I happened to stop by an old haunt a few Fridays back, the Rainbo Club in Ukrainian Village. It was right around 5pm and the place was pretty much as I remembered it from when I lived a few blocks south on Damen in the late 90s: cash only, Gumballhead on tap, an able, amiable bartender and long pulls of bourbon available in short glasses.
The only other patron when I walked in was a young woman reading a book. I placed my order on the way to the bathroom and when I returned to my stool, I found waiting for me a nice pour of Beam, a pint of Three Floyds and an older gentleman ducking in for a Scotch on the rocks.
As the man sat down, looking at me expectantly, I checked the time on my phone and his face fell for an instant. He had nothing to fear, though. I knew by the way he’d pulled up a stool near mine that he was looking for conversation. As I tucked my phone back into my shirt pocket and said hello, the man smiled, relaxed and started talking.
An hour later and two drinks in, we’d become fast friends who wouldn’t remember each other’s names five minutes after leaving the place. But the stories he told will stick with me a while longer, in particular the one where he was working on a cruise ship in the 70s carrying two astronauts and Arthur C. Clarke, among many other passengers, on a voyage to view a solar eclipse. He related how he’d found the ship’s weatherman drinking in the bar the night before the big event because the satellite data feed had been shut off until morning. Shaking the ice in his glass, he recalled how he’d thundered, “Don’t you know who we have on board? Go talk to the captain immediately and have him make whoever the hell turned off the weather data turn it the hell back on!”
Reader, the weather man did exactly as ordered. As a result, two astronauts and one of the world’s greatest science fiction authors were on deck the next day just as the ship steamed out from under a cloud bank and into a brilliantly clear day mere minutes before the eclipse began. My new friend had saved the day. And now he was planning to drive to southern Illinois to see the latest solar eclipse.
That’s the kind of human connection one hopes to find in a good local pub. If you agree, The Choir of Man is the ticket for you. This rollicking musical revue–picture an episode of Cheers with lots of singing amid the wisecracks and a good-hearted, highly talented mix of British, Irish and Midwestern patrons taking the place of Sam, Diane, Norm and Cliff–has built a real working pub inside the Apollo Theater in Lincoln Park. I can vouch for the working part, as one of the performers pulled a pint and handed it to me in my seat three rows above the action on opening night. Good man.
The bar, called The Jungle, isn’t the only thing working in the place. The cast, along with several musicians who play on a stage above and behind the back bar, keeps the drinks and entertainment flowing for 90 nonstop minutes. Did I love all of the songs? Nope. Did I find myself grinning, tapping my feet and growing ever more relaxed and content as the show went on? Absolutely.
This show got its start at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival in 2017 and proved so popular that it returned for the next two years and toured the world. The version onstage now pulls out all the stops, with lovely harmonies accompanied by accomplished musicians and delivered by a group of blokes you’d be glad to bend an elbow with on a regular basis.
There’s nothing weighty here, just a tribute to the simple joys of popping down to the local for pints, chat and maybe some darts or elaborate structures made from bar coasters. Several of the numbers incorporate audience interaction to enjoyable effect. The night I was there, a man was enlisted from my section to help throw bags of chips into the audience. He whipped them into the crowd like he was trying to kill someone. I teased him about it on the way out. He shrugged and smiled sheepishly. “I was nervous,” he said.
Not to be too spolier-y, but the funniest moment comes midway through when, one by one, several cast members line up at a row of urinals that’s been rolled out onto the main floor. They proceed to sing a Red Hot Chili Peppers song while unleashing improbably voluminous streams into the basins. There aren’t really any other risqué moments in the show, which is more apt to have the performers gather round the bar to sing a traditional folksong, 80s metal or a yacht rock classic.
It’s a raucous, ephemeral affair, great for date nights and boozy groups out for a good time. The patrons of The Jungle may not know your name, but they’ll be very glad you came. You’ll likely leave feeling the same way.
The Choir of Man runs through July 14 at the Apollo Theater.
For a full roundup of reviews of this show, visit Theatre in Chicago.
Photo by Michael Brosilow
