Comedian Morgan Bassichis stands on the shoulders of pioneering gay performer Frank Maya in their solo show Can I Be Frank?
In Can I Be Frank?, comedian Morgan Bassichis resurrects the memory of pioneering gay performer Frank Maya with a blend of irreverent wit, original songs, and aching vulnerability. Written by Bassichis, and directed by recent Tony winner Sam Pinkleton, this solo show becomes both séance and self-portrait, blurring the lines between tribute and personal reckoning.
Nonlinear in form, the piece shifts fluidly between excerpts from Maya’s musically inflected solo monologues and Bassichis’s own biographical, historical, and personal reflections. Bassichis (who uses they/their for pronouns) has a mission to unearth overlooked queer figures who made vital contributions to performance and culture. Maya was among the first openly gay male comics to break into mainstream stand-up. Tragically, he died in 1995 at the age of 45 from AIDS-related heart failure—just one month before protease inhibitors became widely available.
Bassichis honors a forgotten trailblazer in Can I Be Frank? Photographs by Emilio Madrid.
The show opens on a jolt: Bassichis delivers Maya’s furious monologue lambasting Liberace for concealing his sexuality even in death: “You died. You lied. You died of AIDS and you lied. Why did you lie? You could have helped so many people.”
Bassichis quickly pivots, apologizing for coming in “way too hot,” even as the moment offers an unfiltered taste of Maya’s hyperanimated performance style. With impeccable timing, Bassichis shifts into a more conversational register, welcoming the audience to the SoHo Playhouse—“an important space for me,” the performer quips, “because this is the first place I injured my knees really badly.” What might seem like a non sequitur turns out to be a sly acknowledgment of the theater’s notoriously tight legroom—one that lands especially well from a performer affectionately described as a “tall child” or “the human counterpart of Big Bird.”
Bassichis frequently interrupts the monologue to share something vital about Maya—including the serendipitous way they first encountered his legacy. During an artist residency in Sag Harbor, Bassichis explained, the public was invited to drop in and observe the work-in-progress. One day, a kind stranger wandered into the gallery and asked what kind of art Bassichis made.
Bassichis: Well, I don’t like labels, but I’m a performance artist, kind of a comedian, I sing a little.
Visitor: That’s so weird, because my brother was a performance artist, kind of a comedian, and he sang.
What began as a chance encounter soon revealed itself to be a profound artistic inheritance. The stranger’s brother was Frank Maya—and Bassichis had stumbled upon a queer ancestor whose voice, style, and sensibility mirrored their own.
The production’s title serves as both invitation and provocation—a challenge for Bassichis to continue the endless queer search for fame, father figures, and laughter amid crisis. With humility and humor, Bassichis confesses to a deep obsession with Frank Maya, and frames the show as a way of passing it on:
I got obsessed. And this show is my attempt to try to pass on my obsession to you, to make sure everyone knows the name Frank Maya.
Although Bassichis insists they are merely playing an ensemble role, with Maya as the show’s true star—“Remember that name, Frank Maya, because he’s the star of the show. I’m in more of an ensemble role”—the audience seems spellbound by Bassichis throughout. Whether Bassichis is prompting audience members to read questions aloud (“My child is now identifying as nonbinary. What should I do?”) or channeling Maya’s monologues, their command of tone and timing are undeniable. In one such moment, The First Time You Go Home With Someone, Bassichis delivers Maya’s cautionary wisdom with disarming intimacy:
You finally get it. This guy’s fooled you and you fell for it. But next time you’re gonna take your time, be more careful about those first nights out. … It’s so easy to put all that energy into the first act, but the second act really stinks. So watch out.
Bassichis sings several of Maya’s songs, with the wittiest one being “Polaroid Children,” which points out that parenting would be far easier if we could have children “that will develop in seconds.” Given such speed, a parent could know right away if “I made a mistake / Or if I need to shoot again.”
The show concludes on a final crescendo: Bassichis sings a poignant excerpt from Douglas Crimp’s seminal 1989 essay Mourning and Militancy, which explores the entwined forces of grief and political action during the height of the AIDS crisis. Frank Maya would approve.
Can I Be Frank? plays through Sept. 13 at Soho Playhouse (15 Vandam St.). Evening performances are at 7 p.m. Monday through Friday and at 5 and 8 p.m. Saturday; there will be an added performance on Aug. 31 at 5 p.m., and no performance on Sept.1.) For tickets and more information, visit canibefrank.nyc.
Playwright: Morgan Bassichis, based on and with original material by Frank Maya
Director: Sam Pinkleton
Set: Oona Curley
