Caustic humor in provocative ‘Black Stuff’

“Don’t hate. Congratulate.”

This climactic rap is one of the only quotable passages from “Black Stuff,” which ends its Highways engagement Sunday. The impressive collaboration between performance artists LeVan D. Hawkins and Alexander Thomas spares no sensitivities in its caustic satirical study of the African American experience from the inside out.

Festive anarchy attends “Black Stuff” from the outside in. Entering from the sidewalk, viewers can hear doctored Disney chirping over the speakers: “It’s a black world, after all.” As ticket holders gather in the lobby’s gallery (which features photographer Jim Hubbard’s superb studies of the nation’s homeless), Hawkins works the crowd, passing out business cards that echo his vocal mantra: “I am the true representative of the black race.” He encourages a sing-a-long with the mordant Mouseketeers, and the house opens.

The spare set consists of chairs, a projection curtain upstage center and Thomas stationed down left, doing a robot riff on the black celebrities that “some folks think I look like.... “ This rib-tickling shtick short-circuits with a lurch at “Colin Powell,” and the die is cast.

“Black Stuff” stuffs a lot into its two-hour running time. The scabrous collation of material is often hysterical and incisive, justifying both artists’ national reputations. Autobiographical vignettes account for half the text, self-contained social assaults make up the rest.

One standout is Hawkins’ take on his righteously fearsome mother, who would rather see her sons dead than interracially wed. Thomas’ tripartite depiction of himself, a white hippie friend and an incredulous black heckler is another gem.

The tandem passages display real invention and complementary energies. While Hawkins recalls phone conversations with white and black friends over a failed job interview, Thomas, donning stylized masks, nails the double standard into the audience’s psyche. A riotous peak is the tale of adolescents enduring a first police harassment, leading to their uncles, who mark this rite of passage with ribs and beer.

Peppered throughout are slicing throwaway voice-overs by Hawkins, and several effective sidebars -- like the Andrew Herlan-directed video ad for “Wipeaway,” intended to erase memories of bigotry. Other bright gags include a giant ruler analyzing black American manhood from “street” to “European”; two jaw-dropping puppets embodying a prevalent anatomical myth; and the pair’s skipping delirium at the Million Man March.

“Black Stuff” mainly falters in its architecture, which needs an outside eye. Thursday’s reviewed performance found Hawkins repeatedly struggling for lines, which indicates insufficient rehearsal time. Some bits are badly programmed, and, after some ruthless cuts, the intermission should be jettisoned.

But these are stylistic quibbles. Apart from the coruscating brilliance of “Topdog/Underdog” and the unexpected flair of “Stage Directions,” there aren’t many consciousness-raisers in town with as much honesty, hilarity and hellfire as “Black Stuff” attempts and, more often than not, delivers.

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‘Black Stuff’

Where: Highways Gallery and Performance Space, 1651 18th St., Santa Monica

When: Today, 8:30 p.m.; Sunday, 7:30 p.m.

Ends: Sunday

Price: $15

Contact: (310) 315-1459

Running time: 2 hours