I have often wondered why such an affluent and visually stunning place like Bermuda has thus far failed to produce a Derek Walcott, an Alice Walker, a Chinua Achebe.

You'd think the place would be teeming with outstanding artists. But the literary and performing giants throughout the African diaspora, whether located in the Caribbean, England, the States or West Africa have produced incredibly varied, multilayered works that have a single unifying thread, regardless of subject matter.

Namely, every literary genius has been able to truly see the society from which they stem, they are able to place their own experiences within that larger context, and their art is a reflection of their ability to express this truth with clarity, beauty, and precision.

I have reviewed several local productions during my past few years as a journalist, and none comes close to Andra Simons' "Sometimes An Ass Is Gotta Shake The Load Off His Back'' toward achieving that level of performance art with such skill, complexity and grace.

Having spent a great deal of time at Flow Sunday, the open mic poetry session where Mr. Simons reads his work, I already knew his poetry was of a very high calibre. But since Mr. Simons modestly passed the play off as a `work in progress', I was completely unprepared for this performance.

I usually hate to compare, but just to give you an idea of the style of the performance, it's somewhat like a male Bermudian's version of Ntozake Shange's `choreopoem' "For Coloured Girls Who Have Considered Suicide When The Rainbow Is Enuf''. The performance begins with Mr. Simons singing Go Down Moses and Denise Whitter singing I Can See Clearly Now The Rain Is Gone -- a song that weaves through the entire play, at times assuming an ironic tone.

Mr. Simons then launched into a powerful performance that didn't lapse in intensity throughout the 90-minute play, draping the issues of alienation, nationalism, race, sexuality, and violation in an eloquent cloak of words.

Although the only three props in the entire performance was a chair, a tambourine and a blue dress, Mr. Simons' body language and shift in vocal tone provided all the elaboration needed.

Even our most common experiences as Bermudians are transformed through metaphor: a motorbike becomes a silver phoenix, and pink pastel houses become a sickly-sweet Candyland falsity. Ms Whitter provided the three-dimensional texture throughout the performance, adding emphasis in all the right places.

The play, rated `OM' for Open Minds, refuses to shy away from subject and contains wonderfully explicit language; I don't know what was more startling to the audience -- the concept of a man giving birth, the declaration at one point that I only understand myself while I am bleeding, or the reflection of a Bermuda where people commit suicide slowly and with a polite smile.

The show's an emotional roller-coaster for cast and audience alike; several people, myself included, moved between laughter and tears within the space of a few minutes. I'm hard-pressed to even offer any constructive criticism because I enjoyed the performance so much; there were points where Rock Island seemed too small to contain the intensity and force of the performance, but its intimate atmosphere also promotes audience involvement.

It's also a very dense piece; I actually intend to see it again because I missed many of the nuances the first time around.

But every word was deliberate, nothing was superfluous and the writing is superb. As far as I'm concerned, Mr. Simons has single-handedly raised the standard of what should be expected from Bermudian performance art.

Kim Dismont Robinson THEATRE THR REVIEW REV