COMMENTARY : Stand Tall and Carry a Short Stick : Some say a symphony should speak for itself. But there has to be a tyrant--to take the blame or the acclaim, and to reveal the true meaning in the music.

There are conductors, and there are conductors.

No one in the mysterious world of so-called classical music is more mysterious. The maestro doesn’t have to make a sound. He doesn’t sing. He doesn’t play an instrument. He doesn’t even tap a triangle or click castanets, though, if properly stimulated, he may hum or grunt a little.

Yet he wields all the power, demands all the credit, basks in all the adulation.

He exudes authority, romance, direct kinship with the loftiest muses. He emotes, as needed. He suffers, on cue. He scowls. He places an expressive finger on pursed lips when decibels require dramatic lowering. He exults with open arms, usually when the dominant-seventh chord slowly finds its resolution in triumphant, cathartic C-major.

He does a lot of jumping, pointing, crouching, bouncing and bobbing. He goes in for a lot of conspicuous perspiring. He serves as the noblest of traffic cops. He makes magical motions with his hands. He requires the services of a good tailor and, perhaps, a good choreographer.

He makes 100 players, give or take a fiddler or three, quiver at every quaver. He makes them cower at the prospect of his anger, yearn for the glory of his approval. He makes them sigh in collective bliss when they reach the final orgasmic cadence at the very moment he does.

That, at least, is the way things are in all those cheap-but-pretentious novels. That’s the way things are, occasionally, in the movies.

The truth of the matter is more complex, and possibly more prosaic. When the performance goes well, everyone applauds the maestro. When it goes badly, nearly everyone blames him (it’s hardly ever a her --ask not why).

Many innocent observers confuse the conductor with the fellow who actually wrote the music. The line between creation and re-creation can be blurry.

Certain chroniclers have even suggested from time to time that our charismatic leaders could be fakers if not phonies (the difference is subtle). Back in the 1970s, an inspired iconoclast named Tom Cheney offered some poignant variations on this appealing and appalling theme with drawings in a number of national magazines.

One memorable cartoon depicted a balding and bespectacled maestro (the scholarly rather than the matinee-idol breed) standing on the podium and staring at the stand in front of him. Instead of staffs, clefs and notes, the score offered simple verbal directions in big letters: “WAVE THE STICK UNTIL THE MUSIC STOPS. THEN TURN AROUND AND BOW.”

Another Cheney masterpiece ( see above ) showed another studious maestro striking the identical pose. This time the printed instructions were less practical: “DUM-DEE DA-DUM-DA DUM-DEE-DA DA-DA-DEE . . . “

The sacred language of music has always been enigmatic.

In the beginning there were no orchestral conductors and, of course, there were no orchestras as we now know them. Cues were often dispatched and tempos indicated by a violinist waving a bow or by a harpsichordist nodding his head. As the performing apparatus became increasingly unwieldy, however, and as the projection of emotion became more important than the beating of time, the independent full-time dictator became a necessity.

Essentially, the conductor as stellar music-master is a 19th-Century phenomenon. He came into ultimate power with Berlioz, Wagner and Verdi (a famous Vanity Fair caricature of 1879 shows the Italian master clutching a short ebony baton in his right fist).

Note that these historic practitioners were composers first and conductors second. Note, too, that their disciples were conductors first and foremost.

Some people think music speaks for itself. If the score is read accurately and performed accordingly, it is reasoned, the composer’s wishes will be fulfilled.

Balderdash. The score, even the most detailed score, is little more than a blueprint. It cannot answer even the most basic questions: how fast is presto , how slow is lento , how loud is forte , how soft is piano ? Which melody should be stressed, and which submerged? The printed score cannot tell us much about the inner meaning of a composition, its scale, its expressive dimensions or its structural implications.

Orchestras occasionally have been known to play, and to play well, without a boss on duty. After the death of Arturo Toscanini, the NBC Symphony managed to give a concert in the legendary maestro’s honor, leaving his podium empty. It was a nice symbolic act, and it was possible because the orchestra had been scrupulously trained (an understatement). Toscanini’s impassioned values were still fresh in everyone’s memory.

The feat couldn’t have been repeated with comparable results after the passage of much time. Competent instrumentalists could play the right notes, and, if properly prepared, they probably could agree on general matters of tempo and dynamics. What they could not do is project a unified concept of the challenge at hand. Technique is one part of the equation. Interpretation is another.

No two conductors, thank goodness, are alike. Anyone who attended the 75th anniversary concert of the Los Angeles Philharmonic last October knows that. Zubin Mehta, who officiated in the first half, belongs to the subjective school. He luxuriates in expressive liberties as he dramatizes the music. Esa-Pekka Salonen, who took over the second half, tends to be more objective. Cool and precise, he likes to get out of the composer’s way as much as possible.

There is a certain contradictory irony here. Mehta’s critics sometimes find him superficial and self-indulgent. Salonen’s critics sometimes find him impersonal and mechanical.

Ultimate success must remain a matter of taste--the listener’s as well as the conductor’s. It also must depend on considerations of style, exposure and repertory. Mehta’s gutsy extroversion tends to serve him better in Mahler than in Handel. Salonen’s analytical affinities tend to serve him better in Messiaen than in Beethoven.

There are conductors, and there are conductors.

Wilhelm Furtwangler used to slice the air as if his baton were a mighty sword. Fritz Reiner’s beat was so tiny an ant would have had trouble discerning it. Both achieved brilliant results, after their fashions.

Bruno Walter exuded paternal generosity on the podium. Toscanini ruled in overt terror. Herbert von Karajan conducted as if he were sleepwalking while communing with the gods. Leonard Bernstein constantly teetered on the brink of terminal ecstasy. Carlo Maria Giulini ennobled music with the blood of a poet.

In those days they had faces. The faces often belonged to giants. Some happened to be tyrants, but that didn’t matter much. Democracy isn’t an essential part of the creative process.

F or better or worse, conductors enjoyed genuine autonomy un til fairly recently. And, not incidentally, they enjoyed the advantage of ample rehearsal time to bolster their personal power.

Conductors today have to be efficient to survive. It is useful if they also happen to command skills as fund-raisers, managers and politicians. It is essential that they have no fear of flying. They must coexist with tight schedules and demanding labor unions. They must hold their own in a culture dominated by media hype. It can’t be easy.

The most successful maestros today tend to be brilliant technicians. They speak loudly and carry a small stick. But many of them seem to lack conviction about what music should mean--as opposed to how it should sound.

On occasion, orchestra players actually have been known to make a dull wimp on the podium look good. Prompted by idealism or a sense of duty, perhaps just by professionalism, they conduct him. It can work for a while, most effectively on a one-night stand.

The mezzo-soprano Christa Ludwig, who recently retired after a distinguished international career that spanned 49 years, spoke sadly of conductors in a recent London interview.

“ My three--Bohm, Karajan and Bernstein--are all dead,” she told Hilton Tims of Opera Now. “Something passed away with them.

“For me, James Levine is exceptional among today’s conductors because he lets the heart speak, but with most of the younger conductors now that is something they haven’t found. I think they are afraid to show personality. . . . They don’t give themselves. They let the music speak, and I have always believed the personality of the conductor has to be in the music. I like to know when I am listening, that this must be Karajan, this could be (Georg) Solti.”

Karajan was noted for his finesse uber Alles . Solti is noted for his fervor.

There are conductors, and there are conductors.