Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater at Warner Theatre by Ashayla Byrd

Alvin Ailey American Dance Theatre

Warner Theatre, Washington D.C.

February 5th, 2026

By Ashayla Byrd

Cover photo by Paul Kolnik

(One more mountain to climb) Before I’ll be with the blessed / (One more river to cross) Before I’ll take my rest 

The haunting, soulful sounds of tenor and baritone voices harmonize together, entreating God for rest and relief. Draped in varying blue hues and swatches of denim, the dancers of the Alvin Ailey American Dance Theatre (AAADT) swirl beneath the dim lighting of the Warner Theatre stage. An amalgamation of passion, persistence, and desperation, dancers are thrust from an ominous blue door at the upstage right corner of the space. Each dancer embarks on their own seemingly disheveled journey towards solace. The prose of their movement is punctuated by the grounded quality of West African dance, including sudden breaks within the body, dynamic fluidity of spine, and articulation of the pelvis. Their embodied sentences are interspersed with crisp extensions and quickly-whirling turns. Anguish peppers their every contraction, but the dancers find respite through the relief of their  undulations. I am struck by the image of the ensemble gathering around the tree at the downstage left corner of the stage. Each branch is covered by a glass bottle, and the dancers raise their arms, hands, and heads in reverence to God and the sense of hope that the tree seems to represent.

The Holy Blues, choreographed by Jawole Willa Jo Zollar in collaboration with Samantha Figgins and Chalvar Monteiro, places the sacredness of gospel music alongside the secularity of the blues. Named after a journal entry from AAADT’s founder, the late great Alvin Ailey whose “roots are also in the Gospel church, the Gospel churches of the south where [he] grew up…holy blues–paeans to joy, anthems to the human spirit.” The aforementioned “ominous blue door” is inspired by the The Door of No Return, the final departure point for enslaved Africans forced into America. Faced with the sea of blue ahead of me, I reflect on the millions of Africans who died at sea from illness and brutality as well as those who chose to turn to the sea, using what was left of their autonomy to take their own lives. As distant as the era of enslavement is from mainstream cultural memory, the desolation of its wake still echoes through Black bodies like mine. 

Jubilee in the morning / Jubilee in the evening / Don’t care what you call me / Sho’ ‘nuff, Jesus got me

Thankfully, The Holy Blues does not abandon me in the depths of despair I feel. I am lifted by the vigor and liveliness of a polyrhythmic percussion section. The dancers use their hands, thighs, and thunderous feet to create their own soundscore. Their shared rhythm is a binding force, equal parts exhausting and exhilarating. Spurred by their own panting and shared energy, their movement is paced by their collective breath. Pushing through their own fatigue, they maintain the pulse of the rhythm by any means necessary. The Ailey dancers’ sacred surrender gave way to what I learned to be the Ring Shout, a circular dance originating from Central and West Africa, and one of the oldest surviving Black dance traditions. With the ensemble surrounding them, soloists take their place in the center of the circle, catching the spirit of the dance one by one. In the Black church I grew up in, the saints’ hand-clapping, foot-stomping, leg-slapping beats laid the groundwork for the highest exaltations on Sunday mornings. Through their sweat, tears, sorrow, and surrender, all their troubles were laid bare at the altar. After laying their burdens down, they were emboldened and empowered to carry on, to persevere past the ills of life outside the church’s doors. 

Master, the tempest is raging / The billows are tossing high / The sky is overshadowed with Blackness…Peace, peace, peace, be still / Peace, be still / Peace, be still /  Peace, be still / Peace, be still…

Honestly, there is still so much more here that even I have not unpacked, and I refuse to spoil the work’s conclusion. The Holy Blues reminded me of the moments when I felt most forsaken and downtrodden. My family, community,  artistic practices, and own spirituality lifted me from that darkness. Unfortunately, so many of my ancestors never lived to see the peace they yearned for throughout their lives. Amidst the incessant turmoil of the present, I hope to be a living conduit for their liberation and the liberation of those who come after me. In short: I need to see The Holy Blues several more times, from several different seats, and at several different angles to fully dissect all of its layers and let them wash over me. I definitely needed the extended pause that followed this piece. 

Medhi Walerski’s Blink of An Eye offers a thoughtful reflection on the relationship between music and dance, presence and absence. I will admit that such an open-ended provocation puzzled me after seeing The Holy Blues, an incredibly explicit and specific work. What exactly does that mean? What exactly does that mean to me? I continued to ask myself this question throughout the presentation of this dance work. Visually, Blink of An Eye felt like a stark textural contrast from its predecessor in the program. The lighting stays a warm white, sometimes dim and shadowed, but there is no color on the stage except for the creams, taupes, tans, and browns of the dancers’ bodies. Each of them is dressed in either a black leotard or black pants. 

The Warner Theatre’s velvet curtains rise, and an ensemble of dancers stands in a horizontal line across the expanse of the stage. Behind them, a single batten of stage lights hangs far lower than usual, lifting as the ensemble slowly swells their arms away from their bodies. When the stage lights have officially gone away, the ensemble disperses for a series of interwoven solos, duets, and trios. The movement vocabulary is reminiscent of both the contemporary ballet and Lester Horton modern dance aesthetics, complete with clear linearity of shapes, pointed feet, lateral extensions, and the utilization of deep second and fourth positions as initiators for movement. The Horton of it all certainly tracks considering Alvin Ailey himself was a student of Horton’s. 

