At Little Island, the life and repertoire of the controversial singer, actor and activist Paul Robeson were explored in a new work performed by Mr. Tines and conceived by the bass-baritone and director Zack Winokur.
By Heidi Waleson
July 1, 2024 at 5:30 pm ET
Khari Lucas and Davóne Tines.
PHOTO: PHOTO: JULIETA CERVANTES
New York
Little Island, a park built out over the Hudson River, has jumped into the performing arts with a summer season that includes nine commissions. The dark themes of one of those, “Robeson,” presented in the 700-seat outdoor amphitheater on Friday, belied the pleasant atmosphere of the venue, with its river view and balmy breezes. Conceived by bass-baritone Davóne Tines and director Zack Winokur, “Robeson” is Mr. Tines’s extremely personal journey through the troubled legacy of his eminent black predecessor, the singer, actor and activist Paul Robeson (1898-1976). A version of it will be released on Nonesuch in September.
The hour-long show began with Mr. Tines channeling the historical Robeson, elegant in a tuxedo, informing his concert audience that the State Department had prevented him from traveling abroad for eight years. After singing a few songs, he shed his tuxedo jacket, turned back his cuffs, and recited Othello’s closing suicide monologue. Then things got surreal: On the final phrase—“and smote him thus”—he slashed his wrist with a knife and staggered over to a sink, trying to staunch the blood with a towel.
As Mr. Tines explained before the finale, all the songs, speech and events of the show are based on Robeson’s life and repertory. An outspoken supporter of the Soviet Union and critic of American racism, he suffered during America’s Cold War anti-communist frenzy—his passport was revoked, and he was interrogated by the House Un-American Activities Committee. It has been suggested that his 1961 suicide attempt in his Moscow hotel room was the result of poisoning with hallucinogenic drugs by the CIA. Learning about Robeson’s torment and identifying with it sparked Mr. Tines’s fascinating, impressionistic dive into that chapter of his history.
John Bitoy and Mr. Tines.
PHOTO: JULIETA CERVANTES
Even without the explanation, the intense specificity of Mr. Tines’s musical performances reflected Robeson’s messianic zeal. These were never just songs. His measured, sonorous delivery and text articulation in the opening numbers were redolent of their messages: the labor anthem “Joe Hill” as calm resistance; the spiritual “Balm in Gilead” as hope for relief; the “Volga Boat Song,” with its dragging accompaniment, the embodiment of back-breaking toil.
The wrist-cutting episode catapulted the evening into heightened theatricality. Mr. Tines’s trembling a cappella account of “Some Enchanted Evening,” as he lurched from the sink to an armchair, suggested a man unmoored. Accusations of treason and ingratitude emanating from a radio set off a ferocious performance of the spiritual “Scandalize My Name,” with overlaying tracks and reverb along with live accompaniment from The Truth (John Bitoy, pianist; Khari Lucas, electric bass and sound artist). In the middle of the song, Mr. Tines broke off to recite sections of Robeson’s HUAC interrogation, and concluded the number in defiance, standing on a stool with a megaphone, bright lights raking the audience. (Mary Ellen Stebbins did the lighting.) A moody jazz improvisation, “Fly Away,” strayed far from the original spiritual with its stretched-out lines. Mr. Tines climbed to an upper level of the amphitheater, leaning far out over the barrier, his white shirt bright against the evening sky, as his voice rose into falsetto and the song became a howl of longing and despair.
Davóne Tines in ‘Robeson.’
PHOTO: JULIETA CERVANTES
A snippet of Robeson singing “Nobody Knows the Trouble I’ve Seen” moved the show into its third act as Mr. Tines, back on the ground, took over the song, giving weight to the words “my sorrow.” Stripping off the tuxedo shirt to reveal a black sleeveless one, he dragged a red theater curtain onstage; draped it over the set pieces; and, donning the tuxedo jacket again, became himself. “The House I Live In,” a postwar plea for tolerance, included some of his own new lyrics including “never cleanse the stain of its bloody primal sin.” A dogged, determined version of “This Little Light of Mine,” with a heavy beat and recorded harmony, gained intensity as Mr. Tines stomped around the stage, repeating the line “Let it shine,” raising the pitch each time until it ended in an ecstatic falsetto, bringing the crowd to its feet.
Robeson’s life did not end happily—after multiple shock treatments following the suicide attempt, he was never the same—but Mr. Tines identifies with his forebear’s struggle and his determination to make his art count. He once considered “Old Man River,” Robeson’s signature number, a song of defeat; having learned that Robeson wrote some new lyrics for it later in life, he and his band turned it into an exaggerated anthem of resilience, complete with synth effects, for the show’s finale. Like his predecessor, Mr. Tines has always been more than just a performer, using his richly expressive, wide-ranging instrument and theatrical skill to excavate his own stories, dark side and all.
Ms. Waleson writes about opera for the Journal and is the author of “Mad Scenes and Exit Arias: The Death of the New York City Opera and the Future of Opera in America” (Metropolitan).
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