Kyle Brown & Jamar Adams-Thompson in ‘Tyson’s Song’, Photo by Cylla von Tiedemann
After just missing a late-night bus on a lonely street corner, Bryan (Jamar Adams-Thompson) and Tyson (Kyle Brown) have a long overdue heart-to-heart as they wait for the next TTC vehicle. Sharing a six-pack of beer and playfully bickering over what their next move should be, we quickly recognize that this hang-out feels more loaded than it should. Tyson’s Song, presented by Pleiades Theatre, is Peter N. Bailey’s tender portrait of a loving yet fraught friendship.
There is plenty of anxious movement in director Ash Knight’s staging, framed austerely by set designer Anahita Dehbonehie. The bench and TTC bus stop sign mounted on a telephone pole are both familiar and blatantly theatrical. The continuous action provides plenty of opportunity for the actors to circle each other, fall in and break apart as their soul-searching conversation propels them through troubled waters. Spikes in their heated intensity are punctuated by code-switching, a deep-rooted cultural familiarity that manifests in exhilarating flare-ups. As off-hand comments become dire provocations, we perceive the pressurized dimensions of their Black manhood—a space where a hug is as likely as a punch and we anticipate either.
With red and blue light indicating the passing of a police car, its clockwork circling of the block begins to feel ominous and oppressive. This spectre of racial profiling is conveyed here as dishearteningly normalized and routine. As they stand at attention in a rictus of innocence, their very personhood is held in check. The impact of seeing their bodies bathed in the menacing red glow of tail-lights is undeniably disquieting. Most of Dave DeGrow’s lighting design is more subtle, with the temperature and evenness fluctuating with the actors, accommodating their almost constant movement and shifting moods.
Interrogating their masculinity, they land on myriad concerns they have for each other. Always flirting with random women, Bryan’s extroverted warmth puts his fidelity to his wife and daughter in question. Tyson’s erratic behaviour gets him fired from multiple jobs. There is some ambiguity about his past. His time in juvie is a huge sore spot and point of contention. Bryan’s offhand joke about getting a lot of action there sets him off. As he desperately asserts he wasn’t raped there, we begin to suspect that he doth protest too much.
The severity of Tyson’s struggle with mental health gradually becomes clear and the concerning contents of his stashed-away Altoids tin launch the stakes of this boys’ night out skyward. Situations can turn bad on a dime, of course, so the final moments of this play don’t strain the credibility of the moment, but they don’t feel entirely earned. At just 75 minutes, I didn’t feel I had spent enough time with these guys to feel the full impact of the lyrical and heartbreaking last image.
There are aesthetic and thematic echos of Antoinette Nwandu’s Pass Over. Like Moses and Kitch, Bryan and Tyson are young Black men spiralling into a rut on an eerie street corner. Where that play took aim at systemic racism, this goes to a more internal place, seeking out the emotional and psychological toll of existing a world where Black men are not only under scrutiny, but are also expected to always man up and be ok.
While it is elevated by two charismatic performances and many tense, funny and poignant moments—the “I am lovable” mantra hits pretty hard—this feels more like a proof of concept than a fully realized piece.
Tyson’s Song
running April 24 to May 19, 2024
Factory Theatre, Studio (125 Bathurst St.).
running time: 75 minutes (no intermission)
Jamar Adams-Thompson & Kyle Brown in ‘Tyson’s Song’, Photo by Cylla von Tiedemann