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Douglas Lyons stays booked and busy. The seasoned stage actor, also a musical composer-lyricist and a writer on Apple TV+’s “Fraggle Rock: Back to the Rock,” is currently in Los Angeles for IAMA Theatre’s workshop production of “Don’t Touch My Hair,” the final installment of what he’s titled “The Deep Breath Trilogy, New Plays for Black Women.”
Each play is a celebration of its respective genres — so far, to noted success. The first, the funeral-centric family comedy “Chicken & Biscuits,” debuted on Broadway in 2021 and subsequently became one of the most-produced plays in America. The second, the restaurant-set romantic comedy “Table 17,” made its world premiere off-Broadway last year in a twice-extended run.
This third piece, Lyons acknowledges, is a bigger swing: The time-traveling buddy comedy follows two friends who, after smoking a uniquely potent blunt, get transported back to an active plantation. Still, each entry in Lyons’ trilogy centers Black women as not merely survivors of painful experiences, but agents of joyous, bountiful lives — a decision that’s both an artistic mission and a business strategy.
“Growing up with so many Black women … they’re all strong and vibrant and have real personalities, and I rarely see those depictions in the American theater,” he explained. “The actor in me is like, why not write some different offerings for my peers so they can have more work?”
Ahead of the nine-performance run of “Don’t Touch My Hair,” which opens Thursday and runs through Feb. 24, Lyons tells The Times about finally trying playwriting, developing stage work in L.A. and creating texts of levity as a form of protest. This conversation has been edited for length and clarity.
How did you come to write this trilogy of plays?
When I started, I didn’t know if I could do one play, let alone three, because I wasn’t a writer. I don’t have a writing degree, I have a BFA in musical theater from the Hartt School, and I had only written music and lyrics before, that’s where I felt safe. And then, during my 45-minute breaks in “Beautiful, the Carole King Musical” on Broadway, I started writing about my own family relationships. I’d write 10 pages at a time backstage, walk a few blocks down the street to the Directors Company to do a reading of it, and then head back to do the show.
That became “Chicken & Biscuits,” which got mixed reviews in New York, but people thought it was funny, and since then, there have been 37 productions performed and another 10 or so on deck. And it just became evident to me — maybe I’m not writing for New York. I’m not writing for critics, I’m writing for audiences. I’m writing for Black women. And if that’s what I’m doing, then there’s more to mine.
What do you mean by that?
Looking at the theatrical landscape and canon, there aren’t a lot of plays that center Black women without harm. They’re not programmed, they’re not seen because there’s this obsession with Black pain — oh my God, they’re crying, and did you see the snot? And the Black actresses I know always have to do that work to be considered brilliant, as if our laughter is not considered brilliant. Y’all are too comfortable with that being our standard; don’t let the American theater fool you into thinking these are the only sides of Black folks!
Even musical theater-wise, it’s like, we gotta do “Dreamgirls,” we gotta be the Dynamites in “Hairspray” or Becky in “Waitress.” Yes, those are roles that aren’t all on pain, but they’re not juicy and contemporary and vibrant and powerful, like the women I know in real life. Growing up with so many Black women — my mother is one of seven, my father is one of eight, I have so many cousins — they’re all strong and vibrant and have real personalities, and I rarely see those depictions in the American theater. So the actor in me is like, why not write some different offerings for my peers so they can have more work?
I’ve seen this impact in real time: Ebony Marshall-Oliver, who played [the central matriarch] in “Chicken & Biscuits” on Broadway, came into the audition room and understood every single part of it. There are actors out there who have all the assets to be capable of leading a show and have just never been given an opportunity. That’s been happening in a lot of regional productions too. So if I can whip up work that pulls artists who are rarely seen because they’re maybe not the commercial or typical thing, and puts them center stage, that’s so exciting to me.
You revised “Table 17” while performing in “Parade” on Broadway. How were you able to create such a joyous text while acting in a devastating musical?
It was very hard. I can rewrite quickly; it’s harder when you’re formulating ideas for a new play. For me right now, once the orange Cheeto got into the presidency again, I told myself, I am going to use my pen, my page, my cursor as my sword. Because if I don’t, and I just scroll on social media where there will only be despair, I just can’t survive in that place, I will literally crumble.
Words outlast life, so I’m just determined to find my joy through the page, and bring as much light and levity to this burning world. That’s why it’s called “The Deep Breath Trilogy” — toward the end of “Chicken & Biscuits,” everyone takes these deep breaths. I thought, I can’t make the characters overlap across these plays, but I can put in a moment in each one where a Black woman stands center stage and takes a deep breath. In the world we live in right now, that’s revolutionary.
“Don’t Touch My Hair” is a hallucinogenic, time-traveling adventure to an active plantation. Where did the idea come from?
I started writing it during the pandemic. I may or may not partake in the edibles of life, as we will call them, and I was inspired after seeing “A Strange Loop” — as in, as a writer, you can go much further with your imagination. Can I literally give them superpowers? I wanted to be wild and wacky, like the buddy comedies we see a lot of in Hollywood.
Also, after seeing “Slave Play,” I wanted to write something that dealt with race but did not harm Black women. This isn’t a direct response, but it inspired me and made me wonder if there’s another way to do it, in my voice. I honestly would love to see both plays back-to-back and have a conversation on how they were received and how one inspired the other.
This being a workshop production — as in, not a fully-staged world premiere — what have been the developmental priorities?
A big part of the rehearsal process has been about tone and intimacy. I think this play scares people a little bit, and they’re courageous enough to go for it and see what happens. It really goes to some places — yes, through a comedic lens, but like, there’s a whip onstage and it is used. And there’s also sensual moments in it. So, it’s been a conversation of having a collective understanding of, we acknowledge that we’re asking you to do some crazy things, let us know when you’re safe. It’s also been a lot of laughter and joy, which we need right now.
Design-wise, hair and costume got more budgetary love. It will look like a world, maybe not as specified in set as you would see at a premiere [production], but what this does is it really focuses on the relationships before you. And if you can be cackling laughing without a full set twirling in automation, that proves that the bones of the play are solid. If we’ve done it right, which I think we have, your imagination will go on the journey, even though all the lines aren’t colored in.
I’m so excited that L.A. will be the first to see this play. There’s this mentality that New York theater is the definition, and that’s such a lie. Theater is becoming a lot more commercial in New York — as in, I don’t know that we’re as interested in the stories that we’re telling as we are in making the money from them. Yes, I’m gonna get my coin, but that’s not why I was attracted to the theater. So I’m going to the communities that understand my work, laugh with them, cry with them and develop this with them. And if you don’t get it, that doesn’t mean I don’t deserve space.
Having ventured into playwriting, what advice would you give to others debating a similarly daunting creative leap?
So many artists I know are afraid to bet on themselves for fear of failure, as was I for a long time. “Chicken & Biscuits” started as an experiment, but it was my writing sample for “Fraggle Rock” and it got me my first TV deal, and now I’m developing television with Ryan Reynolds’ company and Skydance.
So in 2025 in Beyonce’s America, you owe it to yourself to try it, because it may be the thing that catapults you to your next path. If you don’t do it, who’s going to do it for you? Period.
The post Douglas Lyons writes comedies centering Black women. How his trilogy could change theater appeared first on Los Angeles Times.
