I’ve been deeply invested in the Oz universe since childhood.

I watch The Wizard of Oz every Thanksgiving, and lately I’ve kept Wicked on repeat.

But for me, The Wiz has always been the crown jewel. I watched it as a kid and remember being enrapt by the music and frightened by the subway scene. However, it wasn’t until I was a student at Howard University that I really fell in love with the movie.

My roommates, who were full-on theater kids, made me see the film in a brand new way. Their enthusiasm convinced me to memorize the songs and sing them at the top of my voice. At that moment, The Wiz became part of my cultural and creative DNA.

So, walking into the Hobby Center for the Performing Arts in Houston to see the Broadway revival of The Wiz, I was both excited and protective.

This version, adapted by the brilliant Amber Ruffin, who remembers watching The Wiz for the first time on the “big TV” in her family’s basement, approached this new version with a clear goal: make it current without losing the timeless heart. She trimmed some of the dated 1970s slang, added emotional nuance, and made the story feel fresh. What we get is a version of The Wiz that honors its roots while opening the door for future generations.

Kyla Jade, who plays Aunt Em, opened the show with gospel-soaked vocals that set the tone. Her voice was filled with wisdom, weariness, and a fierce love that isn’t always soft but always shows up. She reminded me of the aunties and mothers who raise us up, hold us down, and push us toward our destiny.

Dana Cimone’s portrayal of Dorothy beautifully balances innocence with quiet resilience. She’s not a wide-eyed girl tossed around by forces bigger than her. She’s a young Black woman on a journey of self-discovery, commanding the stage with strength and wisdom. And her voice is amazing! She sang every song with power and control.

The trio accompanying her on the Yellow Brick Road each brought their own magic.

Elijah Ahmad Lewis’s Scarecrow was smooth and soulful, with rubbery, precise movement and a grounded vulnerability. When he performed “You Can’t Win,” I braced myself. Michael Jackson’s version is so iconic that it’s hard to imagine anyone else doing it justice. But Lewis made the song his own. His delivery carried the weariness of being stuck on that pole and every painful truth he learned as a consequence.

D. Jerome’s Tin Man tapped into the audience’s emotions with “What Would I Do If I Could Feel.” His voice conveyed our shared longing to feel, to be present, to be loved.

Cal Mitchell’s Lion was a perfect balance of comic relief and emotional weight. He was playful and cocky, but beneath the bravado was real insecurity. His duet with Dorothy, “Be a Lion,” was beautiful, affirming, and a fitting ending to the first act.

Addaperle, played by Amitra Fanae, was a delightful burst of chaotic energy, while Sheherazade’s Glinda brought grace and elegance.

Alan Mingo Jr. as The Wiz brought gravitas, charisma, and soul. His reveal scene, where we see the man behind the mask, felt like a mirror to modern society. We want our heroes to be perfect, but they’re often just scared men with microphones.

Kayla Jade (yes, doubling duties) slayed as Evillene. Her “Don’t Nobody Bring Me No Bad News” was ferocious and funny, with just enough evil to keep us uneasy.

There were so many visual moments that stayed with me. The set design was vibrant and alive. Costumes paid homage to Black culture across generations—high fashion, streetwear, church chic. The choreography was also spellbinding.

The interpretive Tornado dance, the hip-hop influences in the Tin Man’s movement, and the elegant chaos of the Oz dancers all combined to enrich the story.

One moment that stayed with me was the Yellow Brick Road, reimagined with a nod to HBCU culture. Drum majors in full regalia led the way, and I couldn’t help but smile. It felt like a love letter to all of us who found pride, purpose, and community on Black college campuses.

Another of my favorite songs is “Everybody Rejoice.” It’s always been an uplifting number, but this time it had more meaning for me. After watching the Luther Vandross documentary, I learned that he wrote that song. Knowing his story—his genius, his quiet battles, his need to celebrate even when things were hard—gave the song new weight. It became a celebration of surviving and thriving.

Dorothy’s finale, “Home,” was like a testimony. Her voice carried everything she’d learned along the way: the fear, the friendship, the courage, the clarity.

In that moment, I was watching a young Black woman claim her place in the world. And for those of us who grew up with The Wiz as part of our DNA, it felt like coming home, too.

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