Kenita R. Miller Photo by Ben Arons

In a program note, Christian describes the composition as her "life story"; "a requiem within a requiem"; "an active ritual, letting go of supernatural/psychological/spiritual/actual trauma in front of an audience"; and "a lecture demonstration of channeling through music." This is a heavy lift even for a show that runs a full two hours without intermission.

As I remember it, the beauty of Oratorio is its ability to subsume its audience within its gorgeous harmonies and hypnotic choral refrains. The libretto is almost Dadaist in its construction, so individuals may find their own narratives and meanings in the knotty lyrics.

Animal Wisdom, on the other hand, constructs meaning through the narrator's chronicles of her creole ancestry. Making sense of the fragmented and allegorical memories requires some effort, and this detracts from the ritualistic elements of the score, which fuses gospel, folk, and blues forms. (Alexandra Crosby is the music director, and, notably, the songs boast impressive rock, soul, and choral arrangements. Nick Kourtides's sound design serves the music well in creating a rich aural experience.)

The material is dense, but Kenita R. Miller as "H," a surrogate for the composer/ writer, is thoroughly winning. (Emma Duncan performs the role of "H" at some of the matinee performances.) Miller has a supple and expressive voice that marvelously adapts to the solo and group numbers. She is exquisitely supported by a five-piece band who periodically assume roles in "H"'s memories of growing up in Natchez, Mississippi. (At these moments, the musicians–including Crosby, El Beh, Francesca Dawis, Caro Moore, Kris Saint-Louis, and Zack Zaromatidis–don Brenda Abbandandolo's whimsical costumes and assume the guises of old Southern women.)

Directed by Keenan Tyler Oliphant, the production overwhelms with its sensory overload. Emmie Finckel's immersive set, which is draped with faux kudzu–or the vine that practically overtook Natchez–is stocked with Southern bric-a-brac, makeshift shrines, and islands of cheerful gardens bursting through the floor. The setting would seem to be the ideal place to summon the six ghosts that "H" brings into the space, but it starts to feel very crowded when she explains that the actual number is in addition to "the two that already live in this space," as well as "the hundred and fifteen-ish that y'all brought in here with you tonight."

There are stories about migraine-suffering musicians, the spirit of a classical organist that haunts the narrator's house, and an eccentric piano teacher who sent her a piano from the afterlife. There is also a ceremonial prayer service involving Coca-Cola, and new-agey acknowledgements like, "You absolutely can't talk about music without addressing mathematics and physics–which will lead you eventually down here to quantum mechanics where everything goes whack with observation–at which point, you are careening headlong into poking your fingers through space time, which brings us BACK to ghosts AND to god." After a while, the assemblage of cursory remembrances, divine allusions, and supernatural digressions becomes fatiguing.

The evening culminates in a total blackout. (Prior to the blackout, Masha Tsimring's lighting design is marvelous with its alternating nostalgic playfulness and spectral auras.) Featuring an outstanding community choir of about twenty members, the show becomes an extended period of shared exorcism.

Although by this point, I was ready to take my accompanying ghost and go home, there were moments of exhilaration that took me back to my Oratorio encounter. The stunning voices rang through the darkness, and for about twenty minutes I gave myself over to this strange and beautiful requiem. For much of the show, Christian summons the apparitions of people who have enriched her life, but in the blackout, Animal Wisdom reveals what it means to be truly human.