THERE are many puzzling mysteries about the classical-music business. But one of the weirdest must be the mindset that considers it not just sensible but desirable to fly a very ordinary 150-voice amateur chorus across the Atlantic to sing the Missa Solemnis in a city that already has ten choruses which could sing it better.

I hate to be so rude about a visiting ensemble, but to hear a masterpiece of this epic stature reduced to the aural equivalent of mushy peas and suet pudding was, well, disappointing is the most charitable word.

The sopranos never seemed likely to rise to Beethoven’s (admittedly fiendish) challenges, either in volume, attack or in the quality of their tone, which was woolly and wobbly. The lower parts were better, and there were moments towards the end of the work — particularly at the sublime, subdued start of the Sanctus — when, momentarily, a glimmer of Beethoven’s vision crept through the gloom. But in the usually explosive, heaven-storming Gloria whole passages went by like a drift of inert gas: no articulation, no fizz, no pungency.

The sadness was that, although two soloists had to be replaced at the last moment, the quartet that made it on to the platform (Emily Magee, Yvonne Naef, Toby Spence and Michael Volle) sang with clarity, focus and incisiveness — exactly the qualities missing from the splodge of choral sound behind them. And the Cleveland Orchestra also displayed its customarily immaculate technical qualities, particularly in the Credo, where, for a glorious few minutes, there was a distinct danger of the performance igniting into something resembling excitement.

But it was not to be. All of which raises gloomy doubts in my mind about the long-term future of the conductor, the peculiar Franz Welser-Möst. He had a rocky ride with the London Philharmonic early in his career. So one’s sense of fair play dictated that, when he landed the extraordinary opportunity of succeeding Dohnányi in Cleveland, he should be given time to find his feet — and, if possible, his musical personality. But nothing about this buttoned-up interpretation suggested that he possesses any such thing.

To this extraordinary work, which crashes like a bull through so many formal, theological and harmonic orthodoxies, Welser-Möst brought only the tamest and most predictable responses. Perhaps there is other repertoire in which he shines. In which case, he should have brought it to the Proms. His proud orchestra deserves better.