In this instance dictionaries do not leave room for ambiguity: a revolution is a sudden, fundamental change. As a branding name, it has been much prized by all kinds of beauty products, venues in the hospitality sector, the creators of an American post-apocalyptic science-fiction TV series, and a company specialising in video games. Not least, popular music has sought out all its many dramatic implications. Such as in the classic song by The Beatles which bears that very name. This elaborate sound collage dating from 1968 is, at just over eight minutes, the longest track that the Fab Four ever released. So much for the associations sparked by the title of Revolucíon in a recent work by the Mexican composer Gabriela Ortiz, here receiving its UK premiere at the Proms in the capable hands of the Los Angeles Philharmonic and their music director, Gustavo Dudamel.
Which leaves another word to be explained in the title of this original LA commission, first performed in 2023, which is Diamantina. This is Mexican-Spanish for “glitter”. However, here the references are anything but celebratory. Following the rape of a teenage girl by four police officers in 2019, there were nationwide protests in Mexico, a country in which, shockingly, eleven women are murdered every day. During the Glitter March in Mexico City, protesters threw pink glitter at the Chief of Police to denounce the lack of official concern. Such an event was an important trigger for Ortiz in constructing her own musical response. The two questions she directed at herself were: How can I represent the social movement in the streets in a concert hall? How can I resolve that journey in a concert context? As a passionate feminist, Ortiz was further inspired by events on International Women’s Day in 2022, when contingents of female police officers and groups of demonstrators came together in a single cry for justice and respect for women’s rights.
Originally conceived as a ballet in six acts, Revolucíon Diamantina makes use of no fewer than forty-four different pitched and unpitched percussion instruments as well as eight vocal soloists, drawn equally from soprano and mezzo ranges. Ortiz provides a programme, all related to the feminist issues she wanted to focus on, including harassment and a lack of security in public spaces, the confusion between the language of romantic love and practices of manipulation and control in a macho culture, in her words “intimate terrorism”, and the aspiration that only by walking together “will we be able to find a way out”. Sadly, there was no room on an already overcrowded platform for any dancers.
It is debatable whether an understanding of the underlying programme is at all necessary to appreciate the musical qualities. As with The Beatles’ Revolution, there is a strongly experimental character. Back then, the use of echo, distortion, stereo panning and fading, and short tape loops of speech and musical performances drawn from EMI archives, created a barn burner of a piece. Ortiz makes extensive use of multi-layering that in turn produces an astonishing complexity of sound, amply revealed through Dudamel’s keen ear for detail and assured control of the textures. There is a drive and urgency present in the Latin American rhythms, fully encompassing fiesta elements, with many trumpet-led flourishes for brass. Insistence comes from the varied use of ostinato patterns, often underlined by sledgehammer-like punctuation from the big guns in the percussion section.
What gives this work by Ortiz stardust quality is its hypnotic effect. This is achieved not only through the force of repetition but also in the many contrasting passages of quiet stillness. Such inwardness is a recurring feature, done in most undemonstrative ways: the glockenspiel solo with ensuing keyboard percussion which opens the work, for instance, or the celestial character present in rippling harp and celesta. I was struck as much by the many moments of sheer beauty of sound as by the dramatic concatenation of brass, strings and percussion.
Quite naturally, experienced ears will pick up on a considerable range of earlier musical influences. There was a folksy throwback to Bartók in solos for clarinet, exotic incantations drawn from Messiaen’s Turangalîla, a Ravelian opulence reminiscent of Lever du jour, siren-like female voices making a guest appearance from Holst’s The Planets and, above all, unmistakable references to Stravinsky’s Danse sacralewhich hammer home the sacrificial element. Does a failure to register any of this matter? No, it does not.
Which brings me to the role of the eight female voices. I was so concerned by the lack of audibility in the hall, despite them being amplified, that I listened again to the performance captured on BBC Sounds. This was a totally different experience. I would question whether it was the right decision to position the eight members of the Los Angeles Master Chorale as a group buried within the orchestral layout. This added to the timbral layering, but in this hall the force of individual words together with the varied vocal effects was lost. Submerging your singers in the Royal Albert Hall never works. Their contributions, characterised by amazing dexterity and range, just about discernible at a distance from my seat, lacked the necessary impact. In a much smaller auditorium these would be striking and compelling. The writing stretches from gentle humming, which called to mind the most famous chorus from Madama Butterfly, through chants, slogans, and an approximation to background chatter, to an explosive delivery of keywords such as “Freedom!” and “Universe!”
Having heard a number of other pieces by Ortiz during the past concert season, when she was the Philharmonia Orchestra’s Featured Composer, I can honestly say that this new piece is an undoubted triumph. It certainly has revolutionary character, both in terms of its musical and non-musical messages, but also in its accomplished management of sound. Even with the various influences already detailed, its myriad colours always struck this particular listener as organic and coherent. Altogether, this is a score with boundless magic and emotional appeal.
Putting Beethoven’s Seventh Symphony into the first half was an attempt by Dudamel to highlight the energy which it shares with the contemporary work by Ortiz. On this evidence, the LA Philharmonic, shorn of its back desks of strings, did not lay claim to being one of the world’s greatest ensembles. The strings cannot compete with those in Cleveland for power or those in Philadelphia for sheen; the brass were uniformly secure but tonally undistinguished. What stood out for me was the mellifluous quality of the woodwind section. Both individually and collectively they were a delight to listen to.
Dudamel’s view of the Beethoven A major symphony did not rise above the routine. It was like listening to a sleek Cadillac purring along, the soft edges of the bodywork all neatly polished, the automatic gearbox negotiating every kind of movement with ease. What did I miss? The revolutionary element, for a start. No obvious ardour or fire. The groaning of the lower strings in the coda to the first movement and what should have been a joyous carousing of the horns. Rhythms in the Scherzo which sounded more like the patter of gentle rain than terrifying gunfire. No evidence of humour either. And, like a good many other interpreters, Dudamel believes that the Finale, despite different markings, needs to compete with the preceding movement. It doesn’t. Power does not come through speed.
In the light of this pairing, it was obvious to me that placing the Beethoven first was completely justified. It was the Ortiz which left a much stronger, more characterful and more memorable impression.
Alexander Hall
PROMS 2026 Dudamel and the LA Phil: Beethoven and Gabriela Ortiz
Beethoven – Symphony No 7; Gabriela Ortiz – Revolucíon Diamantina
Los Angeles Philharmonic; Upper Voices of LA Master Chorale (Chorus-Master Grant Gershon); Gustavo Dudamel – conductor
Royal Albert Hall, London, 12 August 2026
Photos © BBC/Chris Christodoulou and Gabriela Ortiz