‘The Wiz’ tour @ Bass Performance Hall (PAFW)

—Rickey Wax

Last night, I eased on down to Bass Performance Hall, and by the time Dorothy hit her final note in “Home,” I had been spiritually transported and theatrically fed. The Wiz came back to us this week, with rhythm in its bones and liberation in its soul.

But catch it quick—it’s only staying through today and tomorrow.

Originally debuting in 1974, The Wiz was revolutionary—an unapologetically Black retelling of The Wonderful Wizard of Oz that proved a Black musical could dominate Broadway. It won seven Tony Awards and opened the door for everything from Dreamgirls to Hamilton. This new production, directed by Schele Williams and choreographed by JaQuel Knight (yes, of Beyoncé’s “Single Ladies” fame), updates it with fresh kicks and sharper edges.

Set in a dreamlike, neon-lit Oz, the show centers on Dorothy, a Kansas teen swept away by a tornado into a world where witches shimmer, bricks are gold, and self-discovery is the ultimate journey. Dana Cimone plays her with quiet grace—starting reserved, almost unsure of her place, before growing into her voice (and power) with that final, soaring rendition of “Home.” Her restraint in the first act made her emotional arc land like a gut punch.

Dorothy’s first companion is the Scarecrow, a floppy, limber intellect played with wide-eyed charm by Elijah Ahmad Lewis. His comedic timing is effortless, but there’s a deeper commentary in every straw-stuffed stumble: a challenge to the myth of Black intellectual inadequacy. You laugh, but you feel the truth underneath.

Next up is the Tinman, all silver polish and soul. D. Jerome imbues him with a tenderness that cuts through the chrome. His journey mirrors that of so many who’ve been taught to armor up—his emotional thaw reads like a reclamation of softness in a world that told him to be steel.

Then comes the Lion, who’s less ferocious and more fabulous. Cal Mitchell is a riot—mane flipping, hips swaying—but his comedy is undercut with real stakes. He represents the pressure Black men face to perform bravery without permission to be vulnerable.

Hannah Beachler’s scenic design (yes, Black Panther’s Oscar winner) transforms the stage into a space somewhere between Harlem, Wakanda, and a technicolor block party. Murals, neon arches, floating staircases—it’s Afrofuturism meets Oz. And Ryan J. O’Gara’s lighting bathes it all in rich purples, emeralds, and golds that pulse like a heartbeat. The Emerald City? A Black dreamworld built from struggle and imagination.

The witches bring guidance with very different vibes. Amitria Fanae’s Addaperle is all sequins and sweet chaos—the spiritual cousin of every underfunded schoolteacher and forgotten auntie trying to do the most with the least. On the other side, Sheherazade’s Glinda floats in like ancestral wisdom wrapped in silk and mirrors. She barely needs to move—her presence alone says, “I know who I am, and I’ve been waiting for you to catch up.”

Kyla Jade pulls double duty as Aunt Em and the wickedly glam Evillene. As the villain, she chews the scenery like it owes her money—belted vocals, dagger stares, and enough diva energy to power the city. Her number “Don’t Nobody Bring Me No Bad News” becomes a gospel-infused takedown of exploitative systems. We’ve all met that boss.

And then there’s Alan Mingo Jr. as The Wiz—a smooth-talking illusionist who sells hope in a top hat and smoke. His charm is undeniable, but when the curtain drops, he becomes something more complex: a metaphor for broken promises and systems that dazzle but don’t deliver.

Sharen Davis’s costumes are vibrant, textured, and deeply coded. From streetwear to celestial glam, each piece tells you something about the character’s place in the world—and their defiance of it. JaQuel Knight’s choreography is the engine behind the magic. The tornado, danced rather than shown, is a highlight—bodies twisting in chaos, emotion made physical. Later, dance becomes protest, healing, and release.

This revival of The Wiz politicizes, personalizes, and reclaims. Each character is a manifestation of Black identity, shaped by systemic weight and lifted by community and self-worth.

If you’ve ever questioned your brilliance, doubted your voice, or needed a reminder that you’ve had the power all along—this one’s for you, forever.

Just don’t ease on down to Bass Hall alone. This kind of magic demands witnesses.

WHEN: July 15-20, 2025 (digital lottery today for Sunday!!)
WHERE: Bass Hall (Performing Arts Fort Worth) 525 Commerce St, Fort Worth
WEB: www.basshall.com