I’ve Been Here Before…Or Have I? Alvin Ailey at The Kennedy Center by Ashayla Byrd

Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater

Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater’s 2024–2025 season celebrates the life and legacy of Artistic Director Emerita Judith Jamison

The Kennedy Center Opera House

Tuesday, February 4, 2025, 7:30 p.m.

by Ashayla Byrd

Audio version below

I’ve been here before. At the age of 25–which is 50 in dancer years–Ailey isn’t new to me anymore. It wasn’t until I sat down to write this review that I realized I reviewed one of the Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater’s performances at the John F. Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts at this exact time last year. This year, I am joined by my partner, someone who is quite bright-eyed and bushy-tailed when it comes to all things dance. Taking a page from her book, I decided to come into this performance with somewhat fresh eyes. 

I know that the Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater (AAADT), an ensemble of world-class dance artists led by Black dance royalty, has become an institution within the dance ecosystem. Nearing its 67th anniversary, AAADT is the largest modern dance company in the United States, and it remains steadfast in its commitment to uplifting Black stories, artistry, and expression through dance. I was trained to believe Ailey was the (only) company that I, as a young Black dancer, should aspire to perform with someday. I can admit this now, but years of youthful admiration were unfortunately soured by the realization that I had to be really, really good to dance with Ailey. I know I can catch a step when the time comes, but I’m not that good. I’m not Ailey good. 

The dance field lost a titan, and this performance served as one of the many testaments to her legacy. 

I walked into this performance jaded, hand in hand with someone who hardly knew what to expect. After we settled into our seats, I was immediately sobered by the announcement that AAADT’s 2024-2025 performance season would “celebrate the life and legacy of Artistic Director Emerita Judith Jamison.” Jamison delighted stages as an AAADT company member, Alvin Ailey’s muse, and an international star from 1965 until 1980 before assuming the AAADT mantle as its Artistic Director in 1989. She flourished in this role for 21 years. Jamison’s passing in November 2024 sent shockwaves through the dance community, even for those of us who have never met her. The dance field lost a titan, and this performance served as one of the many testaments to her legacy. 

The idea of legacy courses through the spirit of the first work presented, Grace, choreographed by Ronald K. Brown. A femme dancer in all-white, flowing garments graces the stage with a striking, yet calm resolve. The curtains at the back of the stage are partially closed, framing her body as an icy blue light casts down the stage’s backdrop. The hauntingly harmonious voices of a choir color the air, singing “God of love, please look down and see my people through.” Brown’s signature concoction of African movement, street and club sensibility, and contemporary dance is only enhanced by his dedicated connection to musicality and the undeniable swag with which his choreography is performed. As the femme soloist moves throughout the space, I can’t help but resist the urge to hoot and holler at the sheer ease with which she executes such complex steps. These are the steps that I’ve struggled through in West African dance and tripped over in hip-hop, or turns that I have fallen out of in a 1PM modern class. The prestige of the venue and the silence of the room stifles my ability to vocalize my awe. Responding to what you see is essential in Black dance, but I suppose that stops when you enter a predominately white arena like this one. 

The soloist expands and contracts every limb, ripples every vertebra in her spine, and soars to superhuman heights that are characteristic of the “Ailey Dancer.” The command of her body and agency with which she moves is awe-inspiring, and the awe only metastasizes as more dancers enter the space. The sound score shifts from the choir to an electric house groove, and masc dancers enter the space clad in varying versions of bright scarlet garb. They execute such physically demanding movements like it is slight work; the sheen of sweat glistening on their bodies is the only indicator of actual effort. More femmes grace the stage with their own red or white ensembles, flair, abandon, intensity, and vitality. The full ensemble is exultant, vibrant. At one point or another throughout the work, each dancer would bound skyward in a leap only to land and break it down for the next step. 

The sobering mood of the opening returned, and all of the red costumes were replaced with white ones. As Ronald K. Brown’s Grace nears its conclusion, a different voice pleads once more, “God of love, please look down and see my people through.” This fervent plea, beseeching a higher power for provision and protection, is reminiscent of similar pleas I heard in spirituals as a child. It was not until I was much older that I realized the connection between the struggle and expressions of the spiritual within Black culture. Music and dance have remained centerfold in both our quest and declaration of liberation, Grace clearly embodies this. 

Definitely appreciative of the breather that an intermission provides, I settled back in to digest two works in AAADT’s repertoire that I was not familiar with: Treading by Elisa Monte and Solo by Hans van Manen. Both works were bite-sized in length compared to their predecessor in the line-up, but both were poignant displays of the prowess and rigor for which AAADT is so widely acclaimed. The choreography in each takes a more classical, ballet-based approach, but these works also display the versatility of the Ailey dancers. To me, it felt like a moment of sticking it to the man, saying “Black dancers can master anything, including ballet and its offshoots.” Granted, there was one white guy in Solo, but I assume he’s good people. He was dancing hard!

