In some ways, “Seven Guitars” — currently receiving a respectful and respectable revival at the Signature Theatre — is a less than ideal reintroduction to the jostling, convivial, metaphor-drenched canon of August Wilson, who died last October. Written more or less in the middle of Wilson’s cycle of 10 plays, each of which addresses black life in a different decade of the 20th century, “Seven Guitars” falls prey to some of the author’s less fortunate habits, notably a soft spot for older savants who spout equal parts bunkum and prophecy.

As an entry point into his work, however, it serves as a sobering valediction. Its first scene depicts a group of mourners, young and old, lamenting the untimely death of a black artist. Its last scene returns to this image — and then extends it to show these men and women persevering through kindness and gruff humor and song. Despite a crucial casting gaffe involving Floyd “Schoolboy” Barton, the doomed musician at the play’s center, director Ruben Santiago-Hudson uses these images and several others to help guide audiences into the most intimately realized fictional landscape in all of 20th–century theater.

Set in Pittsburgh’s predominantly black Hill District in 1948,”Seven Guitars” follows the last several days in the life of Floyd (Lance Reddick), a cocksure young musician who has had a taste of fame and is dying for more. (“I don’t know what you all think of yourself, but I think I’m supposed to have.”) Though Floyd’s “That’s All Right” has begun to receive radio play, the musician needs to get his guitar out of the pawn shop — a feat that proves surprisingly difficult — before he can get back to Chicago to record more songs. He also needs to coerce Vera (the sensational Roslyn Ruff), his sometime girlfriend, to forgive his past transgressions and join him up north.

Nobody else in Pittsburgh seems too favorably disposed to this second request — not Vera, nor her skeptical landlady Louise (Brenda Pressley), and certainly not Floyd’s bandmate Canewell (Kevin T. Carroll), who carries a torch for the hard-nosed, soulful Vera.The play begins by flashing forward to Floyd’s funeral, and by the end of “Seven Guitars,” it’s apparent that any number of people — including Louise’s half-mad boarder Hedley (Charles Weldon), who has killed before and who is buoyed by apocalyptic Rastafarian visions — could have had a hand in his death.

A virtual repertory troupe has sprouted up around Wilson’s plays, taking on these towering roles at regionals around the country, and among its younger set is Mr. Santiago-Hudson. Compared to most productions, the cast of “Seven Guitars” is unusually light on these stalwarts; only Mr. Weldon and the reliably excellent Stephen McKinley Henderson, who plays the third member of the band, qualify. Perhaps Mr. Santiago-Hudson, whose performance as Canewell in the 1996 Broadway production won him a Tony Award, consciously decided to introduce a new generation of actors to the work. Whatever his reasons were, the approach doesn’t entirely succeed.

The trick with Wilson’s plays is to let the individual actors give sufficient voice to his loping, seemingly inconsequential language without losing the underlying rhythms. The chatter, which invariably carries seeds of Wilson’s deeper messages, takes up a huge amount of stage time. And while nearly all of the actors grab hold of Wilson’s rich setpieces, Wilson’s delicious banter takes on a forced quality. They all do a better job of talking than listening, and the rhythms lurch when they should hum.

I believe this discomfort stems from the bluesman at its center. With his reedy physique and immaculately marcled hair, Mr. Reddick wears Floyd’s bravado less comfortably than the imposing Keith Davis, who created the role on Broadway. While Floyd may not be the brightest fellow, his mulishness and virile allure have nonetheless opened a lot of doors.

But it doesn’t ring true here when Hedley hails Floyd as “the pick of the litter,” a paragon of the race that inevitably must be brought down by white society. Mr. Reddick’s Floyd is an impulsive, brazen, charismatic man-child — it isn’t difficult to picture him as a local sensation, and Mr. Reddick does well with conveying Floyd’s diminishing possibilities as the play unspools. The softness at the core of his interpretation, however, results in a mismatch in Wilson’s metaphoric battle between Floyd and the rest of the world.

Hedley is the other main problem — in this production, and in “Seven Guitars” in general. Wilson’s wisefool elders, which he used so frequently, should exist comfortably within day-to-day events and also transcend them — a devilishly difficult feat for actors. Mr. Henderson has managed it in the past — notably in “King Hedley II,” which features several characters from “Seven Guitars” decades later — but Mr. Weldon’s stiff performance fails to turn Hedley into more than a device.

Mr. Santiago-Hudson uses the wide Signature space well, employing every inch of Richard Hoover’s elaborate backyard set. He has a feel for the play’s scenes, as when a radio broadcast of boxer Joe Louis’s victory launches the cast into an eruption of cathartic joy and vindication. And he weaves Bill Sims Jr.’s superb original music throughout the play, particularly in a scene in which the trio’s raucous jam session gives way to Hedley’s summoning his mother’s prayers on a homemade one-string guitar.

Best of all, it would appear that Mr. Santiago-Hudson loves Vera as much now as his Canewell did 10 years ago. He elicits from Ms. Ruff a heart-rending performance that holds its own among the finer Wilson interpreters of recent memory. With her impassive face and stern carriage, Ms. Ruff’s Vera has the grit to withstand the blandishments of her various suitors. As she abandons this composure for the clearly undeserving Floyd, her blend of regret, scarred pride, and suppressed lust is riveting to watch. Mr. Carroll’s Canewell, meanwhile, starts out tentatively but settles into a compelling blend of peacock, pedant, and poet.

As the plot twists unfold, drawing all seven characters into Floyd’s sad tale (Cassandra Freeman rounds out the cast capably as Louise’s rambunctious niece from down south), Vera’s embattled dignity enshrouds the entire company. That dignity promises to reverberate through the rest of the Signature’s season-long salute to the aggravating, devastating, boisterous, cryptic, and essential cadences of August Wilson.

***

Thanks to a grant from Time Warner, the Signature’s season is one of the better bargains in town at $15 a ticket. (The season continues with Wilson’s “TwoTrains Running” and “King Hedley II.”); But if even that price seems a little steep, head to Battery Park on Saturday, September 9.That’s where you’ll see — and, more important, hear — “August Wilson & the Blues,” a free event featuring Mr. Sims and fellow blues guitarists Vernon Reid and James “Blood” Ulmer. Mr. Santiago-Hudson is directing, and snippets from the 10-play cycle will be included.

Until September 23 (555 W. 42nd St., between Tenth and Eleventh avenues, 212-244-7529).