Live Arts

By Daarel Burnette II 

This article was originally published in DC Theater Arts here.

In the opening beats of Consecrated Ground, directed by Lorraine Brooks and showing at the Laurel Mill Playhouse, we’re introduced via a black-and-white slideshow to Africville, a century-old Canadian fishing village made up of 600 Black descendants of enslaved Americans.

Lopsided wooden shacks seemingly slide down the hills they sit on, litter is strewn about in the streets, and luminous signs hang from lamp posts: Boil the water before drinking.

In the next beats, we’re brought into the tidy home of the Lyle clan, shushing a crying baby, gossipping about the latest goings-on in town and navigating the latest explicit and implicit acts of racism that punctuate their lives, the most glaring of which is the Canadian government’s plot to demolish Africville.

Laurel Mill serves up an appetizing, historically informative version of this 1999 play, written by Black Canadian George Boyd and making its U.S. debut. Despite costume and set inconsistencies throughout and a few poor directional choices (more on that later), its plot is gripping, its characters are relatable, and its theme — Black Americans’ cross-continental 1960s fight for a safe home in Nova Scotia, Canada — is worth telling.

Actress Jacqueline Youm radiates as Clarice Lyle, the strong-willed mother, wife, sister, and niece, fastened to her family legacy, and determined to fight back against the local government, despite threats of violence and her husband’s moral ineptitude. It’s hard to look away from Youm’s stage presence and intimacy with her castmates. She’s out of her league.

Africville is one of hundreds of communities established in the decades after the abolishment of American slavery when millions of Black Americans fled the South’s brutal labor conditions and apartheid government for better-paying jobs, land, and agency.

The problem, as Consecrated Ground explores, is that Black Americans found in these newfound homes some of the same racist ideas and policies that severely restricted their movement in the South.  For the white residents, Black people represented cheap labor, competition for jobs, and the potential devaluing of their homes. And they lashed out.

They refused to educate Black people’s children.  They harassed and lynched. And they passed a series of housing policies that squeezed Black people into increasingly destitute corners of the cities.

More than 10,000 American municipalities up until the 1960s passed sundown laws, which made Black settlement illegal.

Black people who boarded ships to head to majority Black Caribbean nations like Haiti, or West African colonies like Liberia, faced armed resistance, disease, and starvation.

Canada is not excluded from this phenomenon. The Great White North, as Director Brooks pointed out during a poignant introduction to her play, has long enjoyed a reputation as a refuge for Black American slaves, but has not yet reconciled with its own anti-Black history.

“Racism is worse in Canada,” she said she was told by her mother, who was Black Canadian and made the counterintuitive decision to move back to America.

“Africville matters,” she said. “Their story matters.”

In the play, Africville is plagued by government neglect: there’s no plumbing or electricity, and “life-sucking” rats scamper through the homes. This has resulted in a cynical, distrustful relationship the Black residents have with the Halifax officials.

Clarice is smitten with her newfound husband, Willem Lyle, a crooning carpenter, played by Brock Brown, and signs over the deed to the home. That’s a move she comes to regret when Tom Clancy, played by Nik Henle, knocks on their door with an offer of $5,000 to sell the home.

The city is looking to build a park, bridge, and more harbor space, and Africville is in the way.  Midway through the play, the family experiences a death and Clarice is determined to use the nearby cemetery, though the city says there’s no consecrated ground.

Throughout, we’re confronted with the variety of ways Black people have responded to acts of discrimination: rage, passivity, compromise, and courage.

In between a creative split-screen set designed by Lorraine Brooks, characters’ unique personalities shine (unusual for plays about racism): Jimmy “Double Speak” Willis, played by Martin Young, copes with a stutter and what to do with the unusual wealth he’s built; Groovy Peters, played by JoAn Monplaisir, searches for true love; and Clancy struggles with alcoholism, and his own internalized racist ideas about the community he says he’s trying to save.