The intimate duet that ensues is shapely and architectural, and I can tell that the pair is building something together. 

In a mere matter of seconds, I recognized the mesmerizing drone of “Music for 18 Musicians” by Steve Reich as the soundscape for Monte’s Treading. The assortment of lights is dim; warm, reddish hues shine from the stage’s sides as a royal blue tint glows from above. Wearing a flesh-toned unitard, a masc soloist takes center stage. His controlled, yet delicate movement creates a sense of serenity that neatly folds itself into the cloudless sky that the music offers. After a brief solo, the masc soloist is joined by a femme dancer, also dressed in a flesh-toned unitard. She moves with a hypnotic, gentle power exemplified by both the depth of her connection to the floor and the height of her ever-expanding limbs. The intimate duet that ensues is shapely and architectural, and I can tell that the pair is building something together. For most of the work, I am not entirely sure what that something is, but it certainly garners some “woooos” and claps from the audience. They seem more impressed by the feats of strength and flexibility that the dancers display so masterfully here than the Africanist delicacies offered in Grace. This would be a delicious opportunity to address what happens when the politics of audience etiquette in a proscenium setting collide with the cultural expectations of call and response within Black dance forms, but I digress! Towards the conclusion of the Treading, the femme dancer lays on the stage as the masc dancer hovers and undulates above her. That imagery solidified the sensual tone of the work, thus contextualizing the rather involved and intertwined relationship between the two dancers. During the pause in programming that came after this duet, my partner asked, “Did I just watch intercourse?” I wondered the same. It wasn’t necessarily intercourse, but it wasn’t not intercourse. 

Hans van Manen’s Solo, which was actually a trio, immediately locked me in with each of the dancers’ zany, quirky characterizations of competitors in the contest for some esteemed solo in a dance company. At least, that’s what it seemed like to me! I appreciate that the physical comedy of the work was not overdone. I could tell that something silly was afoot as one of the three masc dancers wiggled his head in a flourish or another would offer a proud, sly smile to an unseen character offstage after executing brisk phrase work with little ease. One after another, each entered and exited the stage with their own signature “TAKE THAT” gesture. Whether it was a shrug made with an air of nonchalance, a cheeky grin, or the classic “up-down” look that any one of us could offer an unwanted competitor. They file in and out, with little overlap between the perceived solos. The intensity of these proud show-offs continues to escalate as the speed of the stringed music increases. They continue to think that they are one-upping each other, but they are all competing against the music. By the conclusion of the work, the trio–of soloists–all join the stage for the final hurrah, an explosion of directional shifts, erupting arms, and chain-linked turns in rapid succession. In my notes, I wrote, “Child, it could NOT be me. Ailey dancers are demigods.” This is truly a hill I will die on. 

Newness can be found in any familiar thing. Such is the beauty of humanity and its modes of expression. 

And now for the juggernaut that everyone came to see post-second-intermission: Revelations, choreographed by AAADT founder and dance titan Alvin Ailey. 

“So they do the same thing every time they perform this one?” my partner wondered.

“I mean, it’s the same movement every time. I guess it changes every time the cast changes. Even then, there’s no way for any one person to do the exact same thing twice..” By extension, no single viewer of Revelations is exactly the same from iteration to iteration of the work. I suppose I have not been here before. Go figure. Newness can be found in any familiar thing. Such is the beauty of humanity and its modes of expression. 

The audience, including me, gushes with excitement as the ensemble gazes upward, a warm pool of light descending on their shining, melanated bodies and earth-toned garments. Their outstretched arms billow upward as their deeply bent legs send their bodies downward. The juxtaposition of this image strikes me. Many could relate to the idea of yearning for something above and beyond while remaining tethered to their current reality. Such a gripping opening christens the stage for the potent selections that follow like “Wade in the Water”, “Didn’t My Lord Deliver Daniel”, “I Wanna Be Ready”, “Sinner Man”, and “Rocka My Soul in the Bosom of Abraham.” 

With each work, I noticed a new gesture or movement within the choreography that I did not notice previously. Each dancer brings a piece of themselves into their execution of the movement while maintaining the clarity, specificity, and structural integrity of the choreography. They embody history in a way that honors the vision that Alvin Ailey brought to life and presented before the masses all the way in 1960. Ailey dared to proclaim, present, and preserve the brilliance of Black heritage during a time when Black bodies were openly scrutinized, weaponized, and discredited. Mutations of that vilification persist in the Black community even today. 

As secretly jealous as I am of the dazzling AAADT dancers, I am equally honored by the opportunity to sing their praises. The spirit of Alvin Ailey and the vibrancy of Judith Jamison, both ancestors now, radiates from each company member. This time last year, I said that Revelations was “a sacred movement text held within the container of the Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater,” and I stand by that. Every choreographer that sets work on the company offers a new chapter, a new story to be told. Every dancer fills the empty space with their artistry. How sweet it is to relish in the turning of new pages in this 67-year-old book.