Long before the house lights dim at the Opera House in Manchester, pints are poured onstage and the audience readily engages in an early slice of the action. It’s a small gesture, but it neatly signals what The Choir of Man is- and what it isn’t. Anyone expecting a traditional musical, with plot arcs and character development, may need to recalibrate. This is something looser, warmer, and altogether less concerned with storytelling than with creating a good time.

Framed around fictional pub, ‘The Jungle’, the show gathers nine performers who sing, play instruments, tap dance, banter, and occasionally reflect on life in ways that feel half-scripted, half-spontaneous. A jukebox worth of well-known songs flow one into another with minimal connective tissue beyond a few spoken interludes, delivered by a resident “Poet” (Oluwalonimi ‘Nimi’ Owoyemi), who gestures toward themes of friendship, loneliness and the odd fragility beneath blokey bravado.

Instead, under Nic Doodson’s direction, the production leans fully into its identity as an entertainment piece. It’s closer to a gig or a pub singalong than a piece of theatre driven by story. And in that space, it thrives. Oli Townsend’s set does some heavy lifting: a lovingly detailed bar that transforms the Opera House stage into somewhere you’d absolutely expect to order crisps and a lager. Before the show begins, cast members mingle with the audience, blurring the boundary between performer and spectator in a way that’s inviting rather than intrusive.

Musically, it’s slick without feeling over-polished. Ehsaan Shivarani’s arrangements move easily between stripped-back harmonies and full-bodied ensemble numbers, with the cast switching between instruments and vocals with enviable ease. There’s a particular pleasure in the a cappella moments, where the group’s precision and blend come to the fore, while the bigger numbers have a rough-edged, folky exuberance that suits the setting somewhat organically. Jack Skelton’s tap routine performed across the bar itself is a real standout moment: playful, inventive, and just the right side of showy- and much of the same can be said for Freddie Huddleston’s powerhouse choreography on the whole, especially in the more grounded second act.

What gives the evening its real pull, though, is the sense of togetherness it fosters. This is a show that understands the simple power of people gathered in a room, sharing music and a love for human spirit. It trades heavily on that communal energy, encouraging clapping, singing along and the kind of easy camaraderie usually reserved for late-night pubs rather than theatre auditoriums. Amid the singalongs and swagger, the show subtly gestures toward the quieter subject of men’s mental health, hinting at the difficulty many have in expressing vulnerability. These moments are brief but effective, suggesting that beneath the façade of the pub lies a sincere need for connection, honesty and being heard. At its best, it’s genuinely connective.

That’s not to say it’s without its missteps. The humour can occasionally feel a touch obvious, and some of the audience interaction edges towards forced. At times, the distinct lack of narrative thread can lead to song choices feeling slightly ambiguous- yet these are minor gripes in a production that largely knows its strengths and how to stick to them.

The Choir of Man may not offer the narrative depth of a conventional musical, but it doesn’t seem interested in competing on those terms. What it offers instead is a buoyant, good-natured evening that leaves you feeling like you’ve been a part of something- however briefly. And in a theatre landscape (and, frankly, modern world) so often selfishly preoccupied with forced spectacle or seriousness, there’s something quietly refreshing about that.

The Choir of Man plays at Manchester’s Opera House until Saturday 9th May. Further information and booking details can be found here.

Tickets received in exchange for an honest review. #AD

Photography by Mark Senior.