I was distracted, though, by some of the director’s historically inaccurate choices: the majority of the characters had deep Southern Black American accents, though, according to the script, they’ve been residing in Canada since 1812; Clancy’s cigarette never lights up or puffs out smoke; and several of the characters donned African print, though that style of clothing didn’t become popular until the Black Power movement of the 1970s (the play takes place in the 1960s). The Ankara hand fans the characters cooled themselves off with in one church scene didn’t become popular until the last decade, in fact.

Brown has a lack of commitment during particularly devastating moments: he coldly pats Groovey’s back when she relays a story of being beaten by white men in the street, soberly holds Jacqueline up when she mourns the loss of their child, and awkwardly walks off stage when his wife decides to leave him.

Never mind. Youm, who also served as assistant director, makes this play crackle with energy. She prods with exacting focus when she suspects her family’s livelihood is in danger, yelps with conviction when she spots a rat scampering beneath the table, and grieves with heft when she loses her child.Brooks punches up with Consecrated Ground and, through a powerful epilogue, gives  Americans much to reflect on.

By Gaelyn Smith

This article was produced within the New Theater Critics project, a component of Day Eight’s 2023 arts journalism conference.

This article was originally published in DC Theater Arts here.

While physical newspapers have become a thing of the past, Sunday morning cartoons can make even the most serious adult become a kid again. In a few words scribbled beside colorful pictures, comic book artists and writers make astute and comical observations about the world around us.

This is the world of Drew Anderson and Dwayne Lawson-Brown’s new hip-hop musical, Push the Button, directed by Duane Richards II. A product of the Keegan Theatre’s Boiler Room Series, the show is a hilarious social commentary on power dynamics and the appearance of good versus evil in a world driven by spectacle.

The plot is simple. A button (yes, a large red button) gets pushed in a town that is very likely Washington, DC. Because of Villain’s history of pranking the town, he becomes the prime suspect. Of course, it does not help that Hero, whom everyone loves, says that he saw Villain commit the crime. But Journalist, a young woman with a unique relationship with the criminal justice system, sets out to find the truth. The themes in the show are reminiscent of Jordan Peele’s Nope, another post-pandemic look at our society’s obsession with sensationalism instead of seeking truth and understanding.

The show comes in at just about 55 minutes. The fast-paced and exciting performance will have children and adults alike wanting to know who pushed the button!

Push the Button is a different kind of musical. The show takes popular songs from the last two years and satirizes/parodies them to create new pieces that narrate the show’s plot. For example, “Villain Song” utilizes “XO Tour Llif3” by Lil Uzi Vert and “Bad Guy” by Billie Eilish to allow Villian, played brilliantly by Tre’mon Kentrell Mills, to tell us about his history with crime and plead his innocence to Journalist (and us). In the “Trial Song,” Hero (played by the charming and funny Quincy Vicks) and Villain go back and forth about the events surrounding the pushing of the button over the Silk Sonic hit “Leave the Door Open.” The show was at its strongest in the moments when Vicks and Mills were on stage, separately and together.

Matthew J Keenan’s set design is perfect for a show that teeters on the edge of children’s theater. Different characters move the large button and other furniture on and off the stage when needed. As a result, the choreography by Ashanti Symone Branch, who also plays Journalist, shines. Projections, by Zavier Augustus Lee Taylor, give this story of good versus evil a cartoonish edge.

Because of the energy of the music and strong performances from Hero and Villain, it was easy to forgive specific technical and narrative issues. At moments, the music was louder than the microphones, making it difficult to hear the actors. When Hero and Villain were off stage, the show felt stagnant, and the songs seemed to summarize the dialogue rather than keep the story moving. However, if you are taking young children to see the show, that repetition will likely create a greater understanding of what they have just seen.

But the minor issues did not take the show down. The fun is infectious. The actors were having fun even when the story was not moving along. This show reminds me of what it was like to see theater as a young child for the first time. The lights, colors, costumes, and music were so much fun. Even for the hip-hop averse, it is difficult to avoid getting drawn into the story.

Push the Button invites us to consider how we can all be heroes. At the end of the show, Journalist lists things like “helping your mother with the groceries” as examples of small ways we can all be heroes. In a world where critical thinking skills seem to be dwindling, Push the Button is a hero, reminding us to think critically about how we feed into harmful power dynamics and about the information we consume daily.

