Gabriela Ortiz' concerto Dzonot, written for cellist Alisa Weilerstein and receiving its New York premiere at this Los Angeles Philharmonic concert in Carnegie Hall, takes its name from the Spanish for “cenote”, a sinkhole or cave filled with water. It refers specifically to the system of underground caves and waterways in the Yucatan peninsula of Ortiz' native Mexico. It joins the tradition of pieces like Smetana's Má vlast or Mendelssohn's The Hebrides as a musical evocation of place.
It's a really good one. I can't remember when I've heard music that captured not only the natural world but an emotional response to it so vividly. The first movement, Luz vertical (Vertical Light), in particular, with its high soaring lines for the soloist backed by shifting, overlapping textures from the orchestra, evokes not only travel through a gorgeous landscape, but the awe it inspires, and manages to populate that landscape with diverse flora and fauna as well. El ojo del Jaguar (The Eye of the Jaguar) is a too-brief visit to a sinuous groove; the third movement, Jade, begins as a meditation, almost a memory of the caverns, but ends with a threatening mechanical pulse meant to imply the threat to the ecosystem posed by humans; El vuelo del Toh (The Flight of the Toh [bird]), is a rapidly shifting episodic travelogue.
Weilerstein is a passionate, involving soloist, and this concerto puts her through her paces admirably. Besides floating lines at the very top of the instrument's range, the piece asks for violent, rhythmic sawing, frantic, angular pizzicato passages and cadenzas consisting entirely of either ridiculously high harmonics or finger-twisting double stops. She delivered them all with conviction and clear musical intent. Much of what Gustavo Dudamel and the orchestra were doing during all this was wonderfully complex and layered; the piece would reward repeated listening. I understand a recording is being released soon.
In Mendelssohn's Overture and Incidental Music to A Midsummer Night's Dream, most of it much more familiar, it was easier to latch onto how good the LA Phil is under Dudamel. Each section has a warm and centered sound and their phrasing is remarkably organic. The horns were especially luscious in the Nocturne, where Dudamel gave a very appealing sense of tension and release; I greatly enjoyed the bassoon solo in the Funeral March.
Dudamel did not take any particular risks with the piece, which was solid but not revelatory. The gamble was in the presentation. After the Overture and Scherzo, the lights dimmed. Video projections based on paintings inspired by the play were displayed on the back wall of the hall during some movements. In the sections of the score designed to intersect with and accompany spoken dialogue, that dialogue was performed by María Valverde, a Spanish television and film actress (and Dudamel's wife).
Performed in Spanish, that is, with Shakespeare's original English words also projected as supertitles. I freely admit that I might have had a different experience if I spoke Spanish, but for me this was the least successful aspect of the evening. Valverde seemed to me to be simply miscast here; of the many characters she was asked to portray, only Helena was convincing or involving. The translation was apparently literal, not poetic (at least I could detect no meter or rhyme past the language barrier), and of course Valverde was amplified, which ideally would not have been necessary.
Luckily the vocal soloists (soprano Jana McIntyre and mezzo-soprano Deepa Johnny) and chorus (Musica Sacra) were more than up to their roles, giving lush and articulate renditions of “You spotted snakes” and the Finale.
