First seen off-Broadway, the ground-shaking force of this musical lies in songs so blazing that they give goosebumps at every turn. The story, adapted from Sue Monk Kidd’s novel about an interracial friendship amid the civil rights era, seems almost secondary.
Starting out in South Carolina in 1964, as Lyndon B Johnson announces his civil rights bill, it is a Thelma and Louise-style road trip with added racial politics. Lily (Eleanor Worthington-Cox), a young motherless white woman, takes fugitive flight with her Black housekeeper, Rosaleen (Abiona Omonua), who has been attacked and imprisoned. Their quest lands them in a community of indomitable sisters led by beekeeper and businesswoman August Boatwright (Rachel John).
Under the direction of Whitney White, with a succinct book by Lynn Nottage, it is Duncan Sheik’s music, accompanied by Susan Birkenhead’s rousing lyrics and a phenomenal band, that carries the story. The score contains soul, folk, blues and gospel. Some songs are hymnal. All are sublime.
The production is drenched in dewy rays of light (design by Neil Austin) for the duration, conjuring an otherworldliness that bears shades of Toni Morrison’s magical realism. The sisters’ home is also their church, with its own Black Madonna. The story of struggle and trauma is accompanied by Black joy and strength which, in this adaptation, bypasses a tragedy towards the end of the original novel.
Lily’s story – of her mother and her romance with Zachary (Noah Thomas) – is prioritised while Rosaleen melts into the background. The Boatwrights are arguably mobilised around saving Lily – the drama’s only white woman. But if this is the case, the narrative also contains the important message that progress needs to happen together: Lily and Rosaleen never let each other down, while the Boatwrights depart from cliche by being highly cultured, powerful, Black women in this era, which feels quietly radical.
Omonua’s voice has a distinctive clarity and power in songs such as Sign My Name and Tiburon while every other voice is as big, rich or voluptuous. There is an almost delirious momentum to Our Lady of Chains, as the women sing, scream, stomp, slam and knock on wood (choreography by Shelley Maxwell) and the song becomes a form of angry protest and invocation to the Black Madonna’s high authority.
There is a honeyed tone to the drama that could be dreadfully schmaltzy but here passes for sweetness. Some characters are reduced to types, especially the vulnerable Lily (beautifully performed by Worthington-Cox nonetheless) and her abusive father, T-Ray (Mark Meadows). The story meanders, comes to a standstill at times and leaves loose threads. What is surprising is that none of this matters. Come for the music. Go home in awe.
At the Almeida theatre, London, until 27 May