By Vivian Thurman

This article was produced within the New Theater Critics project, a component of Day Eight’s 2023 arts journalism conference.

This article was originally published in DC Trending here.

It’s not often that a night at the theater leaves you feeling like “you’ve been to church.” This raucous bio-musical now playing at Ford’s Theatre follows the pioneering life of Sister Rosetta Tharpe (1915-1973) and bares the soul of a talented and influential, “guitar-shredding” woman ahead of her time.

Sister Rosetta is played by Broadway alum Carrie Compere (The Color Purple, Holla If Ya Hear Me), whose voice alone could blow the roof off of the historic Ford’s Theatre. Rich with resonance and gritty at times, Compere’s vocal stylings weave together the church-based gospel of Arkansas with the secular jazz-blues-devil’s music of Chicago (circa 1935-1945). Sister Rosetta was known for “rockin’ the R’s” and the “duck walk.” Compere mastered both.

Shout Sister Shout! is based on the award-winning book, “The Untold Story of Rock-and-Roll Trailblazer Sister Rosetta Tharpe” by Gayle F. Wald. The stage adaptation is written by Cheryl L. West, a widely recognized playwright whose works include Akeelah and the Bee, Pullman Porter Blues, and the Charles McArthur award-winner for Outstanding play Before It Hits Home.

The storytelling narrative comes in the form of a series of flashbacks. Memories evoke strong emotions when Rosetta’s mother disowns her for singing anything other than gospel. Sister Rosetta’s guitar playing style was an early influence to rockabilly artists like Jerry Lee Lewis, Johnny Cash, Chuck Berry and others. Known as the Queen of Strings, at the height of her popularity in Europe, Rosetta was asked who was most influential in developing her musical personality. Was it Elvis? “I’ll tell ya about your Elvis,” she said, implying her originality was her own.

The strongest influence in Sister Rosetta’s life was her mother, Katie Bell (played by Carol Dennis), a traveling evangelist who pushed a young Rosetta to accompany her on the guitar in church. And later, encouraged her to “look down that road” for a higher calling. Carol Dennis, whose credit includes performing in the original Broadway cast of  The Color Purple, balances the domineering and opinionated love of a single mother. The vocal powerhouse and the on-stage chemistry of Compere and Dennis is satisfyingly explosive.

A complicated love life in search of happiness has Sister Rosetta marrying three times. But it was her risky relationship with Marie Knight (played by Felicia Boswell) that gave her a deep sense of happiness like nothing she had known before. Marie, a stunning and accomplished pianist, is played for Mahalia Jackson.

The live orchestra is set on an elevated deck playing double duty as the Big Band in some of the showcase numbers. The hidden orchestra music performances such as the gospel “Glory, Glory, Hallelujah,” the bluesy  “Lonesome Road” and the uptempo “On My Way” are guided by the skillful baton of Victor Simonson, also plaing the keyboard. Orchestration and arrangement by Joseph Joubert expertly highlights everything from the subtle guitar solos, the piano and voice duets to the eight member band’s toe-tapping accompaniments. Much credit goes to Sister Rosetta who wrote most of her own songs.

A notable mention must be made for the costume design by Alejo Vietti and the wig and make-up design by Charles G. LaPointe. This design team immediately sets the time period with soft curls and simple dresses on young Rosetta, as well as well-fitted suits on the various gentlemen. With each chapter in Sister Rosetta’s life, her concert dresses become more sophisticated. Her jewelry and fur coats set a regal presence that could be felt as she entered a room or arrived on a stage.

The ensemble is filled with talented singers and dancers playing multiple roles. During gospel songs that required jubilant expression from the choir, this critic found that the hyper exuberant choreography stole focus. The choreography was aerobic at times but well-rehearsed, which was perfectly suited for the Nicholas Brothers, and Cab Calloway’s “Jumpin’ Jive.” Choreography is by award-winning William Carlos Angelo.

By Imani Nyame

This article was originally published in The DC Line here.

