MAY|JUNE
REVIEW: AYODELE CASEL: THE REMIX
BY THERESA RUTH HOWARD
Before we get into Ayodele Casel: The Remix, we need to run it back a bit because context is everything. The nouns of it all—(the who, what, when, where… and how)—matter, especially when it comes to artists like Casel whose body of work, process, philosophy, and way of being are rooted and steeped in culture and community: Black, Puerto Rican, New York City, Tap, and Hip Hop. Hence, the context of how she and this work came to be offers one the ability to better comprehend, respect, and appreciate the work. So, as the kids say, “Let me cook.”
In January, when Trump took office for his second term, one of the first things he initiated was to dismantle Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion initiatives and programs, essentially criminalizing them—deeming them “illegal and immoral discrimination programs.” This was a salvo aimed at Black people but landed squarely on white women (the very ones to whom he partially owed his second victory), as well as on LGBTQIA+ and disabled communities—within which a racial hierarchy still exists, meaning the most visible faces and voices are not always those most impacted. No doubt there were those within the arts world, specifically dance (and more specifically ballet), that breathed a sigh of relief and were all too ready to ditch the burden of feigning due diligence, tummies hurting from the consumption of diversity cookies; although enervated from having to “think about it”, albeit the coin for the performance of action would be missed.
Artists of color, for whom the work of the last 10 years (whether folks want to admit it or not) created opportunity, were trepidatious about rollbacks, as were organizations and their leaders who truly invested in the work. This was a blow, but the hits kept coming. On May 5th, President Donald Trump announced his intent to eliminate the National Endowment for the Arts (NEA), on the heels of exerting his power over national cultural institutions (as is every president’s legal authority). Prior to this, with its updated FY 2026 Grants for Arts Projects (GAP) guidelines, the NEA had introduced a focus on “patriotic themes and national heritage,” placing significant emphasis on projects that celebrate the 250th anniversary of the Declaration of Independence, along with the cancellation of the America Program.
The Arts are under attack, but it is important to note that it’s not just “art”—it’s art that seeks to include the marginalized, to tell muted or eradicated stories, histories, and contributions. It is a war to preserve a well-crafted narrative of America as told through the lens of white supremacy.
What attacking the arts aims to do is to roll back the advancements of the last decade that were beginning to normalize “different” voices, experiences, bodies, gender expressions and abilities. The work was working—not only do we see dance rosters changing, but also the repertory they perform and who creates it. We have seen the curation of programming expand to include stories from the broad spectrum of what makes America, America. And so I have arrived at my point: presenters book their seasons a year, two, or even further out. So although the work presented by Casel had not been completed, she was set to perform long before November 5th, 2024, as was Camille A. Brown and Dancers, who set the Joyce house ablaze in February with her production of I AM. (Sidenote: it will be interesting to see what we will be watching in 2029.)
These two women from disparate genres (tap and contemporary dance) are cut from the same cloth, much like Jawole Willa Jo Zollar, choreographer, dancer, and educator, founder of Urban Bush Women—whose work is holistic in practice, deeply culturally and historically rooted, interdisciplinary, and collaborative, involving improvisation and play. They are storytellers and keepers. Most of all, they are brazen, bold, and unapologetic in doing so. In a time when it feels like African American history is in danger of being erased, the Joyce’s programming of Brown’s I AM and Casel’s The Remix, along with the success of movies like Ryan Coogler’s Sinners and Beyoncé’s Cowboy Carter—reclaiming and naming artistic genealogy—feels like the ultimate ancestral clap back, along the lines of Chinese analyst and former diplomat Victor Gao’s response to President Trump’s imposition of 145% tariffs on Chinese goods: “We don’t care! China has been here for 5,000 years. Most of the time, there was no U.S., and we survived.”
