The irreverent humor in Carla Stillwell's comedy comes at us quickly and loudly, but that's the point of this satire on the pitfalls inherent in the modern practice of delivering news in non-stop, 24-hour multiple-channel telecasts. When every talking head confronted with empty air-time strives to fill it first with the most, what soon emerges is a morass of misinformation.
The facts sparking the events of Lawd, The CVS is Burning are that Maurice "Munchy" Taylor went to the corner store one day to buy milk for his grandmother, where he was arrested by police, handcuffed, and transported to the station, only to arrive dead after having—according to the officers—hanged himself in the car. Since Taylor was a dancer with the Alvin Ailey troupe, rumors soon circulate of "gay gangs" roaming the neighborhood—and, since the neighborhood is Englewood, the victim is quickly transformed into a potential thief plotting to rob the grocer. This premise serves to introduce a series of scenes that could be dismissed as stereotypical, even offensively racist, caricatures if their real-life prototypes were not prominently and repeatedly displayed as solemn social commentary in editorials, campaign speeches and pop-up docudramas. Our hero is the incredulous young Meechee Jackson ( who becomes so incensed at the distortions of the television media that he rips off his shirt—twice!! ). His overbearing mother and featherbrained girlfriend advise him to pray away his anger but, instead, he joins in the protest led by the scholarly Dr. Anika Holden and the Rev. KiKi Sheppard. Propelling the confusion to its inevitable consequences are generic TV-anchor gags from white-bread announcer Steve Cooper and slyly deadpan gags from African-American field reporter Jon Steppin, who grows increasingly ambivalent over his adherence to the establishment party line (at one point, collapsing in tears after a scolding from an angry-young-black-woman). Oh, and did I mention that there are songs, too? This is a lot of material to pack into a mere 80 minutes of six actors zipping through multiple roles—several mimed behind a silhouette screen on the Greenhouse's tiny first-floor studio stage—and a score encompassing a variety of musical styles from gospel to hip-hop, assisted by composer Shawn Wallace on side piano. The ensemble interplay is as impeccable as it is agile (although Quinton Guyton's Madea-like turn as the formidable Mama Jackson almost steals the show).
Playgoers are advised not to dwell on comprehending every word of the rapid-fire dialogue in one sitting but to enjoy the roller-coaster ride and perhaps contemplate a second viewing.