Toting a bottle of beer, Clyde (Dee Dee Batteast) comes on stage clad in a busty denim dress, a synthetic wig from the local beauty supply and a little too much blush. With gusto that can only be earned from a hard-knock life, she comes to be the owner of a beat-up truck stop sandwich shop, home to a staff of formerly incarcerated men and women who have nowhere else to go. When veteran employee Montrellous (Lamont Thompson), connoisseur of sandwiches and second chances, urges her to try something new to expand the business, she is pessimistic and immovable. He coaxes, telling her to remember her mother’s cooking, to which she responds: “My mother never cooked anything. … That woman was like peanut brittle, sweet and salty, and I was never sure whether I actually liked her.” 

The same can be said for the current Studio Theatre production of Clyde’s, written by Pulitzer Prize-winning playwright Lynn Nottage and directed by Candis C. Jones. Notwithstanding the effectiveness of the script’s message and humor, I left the theater thinking that some parts lacked intention — a weakness exacerbated by uneven pacing as the result of direction that plays it safe. We witness a story stenciled in from the proverbial “when life gives you lemons” complex — but in this case it’s “when life gives you a criminal record, a ‘licensed dominatrix’ as an employer and a random box of swiss chard … get creative and make a sandwich.” 

With shabby concrete walls and red-and-once-white checkered tile flooring, Clyde’s kitchen, designed by Junghyun Georgia Lee, is a universally familiar hole in the wall where you can expect good grub aside from the occasional stomach ache. (The audience might as well be in the kitchen, transported by aromas, like chocolate in a climatic scene, pumped through the vents of the theater by sensory consultant Miriam Songster.) Questionable health and safety practices — such as wiping knives on the backs of dingy aprons or spraying disinfectant spray over an open container of fresh tomatoes — scream that Clyde’s is far from any Michelin recommendation. 

The staff of ex-convicts includes Letitia (Kashayna Johnson), a stylish young Black mom of a daughter with a rare genetic condition; Rafael (Brandon Ocasio), a classic example of Latin machismo; and Jason (Quinn M. Johnson), a reserved yet temperamental white male. Individually these characters are dynamic, but as an ensemble they fall flat. The caricatures, though written with an indelible urgency, need perhaps a bit more spontaneity from a cast that takes things a bit too seriously. Parts that are meant to be funny don’t always land, and parts made out to be serious don’t quite fit. Adequately entertained but not truly invested, I found myself wanting to find out more about who these people are and what led them all to Clyde’s. 

Nottage’s use of food as an agent of freedom brings her spunky, gritty script to life. It’s lighthearted and deep in perfect balance. The fatherly Montrellous provides a counterpoint to an imperious Clyde. Smooth and somewhat of a martyr, he is the glue that holds the spirit of the place intact. In platitudinous fashion, he encourages his co-workers to use the art of crafting a perfect sandwich as an extension of their realities. Mastering their ability to create perfect harmony with the ingredients at their disposal is how they will take control of their lives. (Are we still talking about sandwiches?) 

Clyde is not impressed, however. She dominates the place with a steel presence, intimidating her employees and belittling them with invasive insults. She knows they have nowhere else to go and revels in the fact. I was thrilled at the chance to witness a truly malicious female villain even if in the realm of an unappealing sandwich shop. 

But something about Batteast’s Clyde feels unsure, her prowess not quite earned. Perhaps it is that the tackily flashy costumes, designed by Danielle Preston, don’t hit quite the right note. Instead of showcasing a businesswoman who apparently has a little extra money to spend on behalf of a gambling problem, her clothes look cheap and ill-fitting. That’s a shame because — irrespective of Clyde’s discourteous disposition — something tells me she is a woman of immense style, a trait that could only bolster her confidence. Batteast’s Clyde is instigative, choosing to knock things over or out of her staff’s hands as punctuation to her outrageous rants, bringing to mind a high school bully who craves attention. Maybe it’s just me, but it’s hard to believe that a room full of people convicted of brazen crimes would stand for this. 

Despite such shortcomings, this production holds together well enough to keep the audience involved, if not convinced. Crafty transitions detail the fast-paced environment of a busy restaurant — the ring of madam Clyde’s call bell signifying there is yet another sandwich to be made. There is an undeniable charm to Clyde’s. If you are willing to take the ingredients this production provides and to experience the show for what it is, you too can improvise a refreshing glass of lemonade … or a satisfying sandwich.

