The Philadelphia Orchestra is widely and correctly perceived as the aristocrat among American orchestras. The Cleveland Orchestra may be more "perfect" (one balanced, synchronized, infinitely adaptable organism from top to bottom) and Chicago may have more muscle (ferocious virtuosity and a brass section that could have done the job at Jericho). But Philadelphia -- caloric, sumptuously blended and refreshingly Old World -- takes the prize for elegance and sheer sonic luster. In a world of lean cuisine, the Philadelphia Orchestra is still pure butterfat.

This group is at its best in leisurely music -- not because it cannot play fast and flashy but because so few of its competitors can play slow music convincingly. And a work like the Bruckner Symphony No. 8, of which the Philadelphia Orchestra offered a magnificent performance last night at the Kennedy Center under the direction of Wolfgang Sawallisch, demands not just slow but slow.

In fact, the symphony really demands that the listener suspend time. This is a long work -- just about 90 minutes -- and it is quite the opposite of suspenseful. To wait for sudden, startling events is to miss the point of Bruckner. Rather, one immerses oneself in his symphonies as in an absorbing landscape, in which change happens inevitably over an expanse of time.

The Philadelphia Orchestra's unusually good program notes referred to the "luxuriant leisure" by which Bruckner's symphonies reach their formal climaxes and goals. "With Bruckner firm in his religious faith," Deryck Cooke wrote, "the music has no need to go anywhere, no need to find a point of arrival, because it is already there."

It is not music that appeals to the tastes of all listeners. For some, Bruckner makes for a long evening in the concert hall; his symphonies seem informed by a sort of elephantine mysticism -- earnest, humble, undoubtedly deeply felt but somewhat ungainly. For others -- particularly in the Symphony No. 8 and the unfinished Symphony No. 9 -- he offers nothing less than spiritual transport. Rarely does one see so many people in the audience who obviously know every single note of such a mammoth work (some of them conducting along at their seats, smiling beatifically at especially lovely moments). And rarely does one see such an immediate, full-hearted standing ovation as Sawallisch and his players received at the end of the score.

Sawallisch was tender with the music but never sentimental. He kept things moving, even in those passages (rather less common in the Symphony No. 8 than in earlier works) when Bruckner can seem to be running in place. The Scherzo was terrific -- joyful, unfettered, cosmic, as if the Alps themselves had come to life and started to dance -- while the great Adagio had that sort of heavy, am-I-losing-my-mind? languor that we associate with the ever slower, ever more grandly exhausted, late recordings of Herbert von Karajan and Leonard Bernstein.

With the exception of some occasional weird tuning from the lower brass, the orchestra playing was little short of spectacular (is there a better string section in the world?). Sawallisch, conducting without score, proved that he knows every subtlety, every silence in this long and complicated work. From the beginning, the symphony seemed one unbroken trajectory. And yet there was plenty of room to meander, to ruminate -- essential in any performance of this composer. Despite Cooke's assertion, many of us find Bruckner's questions as interesting as his answers.

In short, it was a splendid night to be at the Kennedy Center. This is ideal repertoire for Sawallisch; he gave us a performance informed by Austro-Germanic tradition, a respect for musical architecture, a delight in the capacities of his orchestra, and an abiding and glowing love for Anton Bruckner.