The cellos start with dissonant chords in rhythms akin to mosquitoes buzzing. The whole orchestra builds then cuts out to let the harp take the intro. Focus turns to Brandi Carlile, who takes a slow stroll to the mic, cups it between both hands, closes her eyes and—exercising her skillful balance of power and restraint—sings the first verse of Elton John’s “60 Years On.” There must have been a moment in the imagination of a tween-aged Carlile when she envisioned her big voice one day dropping her in front of an orchestra. Now at the age of 27, here she is center stage at Benaroya hall, backed by the Seattle Symphony—under the direction of composer Sean O’Loughlin—who are playing the original Buckmaster score for her favorite Elton John song.

Eight songs later, Carlile and her band back off of “The Story” to let the orchestra take what is usually an electric guitar solo. No longer contained in the tension-building trap of a slow build, the strings saw along on the melody, the brass holds the bass line and Carlile turns around to watch, allowing muscle memory to strum away on her Gretsch electric. It’s the kind of musical moment nobody wants to see end. The kind that, once it does end, causes people to shoot out of their chairs for the first of three standing ovations. While nobody in the room would contend that this band is lacking in talent or presence, there’s the sense that this is the context wherein Carlile’s songs belong.

Earlier, she played a seven-song acoustic set with her band (Tim and Phil Hanseroth on guitar and bass, respectively, and cellist Josh Neumann). Pulling some songs from relative obscurity, they also peppered the set with choice selections from a still-in-progress third album. While older tunes like “Someday Never Comes” (from 2005’s Brandi Carlile) display the band’s sincerity, pairing them with new songs like “Dreams” seemed to define a clear theme for the evening: “Look how far Brandi Carlile and her band have come.”

Striking a balance between fearlessness and control is a precarious proposition but, closing the first half of the show with a new tune called “Oh Dear,” Carlile and the Hanseroths struck a sharp contrast between the two polls of their capabilities. Often, the measure of a great musical artist is not necessarily what they do with the notes they play, but what they do with the silences. With only by Phil Hanseroth on ukulele, the trio gathered around a single microphone. Carlile took to the higher reaches of her vocal range, while the twins sang harmonies Freddie Mercury could have penned. Unconscious whispers of “wow” followed as they parted the stage and the crowd took to the lobby for intermission.

Having freshly learned what the band could do with silence, the audience was treated to a display of what can be done with noise. The second half of the night (pre-encore) closed out with a full orchestration of “Pride and Joy.” The song followed its usual sparseness, driven heavily by the lyrics’ heartbreaking arc. Then came the cello-led layering that O’Loughlin described in our recent interview. While “Oh Dear” had been the sonic equivalent of a well-placed dot on a vast white canvass, “Pride and Joy” was akin to one of Pollock’s most colorful masterpieces. It was an exceptional display of the meeting of two disparate musical minds, and the skill behind O’Loughlin’s intuition. The audience erupted on its feet, only to be silenced again by the encore: Carlile alone with the orchestra for a cover of Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah.”

Attacking one of modern music’s most malleable melodies, Carlile shook her voice free of its occasional grittiness, addressing the tune instead with great clarity. Behind her, balancing the almost percussive cut of staccato strings and the light lift of long legato runs, O’Loughlin, Carlile and the Seattle Symphony polished off a performance few in attendance will soon forget.