Now in the early stretch of his farewell season with the Los Angeles Philharmonic, Gustavo Dudamel turned to Mahler’s Resurrection Symphony – a work of colossal scope and spiritual gravity. Later this season he will conduct Beethoven’s Missa solemnis, another summit of faith and endurance, but Mahler remains his truest terrain. Although Dudamel has performed the Resurrection for nearly two decades, he has never recorded it – and has no plans to – and the modesty that shaped this account suggested why. He is still listening for what the piece wants to say, still tuning himself to Mahler’s restless, questioning spirit.
From the first tremor of low strings, the performance unfolded as a journey of discovery rather than assertion. After their furious blustering the cellos and double basses entered with hesitant phrasing, the woodwinds cautious, as if feeling their way forward in the dark. Dudamel, baton low, kept the tempo brisk, as if scrubbing the notes clean of the weight of tradition, yet strangely weightless, the music hovering between pulse and suspension. Climaxes flared and receded like gusts of wind, leaving behind long, watchful silences. When the radiant second theme arrived, it came with surprising austerity: the woodwinds played without vibrato, their pale tone floating over the accompaniment like a fragment of early music. Even the march rhythms felt uncertain, more human than heroic, as if the orchestra were learning to walk again after loss.
The Andante moderato offered a gently swaying recollection of grace. The cellos sang with tenderness, the violins’ sheen restrained. Dudamel’s phrasing brought the music close to speech, each pause charged with meaning. The Scherzo followed without break, its irony muted, the dance rhythms soft around the edges. It was less grotesque satire than weary humor, the laughter of someone who has already seen too much.
In Urlicht, Beth Taylor’s opening words seemed to rise directly from the orchestra’s breath, the oboe replying with exquisite poise. Dudamel let the line hang, motionless, before allowing it to dissolve into silence.
After the initial scream, the finale dissolved into the fog, the offstage brass slightly blurred. As the Los Angeles Master Chorale entered, their clean tone blended magically, each phrase gaining substance until the entire hall seemed to glow. When the final chord came, it blazed luminously with a slow reconciliation of sound and spirit. In a season of farewells, it felt like the work of an artist seeking to purify the world’s noise, closing the doors on everything but the music itself.
