Three years after its debut, “We Are Lady Parts” returns with a triumphant second season. Created, written and directed by Nida Manzoor, the show’s depiction of a British all-female Muslim punk band revisits themes from the first season — identity, representation and the commodification of art — with greater depth and nuance.

The current season begins with the Lady Parts — Amina (Anjana Vasan), Saira (Sarah Kameela Impey), Ayesha (Juliette Motamed) and Bisma (Faith Omole) — coming off a successful tour of small venues. They have a dedicated following, but manager Momtaz (Lucie Shorthouse) hasn’t been able to secure paying gigs. Thus begins their quest to earn enough money to record their debut album and make art for a living without compromising their values.

Protagonist Amina (aka the newly minted Dr. Hussein) is no longer a “people-pleasing yes-woman.” She has (mostly) conquered her stage fright and is in her “villain era” — doing what she wants, when she wants and saying yes to the Universe — which means politely setting boundaries with her boss and declaring she’s in her villain era, ad nauseam. The good-natured guitarist does not understand that real villains are too busy doing nefarious things to declare their villainy. It is a perfect illustration of her character’s growth while remaining true to herself. 

Just when Amina has stopped looking for love, she crosses paths with Billy (Jack Riddiford), a fellow folk-music lover who perfectly matches her geek. To wit, not only is he not a Muslim, he is a white man. Amina’s interest in Billy prompts a hilarious and poignant discussion about how people of color internalize white beauty standards. 

Amina is simply dipping her toe into the interracial dating pool and not quite in the deep end. Her awkward flirting with Billy consists of a tug-of-war of giving and receiving compliments, and checking in to see if they have overstepped the other one’s boundaries. Brief physical contact sends her into a tailspin and makes her wonder if she is a nasty girl who is going straight to hell. Her best friend Noor (Aiysha Hart) reminds her that if she is hell-bound, there’s no hope for anyone.

Another delight of the season is a plotline that explores whether the novelty of their act is infringed upon when the Lady Parts face rival Muslim band, Second Wife (a clever nod to Muslim law that allows remarriage under certain conditions). On one hand, they are inspiring other Muslim women to pick up guitars. On the other hand, they are also navigating a creative landscape where gatekeepers want to promote one underrepresented voice at a time.

There are also tough questions about whether an artistic persona is a refuge or a retreat. A disastrous photo shoot leads to four meltdowns, after the band members model clothing that captures their respective personas. They are confronted with how they’re perceived as Muslim artists and whether those perceptions clash with how the girls see themselves. The photoshoot shines light on how two important facets of your identity can meet and become pressure points. 

Lead singer Saira is the most determined to make sure the Lady Parts become commercially successful, but commerce threatens her anti-capitalist values. Momtaz is cutting her teeth as a manager, while her band is hungry to play bigger venues and fast-track recording their debut album. Drummer Ayesha is brash and confident on stage, but she struggles with being open about her sexuality. She is a private person, but being secretive has the potential to threaten her relationships.

The most revealing exploration of intersecting identities comes through Bisma’s arc. As the sole Black member of the band and married mom, bassist Bisma begins to wonder if there might be worse things than being sexualized, like being overlooked and ignored.

Bisma went from schoolgirl to wife to mother, and while she enjoys being a wife and mother, she hasn’t quite learned how to dress and appear like herself. Wearing a headscarf is a symbol of her pride in being Muslim. However, a hair stylist reminds her that the ability to show the world her crown and glory as a Black woman is just as important. 

Issues of representation, identity and commodification collide when the Lady Parts get an offer that puts them on the precipice of mainstream success. Saira has a chance encounter with one of her heroes, which forces her to think about what it would mean to remain true to the political nature of punk by speaking about issues that affect women, people of color and Muslims around the world. Record executives want “untold stories” from “unheard voices” yet prioritize tidy narratives. Black and brown rage feels acceptable in works of art if people can consume art about it and feel fine about not working towards solutions because audience members are not implicated in the cause. If it’s possible to be a popular Muslim band as long as they only write songs about discomfort, not human suffering, then they may not be a punk band.

If there is one critique I have of the season, it’s the neat resolutions that are given to the two romantic subplots. In a show about women of color as artists, it’s refreshing that romance is not the focal point in the storytelling. But a show that is willing to wade into complex issues deserves equally messy romance.

Another season has not been announced, which is slightly anxiety-inducing because streaming services are capricious with renewal decisions. Either way, Manzoor has gifted the world two sublime seasons of television that audaciously prompts the viewer to go beyond being entertained by art, but also inspired to action.

This article is a review and includes subjective opinions, thoughts and critiques.