique timbre and extensive influence on the arts. On the surface, the piece has the form of a Baroque concerto grosso, but the two forces seem to exist on separate planes, heightening the symphony’s solitary feel. The fourth and longest of the six sections, “Heart,” is a time-bending drone, oscillating between song and scream. “Tristan” asks us to think about the music we love — to rehear it and reimagine it — in a dreamlike sequence set up from its first track, Liszt’s famous third “Liebestraum,” which Levit treats not tritely but trustingly. Ronald Stevenson’s arrangement of the Adagio from Mahler’s unfinished 10th Symphony acts almost as consolation by its radiant close, with Liszt’s “Harmonies du Soir” serving as an epilogue. His latest album could not have come from anyone else, not just because few other pianists could have conceived of it, but precisely because none have the stature to convince their record company to follow through on ideas of such scope. Recent pieces by the composer Andrew McIntosh have subtly folded into the instrumental textures field recordings he has made in the hiking wilds of California, where he lives.