When times are heavy and the future seems bleak, the theater has always been an escape. On May 28th, walking into Ayodele Casel: THE REMIX at the Joyce Theater was balm for the soul—a gentle slide into the nostalgia of New York City in the ’90s, when you could be “artist broke” and still have hang, when music was getting a new sound that moved bodies in new ways, and when house parties and lounges were the vibe. Before even entering the theater, the smooth sounds of DJ Liberty Styles could be heard; once inside, the curtain was up, exposing a set by Scenic Designer Tatiana Kavegian that evoked all the familiar spatial vibes of the ’90s: downtown loft living room, club, lounge, poetry slam—all surrounding a slightly elevated miked dance floor. Kavegian even gave us subway busker vibes in the form of six wooden square platforms at the very front of the stage.
Ayodele Casel: THE REMIX, directed by longtime collaborator Torya Beard, revives the vibrant amalgam of the 90s art scene in New York, when music was popping — be it at CBGB’s downtown, a DJ mixing on the 1s and 2s at a Brooklyn house party, or an up-and-coming vocalist cutting their teeth at Nell’s. Poetry was slammed in cafes, theaters, and art galleries, sometimes accompanied by dancers and musicians. Casel and Beard weave a world with a multi-faceted group of performers: musicians (Keisel Jiménez, Raúl Reyes), dancers who sing (John Manzari), Kate Louissaint), a DJ (Styles), and spoken word artists (Elijah Billard, Tony McPherson). In part, it is a retrospective of Casel’s work spanning as far back as 2005 (Audrey), with sections choreographed by fellow collaborators: Naomi Funaki & Caleb Teicher (Little Things), Quynn L. Johnson (QuickSand), and Ryan K. Johnson (Sofa Vibes) — all of which were standouts in a program that had no weak links.
The performers are chillaxing, blending almost imperceptibly into the scenery. Casel herself is almost inconspicuous when she steps onto the slightly raised floor with a book and microphone in hand. “I wrote a poem,” she begins, then shares that next week she will be marking her 50th birthday. Her poem is a reflection, made all the more poignant on the cusp of such a landmark birthday.
Her poem acts as her thesis. Her intimate reflections draw her into the world she is creating, inviting us to take a seat in the living room and hang with her crew. Casel’s reflection on the city of her youth, the music, the art form, and the culture that has shaped her into the woman she is today: a Black and Puerto Rican emerging tapper who ran New York City tip to tail—from the Boogie Down Bronx to the Nuyorican Poets Cafe in the Lower East Side, making pit stops in midtown at Fazil’s Dance Studio. As she recites her poem, she name-checks the nouns of her molding: the Walkman that put the music of Heavy D, Mary J. Blige, Biggie Smalls, Craig Mack, and Lauryn Hill in her ears and her into the music. She uses her feet to punctuate her points, she illustrates the classic hip hop beats that once injected exited her feet as “nappy” tap. For those of a certain generation, these are not brand new flava’s in our ears.
For those of a certain age, this is a familiar journey down a lane that is truly a memory—this New York is a thing of the past, like tokens with a hole in them and rent-stabilized apartments. Gone is the grit and seediness of sex-shop 42nd Street and the Meatpacking District, and the Black and Brown neighborhoods of Harlem, the Bronx, and the LES that historically have been the birthplace of artistic movements: from the Harlem Renaissance to hip hop, Loisaida, Abstract to Neo-Expressionism, and graffiti art. Though these neighborhoods exist geographically, gentrification has dispersed those communities of culture and artists—spaces where the broke and creative gathered on the cheap to chill and make art or make out. These were the spaces and places that birthed the Ayodele’s of today. But hers is not a lamentation; it is a celebration—because it was, and she is. In the words of Alice Walker’s Celie in The Color Purple, “…dear God, I’m here. I’m here!” Her spoken poem evolves into an introduction to the multi-racial, multi-cultural, multi-faceted ensemble.
If diversity is a dirty word, then this show was downright filthy.
Casel’s practice is rooted in culture and community, much like the genres of tap and hip hop that Beard has adroitly captured and crafted with smooth transitions—there are no edges. The dancers feed off one another’s performances, laughing together, catching eyes, even holding hands. Their authentic joy of dancing together is palpable across the footlights. There is nothing worse than performers feigning fun with plastique responses, especially when the energy is flat. That is never a problem here—when the artists are moved to react or celebrate, the audience is right there with them. This is evidenced early on in “The Battle,” which reshapes the ciphers of hip hop with dancers going head to head on one of six wooden platforms at the front of the stage, demonstrating their individuality with onlookers encouraging and picking up the steps that hit.
