Paul Robeson, the great African American singer, actor and activist, told the black newspaper “The New York Age” in a 1949 interview: “God gave me a voice that people wanted to hear.
Knowing his own power and drawing on his influence, Robeson found himself at an incredibly difficult moment in American history. His fierce advocacy for the rights of black and working-class Americans made him a hero, but his political leanings brought him into conflict with the dominant anti-communist faction in Congress, which ultimately hampered his career. Robeson's reputation, however, was global, and he had many opportunities abroad—until his U.S. passport was revoked because he refused to renounce his Communist Party membership in writing. He landed on the House Un-American Activities Committee (HUAC) in 1956, and while he was not afraid of being a lightning rod, he was also exhausted by it.
Today, the legacy of Robertson’s divine bass-baritone voice and his eloquence has outlasted political tar and feathering. There is no contemporary analogue to Robertson, an artist who became famous in classical media and used his fame to drive public conversations about peace and justice. (Yo-Yo Ma, the beloved cellist who created the Multicultural Silk Road Project, comes closest, but without controversy.)
Bass baritone Davonne Tynes pays homage to that legacy in his new solo show “Robberson” at Amp on Little Island, piecing together Roberson's words and songs related to him. On Friday night, the straightforward charm of a popular song recital collided with vague, fractured references to Roberson's life, providing a fictional glimpse into the emotional turmoil of a man once seen as an impenetrable “giant,” as Tynes put it. revealed. It was a powerful and at times frustrating performance, fueled by Tynes' fiery confidence.
At first, the show's structure seemed transparent enough. Tines' confident, smooth rendition of songs like the labor anthem “Joe Hill” was interwoven with Robeson's comments from newspaper editorials, television interviews and stage speeches. Tines, dressed in a Carnegie Hall-worthy tux, began with a brilliant but slightly slurred imitation of the era's defining singer, emphasizing the deep pools of sound.
But for an artist like Tines, who has collaborators like director Zack Winokur, who conceived the work, honesty is fake. Supported by designers Adam Charlap Hyman (set) and Mary Ellen Stebbins (lighting) and multi-instrumentalists John Bitoy and Khari Lucas, the two artists exploded with tender reenactments to explore the inner struggles of a man known for his serenity. A chaotic a cappella version of “Some Enchanted Evening,” a deft staging of Robeson's reported suicide attempt in a Moscow hotel room, plunged audiences and performers into the hysterical heart of the show.
Disparaging voices plagued Tynes's Robertson: a congressional panel at the HUAC hearings (“Did you make a little speech?”) and Jackie Robinson's measured, sharp critiques (“Hall of Famer, if he wants to sound stupid, that's his business, not mine”). A multi-part version of the spiritual “Scandalize My Name” offered a tour de force response that morphed into disco and wah-wah funk, culminating in a thrilling breakdown with Tynes's own new lyrics (“Cuz you gon' mess up and you gon' find out”). Tynes's use of genre as a dramatic device, as on “The Black Clown,” sewed Roberson into a black musical lineage, one in which art could be a joyful, irrevocable medium for self-expression even under pressure.
When he abandoned his Robertson impersonation and began to use the brighter colours and textures of his natural singing voice, Tynes was free to swing and soar. His bold falsetto pierced the Bach Choir, and the finale of “This Little Light of Mine,” in which Tynes ascended the scales with increasing intensity, brought the audience to its feet.
Nonetheless, in about an hour, the show presented a challenge to Tines' emotionally invested and tightly controlled style. He felt more comfortable with applause gospel than with the complex R&B style of running. The lowest notes were ever so slightly out of reach, and the emphasis on vocal breadth sometimes made his singing spidery (“There Is a Balm in Gilead”), exaggerated or stilted.
As a coda, Tines sang “Old Man River,” a signature piece from Robeson's problematic source. He tweaked the lyrics to say, “That's the old man I don't want to be,” stripping away the song's hypnotic rhythm in a powerful interpretation that turns tokenization into redemption.