‘We Are Lady Parts’ Season 2 Review: Peacock’s Muslim Punks Return

At a pivotal moment in their careers, Lady Parts find themselves in a heated argument. Frontwoman Saira (Sarah Kameela Impey) wants the group to pivot to more overtly political statements, in contrast to the jokier material that’s been their signature up to now. Her bandmates, meanwhile, are skeptical. They’d be playing “pick an atrocity, any atrocity” to shore up their own cred, one argues. Their existence as an all-female Muslim punk band is inherently political, another suggests. Besides, wouldn’t that jeopardize the success they’ve worked so hard for? Or is that only more reason to speak up?

The group never do reach a definitive decision, and the meeting ends in anger and hurt. But to the extent that a solution to their dilemma exists, they might be living it already. Peacock‘s We Are Lady Parts made an immediate impression in 2021 with its refusal to limit itself to any one box. Here was a show that could be silly and smart, edgy and wholesome; that could deliver riotous bops and searing commentary in the same breath. Its sophomore outing recaptures that magic but deepens it, too — with conversations like the above, that dare not only to ask who Lady Parts are but what they mean and what they’re for.

The biggest favor that creator Nida Manzoor does for herself is to expand the scope of her show’s universe beyond just the band, although it takes some time for the full picture to come into focus. Initially, the plot seems to be about individual self-empowerment, with goody-two-shoes guitarist and narrator Amina (Anjana Vasan) announcing that she’s in her “villain era.” (In reality, this just means the reformed people-pleaser is setting boundaries.) Her more confident persona echoes the optimism of the band as a whole: hot off a smash-hit tour of U.K. clubs, Lady Parts hope to ride their momentum straight into the recording of their first album.

But they quickly discover that they’re no longer the fresh-faced unknowns on the block. Indeed, by the comically cruel logic of the music biz, they’re practically elder stateswomen. “Wanna hear an update on an old classic?” coos a member of Second Wife, an even newer band, before launching into a cover of Lady Parts’ “Bashir With the Good Beard.” The Gen Z trio mean it as a sincere compliment to the idols who inspired them to make music in the first place. Lady Parts, grimly aware that they’re hurtling toward 30 with little material achievement to show for it, have a somewhat more difficult time taking it as such.

Lady Parts being who they are, both their grievances and triumphs are channeled into more hilarious bangers. “I’ll respond to your email at a reasonable hour,” Amina wails in a song inspired by the aggravation of receiving work emails after bedtime. “Malala Made Me Do It,” a twangy tribute to the Pakistani activist, stems from an argument between mild-mannered Bisma (Faith Omole) and her more rebellious daughter (Edesiri Okepherho). There are semi-ironic covers of Britney Spears and Hoobastank, in a nod to the gang’s Millennial identity.

As ever, Manzoor accents their journey with whimsical touches, like a whoosh sound effect when Amina ducks behind a trash bin to hide from her crush (Zaqi Ismail), or a remote control that allows Bisma to pause conversations with her kid when she’s feeling overwhelmed.

But it would be a mistake to conflate We Are Lady Parts‘ lively sense of humor with unexamined frivolity. On the contrary: with their star on the rise, the group are increasingly made to consider how best to wield whatever modicum of power they have. If the draw of the first season lay in part in how self-evidently unique its premise was, the second complicates their appeal by situating them within a larger community and history — of punk rockers, of Muslims, of Black and brown women in London or around the world.

See Also

Roger Federer, Rafael Nadal Team Up for Louis Vuitton Campaign

Drummer Ayesha (Juliette Motamed) wrestles with the obligation she feels to set an example for “all the little gay girls” by coming out. Manager Momtaz (Lucie Shorthouse) begins to carve out a new role for herself that reaches beyond Lady Parts, into a larger indie music scene.

Most pointedly, Saira struggles to make herself heard in an industry that seems to love Lady Parts only as long as they stick to “funny Muslim songs.” The conflict between creative compromise and artistic integrity comes to a dark, surreal head when she sits down to write a track about — well, actually, we never get to find out. In a scene straight out of a horror movie, she discovers that whenever she tries to name the issue, it comes out as audio feedback. Her mouth is blurred onscreen (though it looks like she’s trying to say “war”) and her body pelted by invisible blows.

That Saira never does get to say what she means feels like a rare instance of We Are Lady Parts pulling its punches, even if it’s ostensibly in service of a broader point about the muzzling of artists.

Nonetheless, its willingness to have the discussion in the first place counts for something. On another show, conversations about community or representation might come across as self-important or heavy-handed. Here, it’s just the organic output of characters who are curious enough to ask, bold enough to act, humble enough to listen and witty enough to make it fun for the rest of us watching as they figure it out.

Amina, Saira, Ayesha, Bisma and Momtaz do not have all the answers, and they cannot be everything to everyone. But We Are Lady Parts makes the point that they don’t have to be — that the sweetest music can come from a raucous combination of voices and instruments all put together, pushing and pulling their way toward a genuinely new sound.