Hell’s Kitchen is a musical loosely based on Alicia Keys’s autobiographical story. In reality, Alicia Keys was already professionally recognized in her teens: she trained in classical piano, wrote songs early, and grew up with strong support from her mother, who worked tirelessly to pay for her daughter’s education while raising her in Manhattan Plaza, the subsidized artists’ housing in the Hell’s Kitchen district. Their relationship was one of respect and encouragement. In the musical, however, Ali is a fictionalized, more vulnerable version of Alicia Keys—a 17-year-old who has yet to find her calling. She lives in the same setting but feels suffocated by her mother Jersey’s overprotection: whom she can spend time with, what streets are safe, and how she should move through life. Jersey’s control comes from fear born of difficult life experience. She works within the arts world but no longer carries the spirit of an artist; reality hardened her, and the musical quietly implies she became a mother too young, losing her youthful spark long before Ali could understand it.

Ali rebels and meets Knuck, a young drummer and street artist who initially tries to distance himself because of the social gap between them—class, race, and reputation within the neighborhood. Ali is drawn to him quickly, perhaps because her own father is a charming but unreliable musician who drifts through life without responsibility. The contrast sharpens her attraction to Knuck’s quiet steadiness. Yet their relationship leads to harsh consequences. A series of small misunderstandings—Ali’s lie about being seventeen, Jersey’s panic, a call to the police—spirals into an unjust labeling of Knuck as a delinquent. The punishment feels cruel, echoing how swiftly young Black men can be judged in modern New York even without wrongdoing.

Miss Liza Jane, who practices piano in the Ellington Room at Manhattan Plaza, becomes a maternal figure to Ali. She teaches with firmness and warmth, sharing her own experiences with discrimination and urging Ali to claim her place as a young woman musician. Her language—patriots and “matriots,” ancestors and foremothers—blends wisdom with a touch of theatrical poetry. Just before her death, she gives Ali the final push: to recognize that strength comes from within, not from waiting for life to change around her. Ali’s maturity emerges from this realization. She understands that she must make her own choices, including letting Knuck leave for Atlanta where he can live peacefully. Her choice is painful but adult.

I was not overwhelmingly moved by most of the song arrangements, perhaps because Alicia Keys’s originals remain so iconic in my memory. The musical reshapes many numbers into gentler, narrative-friendly versions, and while they are sung well, they do not carry the same emotional electricity as the recordings I know. Girl on Fire was the exception—the balcony shook with deep low frequencies, clearly designed to mark Ali’s inner ignition. Other songs felt warmer and quieter, serving the story rather than overwhelming it, and I accepted that this was part of the musical’s intention.

The musical ends without a “happily ever after.” Life in Hell’s Kitchen does not transform. Jersey remains the same anxious mother, the streets are still unpredictable, and Ali’s challenges are far from resolved. But Ali herself has changed. She sees her mother with more empathy, accepts the world without asking it to become perfect, and grows into a steadier version of herself. It is a quiet, honest ending—one that reflects Alicia Keys’s belief that fate shifts not through external rescue but through one’s own inner strength.

This was my first time at the Shubert Theatre. From my seat, I noticed the short line arrays and large delay speakers hanging elegantly from the ceiling, and even the glowing consoles at the back of the orchestra were beautiful in their pink and blue hues. I climbed to the first row of the third-floor balcony on the right, which gave me an unobstructed view. Looking down, I could see how much more enthusiastically the orchestra-level audience responded to familiar songs and witty lines. As always, the energy depends on who sits nearby, and those around me were quiet; I wished for a livelier atmosphere, though the major numbers still received warm applause. During Girl on Fire, the balcony vibrated with deep low frequencies—clearly a sound-design choice to emphasize Ali’s inner ignition. Empire State of Mind, by contrast, was intentionally gentler, allowing the finale to center on reflection rather than spectacle.

Ali was played by Amanda Reid, who at 17 matches the character’s age. Her vocal tone resembles Alicia Keys’s closely—perhaps too closely—making comparison inevitable in the most iconic numbers. Still, her high register and belts were strong, and she danced with natural confidence. Jersey was portrayed by Jessica Vosk, whose firm presence and powerful voice anchored every scene. Knuck, played by Phillip Johnson Richardson, had a mellow tone and resonant delivery that suited the character’s quiet dignity. Miss Liza Jane, played by Yolanda Adams, drew a huge curtain-call response; her posture at the piano was poised, and her life-lesson song before her death was one of the evening’s emotional peaks. Davis, played by Durrell “Tank” Babbs, sang and played well, but his Broadway Cares announcement revealed the most charm—a warm, humorous closing note after the bows.

As I exited, I saw a young girl jumping with excitement: a couple had purchased the signed cast poster for Broadway Cares/Equity Fights AIDS and simply handed it to her. They only wished to donate; giving the poster to someone her age brought its own joy. Seeing her happiness felt like a small extension of the musical’s message—that kindness, community, and inner strength ripple outward in unexpected ways. It was a fitting final note to a show about growing up, understanding one’s roots, and finding the courage to carve a life from within.