A still Sunday morning in late October… the sky monotone grey… my friend and I are on a fact-finding mission in Jackson, Mississippi. We drive to the outskirts of the city, take a left onto Hanging Moss Road, and see ahead of us, in isolation among the pines, the Word and Worship church where Bishop Jeffrey Stallworth will be conducting morning service. For the next two hours I listen to the words and music which will, five years later, form the basis of my thinking for Perseverance Drive.

The full title of Jackie Sibblies Drury's play, first produced in Chicago in 2012,  is deliberately gauche and in need of editing. No review is complete without it, however, so here it is: We Are Proud To Present A Presentation About The Herero of Namibia, Formerly Known As Southwest Africa, From The German Sudwestafrika, Between The Years 1884 - 1915. As they enter through the rehearsal room at the Bush, the audience encounters the group of well-intentioned young people supposedly keen to tell us the tragic story of the first genocide of the 20th century.

Cush Jumbo could very easily have put on a hit show about Josephine Baker. There would have been a chorus line of flappers, replete with spangles and feathers. She would have belted out some of the more enduringly popular hits from Baker’s glory days in Paris. Perhaps the infamous banana skirt would even have made an appearance in what could, essentially, have been a crowd-pleasing jukebox musical.

"Britten or Poulenc?" The question may seem a fatuous one, geared to the 100th anniversary of the Englishman's birth and 50 years since the Frenchman's death. Yet it certainly livens up what would otherwise be the usual dreary artists' biographies, presented with typical elan in this year's Cheltenham Music Festival programme book. "Has anyone said Poulenc in response to this?" asks pianist James Rhodes.

The best horror stories take place in mundane surroundings. The envelope of the ordinary gives a context of credibility to the practically incredible. In Janice Okoh’s new play, which won the 2011 Bruntwood prize at the Royal Exchange theatre in Manchester, and was seen there earlier this year, everyday life at first seems, well, entirely everyday, but soon things get worse. Much worse. In fact, almost unbelievably bad. Horror indeed.

The popular image of the state-of-the-nation play is that of a large-scale, big-cast drama that has an epic time span and lots of highly articulate speeches that analyse the way we are. But sometimes a small-cast play with a much more modest range can be equally successful in saying something worth hearing not only about a handful of characters, but also about contemporary Britain. Such a play is Vickie Donoghue’s powerful debut, which was first seen at the HighTide Festival in May.

When Madani Younis became the new artistic director of the Bush, some questioned his commitment to new writing, while others asked what he would bring to this small but high-profile venue. With this, his inaugural production, which opened last night, some answers suggest themselves: he’s chosen a solid new play, and he has introduced London audiences to a Lee Mattinson, a northern voice.

What’s it like to be young, British and Muslim in the age of austerity? In an era of global financial crisis, high unemployment and shrinking pay packets, what can this country offer British Asian youth? New talent Ishy Din poses these questions in his storming debut play which takes a trip to the local snooker hall in the company of four blokes, plays a few rounds of pool, downs a few pints and then chats its way up and down the walls and across the ceiling of the place, before quietly staggering home.

Suddenly, it seems as if the brawling youngster that was once new writing for the British theatre has grown up. Now, all it wants to talk about is the family, about having babies, and about what it’s like to be a parent. In Nancy Harris’s new play, which opened last night, the dubious joys of parenthood in an upper-middle-class family are eclipsed by the unexpected arrival of a new nanny. The inevitable question soon comes screaming at you: whose hand will be rocking the cradle?

This play has a deliberately evocative title: not only does it suggest overabundance (“everything but the kitchen sink”), but also a whole genre of playwriting (Kitchen Sink Drama). At the same time, the kitchen is the heart of family life. In fact, the title also has a more literal meaning: with a plot involving a blocked plughole, Tom Wells’s new play, which opened last night, gives us a chance to see how this venue’s much-lauded new premises suit the small family dramas that worked so well in its previous location.