The work is highly athletic, and I mentally applaud the ensemble for their indefatigable sense of stamina. Most of these dancers literally just danced for their lives in The Holy Blues. Formidable as ever, the dancers continue to weave in and out of the performance space, only momentarily impacting and being impacted by one another’s movement. More than anything, their dancing is directly tethered to the musings of Johann Sebastian Bach’s sonatas and partitas for violin, and the ensemble is at the mercy of its quickly-moving strings. When the work concludes, the batten of lights descend once again, and the full group returns to their horizontal line. Their arms swell for the final time, but rather than fully exiting the stage, they lean into the colors of the music. Each of them find their own ways to shift, extend, strike, swell, melt, and blend their own expressions with the strings’. I would like to think that this is in recognition of how their interactivity with one another ultimately impacted them throughout the longevity of Blink of An Eye. We are affected by one another’s presence as we are by absence in any given space. We are interdependent on one another in this life, whether we choose to acknowledge it or not. Our collective liberation is inextricably tied. 

Song of the Anchorite, choreographed by Jamar Roberts, is what AAADT calls “a fresh take on the 1961 solo Hermit Songs, Alvin Ailey’s reaction to a set of medieval religious texts and the haunting song cycle by Samuel Barber that they inspired.” An anchorite is defined as someone who, typically in a religious context, withdraws from society to live a secluded, solitary life devoted to prayer and contemplation. I can imagine that, in his pursuit of creating AAADT and representing Black dancers on the world’s stage, Ailey had his own moments of isolation. His devotion to dance was a central focus. The soloist for the evening is clad in a rope-like top and mahogany and flowing tie-around pants, and I cannot help but wonder if he is meant to represent a young Alvin Ailey himself. 

The combination of deep sapphire lighting, shimmering waves on the stage floor, and a tree-like pattern on the cyclorama create a rustic atmosphere. Without initially knowing the history and intent of Song of the Anchorite, I wonder about the personal journey the dancer aims to complete. So much of the soloist’s movement seems to plead and persist towards a goal ahead of him; his devotion to the pursuit is palpable. The soloist’s movement has a gentle, earnest quality, and easeful notes of jazz music smooth out the spaces he carves with his body. Donning a billowing robe, the soloist glides throughout the space. He connects seamless turns with spinal undulations and gestural phrasework. I wrote, “That felt like lip balm,” in my notes. Song of the Anchorite felt moisturizing, for lack of better words. The warm glow of the lighting, jazz music, gentle and uncomplicated movement, and contemplative nature of the work felt like balm for my mind. Juxtaposed against two earlier works that centered the collective, this work served as a reminder of the importance of inner peace, stability, and groundedness. 

I’ve been ‘buked / ‘I’ve been scorned / I’ve been talked about, sho’s you’ born

In my fifth viewing of Revelations, I know what is to come. Still, I am thrilled to hear the sound of voices singing the above hymn before the curtain opens. The audience erupts with enthusiasm and anticipation of this sacred modern dance text. The ensemble’s earth-toned dresses and pants, as well as the spectrum of their complexions, could be likened to the many complexions found in America. “I’ve Been ‘Buked’” strikes me as an opener every time I see it. This time last year, I said, “Many could relate to the idea of yearning for something above and beyond while remaining tethered to their current reality.” Foremost in my mind are the many immigrants cramped into modern-day concentration camps that the federal government is determined to continue filling. I think of Keith Porter at his apartment complex, Renee Nicole Good driving, and Alex Pretti protecting others moments before each of their lives ended. America, in many ways, is under siege, and I yearn for a time when my existence is no longer a threat to the masked assailants of public safety. 

No two performances of a work are the same, and I was particularly struck by the “Fix Me Jesus” duet. In the four performances I’ve seen before, two Black dancers, presumably a woman and man, have performed. In this version, I noticed that a Black man and Asian woman performed together, and I was immediately intrigued. A small casting difference made my mind race to think about how, in 1960, when Revelations premiered, the United States was 5 years into the Vietnam War. Black troops and Vietnamese people formed empathetic relationships over their shared oppression at the hands of white Americans. Back in the United States, Black and Asian-American people began to form political alliances in an effort to quell the discrimination they faced. Black and Asian-American relations in the United States is a thesis in and of itself, but I digress. The duet was stunning to watch. The dancers exhibited extraordinary trust with one another and each used their bodies as anchors.

The other works, including “Deliver Daniel,” “Processional/Honor, Honor,” “Wade in the Water,” “I Wanna Be Ready,” “Sinner Man,” “The Day is Past and Gone,” “You May Run On,” and “Rocka My Soul in the Bosom of Abraham” brought me a new sense of energy towards and pride in the legacy of Alvin Ailey and the Alvin Ailey American Dance Theatre. I will admit that before I was ever asked to review AAADT’s work, I used to wonder, “Why do we still need this? What new stories can an over 60-year-old dance work tell?” The fight for safety and equality for all people still persists. Federal leadership still continues to drag its feet on making American living more affordable. Black and Brown people, though the creators and sustainers of American culture, are still senselessly discriminated against, disenfranchised, and executed at disproportionately higher levels than their white counterparts. AAADT’s work holds a mirror to the ills that surround us, still reminding us to hold each other close, remain tethered to our communities, and resist the urge to fall into despair and hopelessness. The Alvin Ailey American Dance Theatre embodies the power and necessity of unbridled joy in the face of turmoil. 

Until next time, AAADT!

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Ashayla Byrd (she/they) (@abyrdnyca) is a DC-based dance artist and writer who is dedicated to amplifying the voices of BIPOC, LGBTQIA+ folks. Originally from Virginia Beach, Ashayla is eager to explore the richness of DC’s dance and writing communities!