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No, we don't. For brownsville song (b-side for tray), which just opened at the Claire Tow Theater as part of the LCT3 series, playwright Kimber Lee has subverted all expectations by playing into them directly. In this serenely moving, even beautiful, work, the streets sing and dance in their own inexplicable rhythm, but one that cuts right to the center—no, the heart—of what it means to live life on the edge. But Lee doesn't stop there. As much as we learn about each of the four central characters, what matters most is the complicated, anguished, and effective ways they fashion themselves into a family, frequently in spite of themselves, and show how interconnected we can be even when we think we're most alone. Seen that way, the stumbling about through time—now it's fall, now it's spring, now it's summer—makes sense, because these people don't obey, let alone worry about, conventional laws of nature: They have much bigger goals in mind, whether they know it or not. We'll see all of that well before the heartbreaking final scene; in fact, it's obvious from the first thing we see onstage, when an old woman, perched on a chair and clearly barely holding it together, barks at us, "No."
We'll see how right Lena (Lizan Mitchell) is in due course, but first we need to meet Tray (Sheldon Best): her 18-year-old grandson, trim, athletic, and optimistic, circling a young girl, named Devine (Taliyah Whitacre), encouraging her, helping her, elevating her beyond herself. They dance together, childlike, otherworldly, before returning to a too-real Earth where Tray can't focus on his scholarship application because he wants to go practice his boxing. And when he gets to the gym, he's interrupted by an older woman, Merrell (Sun Mee Chomet), who wants to apologize for some mystery offense and with whom Tray and Devine clearly have a fractious relationship. Who Merrell is, and why she's persona non grata with the family, will be explained soon enough. But her physical connection to them is less important than the hope and the forgiveness she represents, the chance to make ancient wrongs right again. And, in ways too marvelously complex to spoil here, she's responsible for exactly the redemption that no one wants to admit they crave, or even thinks is on the table. Lee weaves together this personal web with astonishing intricacy and sensitivity, taking no sides in what seems like it should be an open-and-shut case, and keeping you spellbound until the final resolution is revealed in the evening's last seconds. Not that much of what happens is a surprise, but how Lee gets there often is, as much because of her methods' simplicity as their emotional power. The simple effect of one person chasing another offstage and transforming into someone else when they reenter, as but one example, is the kind of fulcrum on which theatrical magic turns. There's plenty of that in Lee's play, true, but just as much in Patricia McGregor's staging. With the help of Andromache Chalfant's sets and Jiyoun Chang's lights, McGregor makes Brooklyn into a sprawling dreamscape alive with color and possibility and that is at once as ugly and as hopeful as any urban locale can be. It's believably alive with the shattering horror of death too young, but also prime for rebirth—New York, after all, is about that, too. Best is outstanding as Tray, finding both the hardened victim and the forgiving force in a young man who shouldn't have to make that choice. Both harsh and graceful, Best centers the work; his Tray is someone who transcends stereotypes and refuses to be satisfied with any version of the status quo. Mitchell layers anger on top of love in playing Lena, a realist who doesn't stop acting like one, even when external events convince her there's no point. Devine may be a small, quiet role, but Whitaker sparkles playing her, capturing the simultaneous fright and fearlessness that only the youngest know. Chomet is a bit one-note as Merrell, but does let you see just how broken-down she is by life. They all are, or they all will be eventually, but it doesn't matter; there's some light to be found at the end of every disappointment. By giving both qualities their full due, Lee shows how it never need be just the tragedies that define us. Lots of different kinds of music make us who we are, and map out our futures, even if they're not necessarily the ones we want. Occasionally haunting, occasionally symphonic, occasionally dissonant, but always breathtaking—brownsville song (b-side for tray) plays them all.
brownsville song (b-side for tray)
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