REVIEW: The Choir of Man @ Theatre Royal
Entirely wholesome, exuberantly fun, and deeply generous in spirit. It’s making a case; for friendship, for shared spaces, for the simple act of gathering.
Anyone who values a good gathering space will find The Choir of Man to be a heartening, open‑armed night out. It sidles up to you like a friendly local, orders a round, and before you know it you’re listening, smiling and feeling quietly connected.
The show is set in a lovingly imagined pub, but it’s less about narrative than about people. A resident poet‑host Nimi Owoyemi moves us through the evening with easy warmth, introducing the men on stage not as fictional types but as themselves. Their real lives, skills, and vulnerabilities shimmer through the songs and movement, creating a sense of honesty that’s disarming rather than earnest. You’re not asked to admire from a distance; you’re invited in. That openness: being seen, is a real community and quietly queer value woven throughout.
Musically and physically, the company is formidable. The voices are superb, each distinct, each contributing to harmonies that feel both precise and generous. The tap dance routine deserves special mention, not simply for its technical brilliance, though it is breathtakingly crisp and exhilarating, but for what it chooses to express. Here, tap becomes a physical language for emotional blockage: twitching feet, percussive strikes, and clenched rhythms articulating male anger, repression, and the wordless confusion of a relationship ending.
It’s not pretty in a polished, Broadway sense; it’s raw, compulsive, and urgent. The choreography allows frustration and heartbreak to rattle through the body rather than be spoken aloud, making it one of the most emotionally intelligent moments of the night. It’s cathartic to watch, and refreshingly frank about how men are often taught to process (or not process) feeling.
One choreographic moment stands out as pure insight: the sole gay character (Sam Ebenezer) sings an aching Adele ballad of longing while, around him, the other lads are raptly absorbed in a slow‑motion football match. The contrast is exquisite, the outsider within, perfectly positioned. For queer audiences, it’s instantly recognisable and beautifully handled.
Audience participation is pitched just right: warm, respectful, never coercive. You’re welcomed, not put on the spot. That sense of shared space swells into something genuinely moving when a local choir, The Buskerteers, predominantly women, are invited to join with the cast from their seats in the stalls to reprise Chandelier. Over a hundred Brighton voices lifting together echos the show’s clear statement about community, care and making room.
The finale seals the deal: an electrifying percussive dance that crackles with communal joy, recalling the clatter and exhilaration of Stomp and the muscular precision of traditional Portuguese Pauliteiros stick dances. It’s thrilling, unifying and sends the house out buzzing.
Entirely wholesome, exuberantly fun, and deeply generous in spirit, The Choir of Man isn’t chasing a tidy plot. It’s making a case; for friendship, for shared spaces, for the simple act of gathering. For Brighton’s queer audiences in particular, that feels less like theatre and more like a toast already raised. Cheers.
Until Saturday, 25 April at Theatre Royal Brighton. Full cast and creatives on the UK tour site.
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