Sofa Vibes — Ryan K. Johnson’s self-choreographed solo is a masterclass in the historical roots of rhythm and percussion, echoing the Hambone—a derivative of Juba, a dance form created by enslaved Africans who, deprived of their drums, preserved their indigenous rhythms by using their bodies, hands, and feet. Johnson takes us back and forth from the shores of West Africa with a traditional 6/8 clapping rhythm to the Afro-Latina beats of Puerto Rico and Cuba, to samples of 90’s hip hop. Quicksand — Quynn L. Johnson’s sand dancing is an example of the eloquence of motion. In narrow pathways just upstage of the elevated stage, Johnson pours out a cup of sand and begins a mesmerizing solo. As she slides and glides the microphones pick up the grittiness of the sand beneath her sparkly shoes. The ensemble enters, each carrying a small cup of sand in turn they each pour out the contents, extending Johnson’s path and allowing her to traverse the length of the stage. Johnson’s power as a performer enables us to enter her world inside the world built within the proscenium. She is alone on the sands until the familiar melody of Queen Latifah’s “U.N.I.T.Y” breaks the spell. Little Things — Choreographed by Naomi Funaki and Caleb Teicher, this piece is an almost ASMR solo-cum-duet danced by Naomi Funaki, who is sneakily joined by Casel. The two together feel like close friends whispering among themselves, tapping out secrets, sharing a language of rhythm only they understand. It is sensitive and tender; their respect and care for each other is palpable. They end shoulder to shoulder, intuitively finding each other’s hands like elementary school friends at a talent show, smiling as if to say, “We did it.” Their enjoyment of dancing together is unpretentious and pure.
Unmuted — One of the most poignant, IYKYK, tell me you are an activist without telling me you’re an activist moments in the performance begins with dancer/vocalist Kate Louissaint (it seems all of Casel’s collaborators are multi-hyphenates) sitting alone in the “living room” on stage left. She begins a haunting rendition of “Lift Every Voice and Sing,”. To the unlearned ear, may sound like a hymn but is in fact the Black National Anthem. Originally a poem written in 1900 by civil rights activist, author, and educator James Weldon Johnson to commemorate Abraham Lincoln’s birthday, it was set to music in 1905 by his brother John Rosamond Johnson for performance by students at a segregated school. In 1919, the NAACP adopted the song as its official anthem. If you have ever attended a graduation at an HBCU, you have heard it.
As Louissaint remixes the first verse (note: very few know the second verse), she lingers and repeats key words. Casel, Johnson, Izaiah Montaque Harris, John Manzari, and Funmu Sofala provide underlying rhythm, matching and encouraging the increasing power and volume of her song—and its message: there is a freedom in hope, a liberty in joy, and a resilience in the spirit of both. Which once again conjures Miss.Ceile, “I may be black, I may be ugly, but dear God, I’m here. I’m here.”
Rounding out the program was Casel’s composition Audrey (2005). Before performing it, she went slightly off-script to introduce the guest performer for the night, Caleb Teicher, who not only co-choreographed Little Things but was also a former student of hers at a tap camp. (After a few tears!) He was part of the original cast for Audrey. This light, easy, and classy piece allows the dancers to enjoy moving with one another, catching each other’s eyes as they weave through the space. One can see how it would be a great stretch for students, and in the hands (or feet) of professionals, it is elevated to a cool, classical tap style.
Speak Your Name brings the whole ensemble together in a kind of cipher. It’s an affirmation of unity and the joy of communion. They are dancing with each other, for themselves, and we are fortunate enough to bear witness. The Remix ends with a classic 90’s hip hop AAVE affirmation “Word”, as if to seal in fact that all that we have experienced was real, authentic, and can’t not, will not be erased.