Review by Daarel Burnette II

This article was first published in DCTRENDING here.

Blue, an opera by librettist and director Tazewell Thompson, and conducted by Joseph Young and Jonathan Taylor Rush, is a coming-of-age tragedy that’s as much about forgiveness, identity, and the false hopes and expectations of Black men, as it is about police brutality. While the plot is as simplistic as the set, the outsized performances by Kenneth Kellogg and Joshua Conyers make the show worthwhile.

The two-hour-and-fifteen-minute-long production at the Kennedy Center, featuring music by award-winning Jeanine Tesori, and a majority Black cast, a rarity in opera, was canceled in 2020 due to the pandemic. 

In the few years since, Americans have witnessed the videotaped murder of George Floyd at the hands of a Minneapolis police officer; a #BlackLivesMatter rally that amounted to the nation’s largest protests in America’s history; a movement to “defund the police;” a marked uptick in crime in majority Black communities; and a concerted political effort to ramp up policing.  

Knowing all this, Blue’s plot came across as wanting. 

A father, played by Kenneth Kellogg, takes on a job as a police officer for the stable pay, benefits, and an opportunity to fight crime. But his son, played by Aaron Crouch, is soon radicalized by what he sees as abusive treatment of Black men by the police and, to the chagrin of his father, starts participating in street protests where he’s shot and killed. The father, in his grief, goes into a rage and vows revenge against the officer who killed his son.

A bit surreal.  

Yet this stellar cast sings with such conviction that a rousing aria, performed by Ariana Wehr, in which she evokes real-life police shootings, generated in me the same flash of anger and grief I feel every time I watch yet another video of police officers senselessly abusing Black men. 

And I can’t help but admire Thompson’s decision to cast the father as a police officer (an earlier draft cast the father as a jazz musician). That’s a plot twist that we’re now grappling with in the real-life beating of Tyre Nichols, a Black father, at the hands of four Black Memphis police officers. 

Are Black police officers first Black or blue?  

In the opening scene of Blue, we see the work of costume designer Jessica Jahn, spot lit by lighting director, Robert Wierzel, switches from the uniform of a Black man – a Negro league baseball crew coat, baggy blue jeans, and a fitted sports cap– into the uniform of a cop–creased, blue slacks, crisp, blue collared oxford, blue peaked hat, silver officer badge and a black handgun. 

This opening scene is the most dynamic that the set, designed by Cindy Oxberry, ever gets.  Throughout the production, cast members roll visibly cheap and mismatched, black and white furniture on and off the stage, which is backlit by Harlem row houses whose lights confusingly flicker off and on.  

In the next scene, we’re serenaded with an aria sung by a whimsy cast of girlfriends played by Ariana Wehr (soprano), Katerina Burton (soprano) and Rehanna Thelwell (mezzo-soprano), as they first praise the mother, played by Brianna Hunter (mezzo-soprano), for snagging a “big-everything” Black man but are then horrified to learn she’s expecting a Black baby boy.  How, they ask, will she protect a Black boy from a racist society? How will she (?) a Black boy from the police?  

The plot delves into a century-old trope perpetuated by the casting of Black men on stage: victims with no agency, or rage-filled perpetrators. This is damaging and something I hope the opera world will soon move beyond.

Blue is at its best during arias where the cast, led by the baritone reverend (Joshua Conyers), grieves over the son’s loss. But there are several subplots that leave the audience with more questions than answers. This renders the complications around police brutality for opera’s majority-white audience distant, abstract, and easy-to-fix.    

Further, the impact of rampant crime in Black neighborhoods on victims and perpetrators–what accused police departments are solely charged with addressing– is a distracting hole in Blue. 

Today, civil rights activists are in the throes of a century-long battle trying to make Black communities safer and policing more effective.  It’s a drama worth accurately telling.  

As the opera community grapples with its stained history of Blackface, refusing to cast Black performers, and subjugating Black stories, Blue is a welcome attempt to reverse course.