NEW YORK - John McGlinn, "connoisseur of all things yummy," was eulogized, wept over, and lightly roasted at a memorial service for the conductor, who grew up in Philadelphia's suburbs, became a key figure in the restoration of great Broadway shows to their original form, and never looked back - literally.

When McGlinn, 55, was found dead of a heart attack in his Manhattan apartment in February, he had alienated himself from much of the musical-theater community that often longed to support him, and hadn't spoken to family members in 25 years. But family rancor didn't deter his surviving siblings, Evan McGlinn and Lorin Reiter, from holding a memorial Friday in Merkin Concert Hall that was attended by some of Broadway's best talents.

"Why wouldn't I? He's my brother and I love him. He just wouldn't return my calls," said Evan McGlinn at a post-service reception.

The event offered a rare glimpse of John McGlinn's personality. As much as he was interviewed and lauded by the press during his decade (1987-97) as an EMI recording artist, most of the coverage focused on his latest project, whether it was resurrecting fluffy, long-unheard Broadway shows by Jerome Kern and Victor Herbert, collaborating with opera superstars such as Kiri Te Kanawa and Frederica von Stade, or making revisionist-minded recordings of classics like Annie Get Your Gun. Few knew that the bubbly, ebullient scholar/conductor was John Alexander McGlinn III, scion of a wealthy Gladwyne family.

In his zeal to reveal the greatness of pre-1950 Broadway composers with original orchestrations and period-appropriate singing styles, McGlinn had a free-floating company of singers he used throughout much of his career - among them Kim Criswell, Brett Barrett, Debbie Gravitte, and Jason Graae - all of whom were there Friday, singing and reminiscing about the high-handed, colorful, sometimes impossibly stubborn McGlinn.

Among the comments:

"No one ever smiled more broadly or recklessly."

"His [grade school] report card should have read 'Does not play well with others.' "

"I never had a conversation with John McGlinn that didn't end in an argument."

"Some bridges got nicely toasted."

The seemingly contradictory personality strands were pulled together by retired soprano Teresa Stratas, one of the great singing actresses of her time and the linchpin of McGlinn's now-classic Show Boat recording. After kissing the large black-and-white photo of McGlinn at the rear of the stage, Stratas related, "In 1996 I had a botched operation . . . and was abandoned by my voice. John called every day for a long time after that. He'd say, 'How about Tennessee Williams? You'd be great!' "

And in his own work, she noted, "he was one of the few people in any field who didn't sell out."

His manner of doing so, however, imposed a huge cost.

True, the famous 1988 Show Boat album - a three-LP set when first issued - might never have happened had he not indiscreetly gone behind the backs of otherwise benevolent key figures in the industry. Later, though, his drive to achieve his goals took on a fatal rigidity.

A much-publicized 2001 union with philanthropist David Woodley Packard resulted in recordings of many of the Victor Herbert shows that McGlinn so dearly loved - but one of the grandest of them all, Babes in Toyland, while finished, has remained unreleased for years due to a falling-out with Packard. Korliss Uecker, who was part of that project, joked Friday that by the time the recording comes out, cast members will be phoning each other from their assisted-living facilities to talk about their Grammy nominations. (In the meantime, EMI has reissued a two-disc compilation titled John McGlinn: The Very Best of Broadway that's a cross section of his dozen or so discs.)

At the service, his break with his family was touched upon only lightly. After graduating from Northwestern University in 1976, McGlinn moved to New York, family money allowing him to pursue low-paying interests, from working at the New York City Opera to archiving Jerome Kern music found in the now-famous Secaucus, N.J., warehouse where materials for decades' worth of pre-World War II shows were found in storage - and formed the basis of his early concert performances of them at Weill Recital Hall.

However, the death of his mother and poor relationship with his stepfather caused a break so decisive that his ties with Philadelphia ceased to exist. A chance meeting in New York with a Philadelphia family for whose children he once babysat was cordial but pointedly brief. A few months before he died, this writer bumped into him in New York; with some vehemence, he asked, "Is Philadelphia still as repressive as ever?"

A sufferer from serious depression, McGlinn was known to disappear for a week at a time, not answering anyone's calls. Friends would sometimes grow frantic and contemplate calling the police. During one such period, a friend pounded on his apartment door, only to have an irate, bleary McGlinn appear in a bathrobe and bunny slippers to grumble, Don't you know I'm working on a show!

If there was a moment on Friday that defined the awareness of musical theater that McGlinn brought to the world, it was when Rebecca Luker sang the often-forgotten Jerome Kern song "The Land Where the Good Songs Go," which no doubt characterized much of the conductor's inner life. The lyrics - "It's a land of flowers and April showers with sunshine in between" - were printed in the program to afford a sing-along. But many people knew the words by heart - and chimed in with their own harmonies.