In an age of heightened political tension, theatre has never felt more necessary. There exists a vital space in the arts, particularly in live performance, for work that is not only entertaining but urgent, resonant, and deeply human. Black Power Desk is that work. It is political theatre in its most necessary form: theatre that teaches, challenges, and connects, not just with individuals in the audience but with the histories, struggles, and families they carry with them.

This powerful, vibrant, and uncompromising new musical follows the fractured bond between two sisters, Celia and Dina. Set against the backdrop of 1970s London – a period marked by police brutality, community resistance, and the fight for recognition – Black Power Desk draws direct inspiration from the Mangrove Nine and the British Black Power movement. It offers a stirring portrait of resistance rooted in lived experience, accompanied by an epic soundtrack of defiance, faith, and survival.

Above all else, Black Power Desk is triumphant in the way it fuses history with immediacy. Its sharpest tool is direct address: the show repeatedly breaks the fourth wall, forcing the audience into complicity. At first, this plays for comedy – the crowd asked to help vote on a new group name, with the cast bouncing off the room’s energy – but later, it becomes devastating. We are called to serve as jurors, and in the final moments, the cast sing Keep On Breathing not at us but into us. This collapsing of distance ensures that while the story is rooted in the 1970s, its resonance is entirely contemporary, demanding that we reflect on the political crises of today.

At its heart, though, this is a story of family. Rose’s Celia embodies delicacy and desperation in equal measure—her naivety played with grace, and her yearning for stability achingly raw. Her rendition of I Don’t Know You left the auditorium holding its breath. Carabai, meanwhile, delivers a Dina of unshakable conviction: a woman defined not just by political determination but by a fierce moral clarity that lights up the stage. She radiates an energy that inspires, terrifies, and compels in equal measure. Their dynamic – sisters torn apart by ideology yet bound by love – gives the production its devastating core.

The supporting cast are equally compelling. Alan Drake and Casey Bird are chillingly effective as the brutal officers Pullen and Marks, while Tomos Eames’ Jack is equally unsettling in his jaw-dropping cruelty. Fahad Shaft brings charisma and complexity to Colin, the self-proclaimed “Black Robin Hood,” while Gerel Falconer’s Carlton is both morally dubious yet impossible to resist. Chanté Faucher’s Maya provides a steady moral compass, her quiet presence anchoring the chaos, and Alexander Bellinfantie impresses with his versatility as Jarvis. Each actor moves between roles and registers with precision.

None of this would land without the creative vision shaping it. Natalie Pryce’s set is deceptively simple: a restaurant rendered with tables, chairs, a bar, and the onstage band. But its secret power lies in the window at the back of the stage, a haunting portal to the world beyond. Lit in shifting blues and greens, it frames shadows, violence, and voices that bleed into the restaurant, reminding us that the struggle exists as much outside as within. Tony Gayle’s sound design, punctuated by radio broadcasts, ties the action directly to historical memory, while Gbolahan Obisesan’s direction ensures the show’s ambition never outpaces its clarity. The overlapping of scenes – moments where a single table becomes both restaurant and prison cell – was particularly striking, a masterclass in staging that captures the simultaneity of private and political life.

And then, the band. Live onstage, they oscillate effortlessly between RnB, Soul, Reggae, and Ska, their soundscape as eclectic and charged as the story itself. They bring drive to moments of rage, intimacy to moments of tenderness, and spine-tingling poignancy to the finale. This band is not mere background music – it feels like a character in its own right.

If there is one element that could be sharpened, it is the choreography. At times, movement felt more like a placeholder than a fully realised extension of the storytelling. Yet when it landed (most memorably in We Know Who You Are (Part 1) at the end of Act One) the impact was electric: movement channelled anger into rhythm, rallying bodies into collective force. It was proof of what this production can achieve when every theatrical element fires in the same direction.

Ultimately, Black Power Desk is not an overwhelmingly comfortable night at the theatre, nor should it be. It confronts injustice head-on, but also insists on humanity, joy, and love as acts of resistance. It creates a space to learn, to grieve, to laugh, and to act. This is political theatre at its best, a show that insists on being felt as much as watched. It is unflinching, unforgettable, and necessary.

Black Power Desk is running at Brixton House until 28 September 2025. Get your tickets here. See it, then tell everyone you know to see it too.

Image credit – Helen Murray