'Choir of Man' is a rollicking good time filled to the brim with song, suds and sentimentality

The vibe for “The Choir of Man” kicks in well before the show actually starts. Enter the Apollo Theater stage, where the musical is running through May 26, and you’ll find yourself in a pub called The Jungle, the sort of local tavern where everybody knows your name.

With boozy, swaggering energy, the all-male, roughly dozen-strong cast plays air guitar with mops, dances on tables, hoists sloshing tankards of beer and gleefully carouses with anyone in their orbit on Oli Townsend’s working bar of a set.

The atmosphere is part after-hours St. Patrick’s Day celebration, part frat party, and — once the music starts — part cover-band concert of what’s either Dad Rock or Classic Rock, depending on your generational perspective.

In all, the show — more of a revue, created across the pond by Andrew Kay and Nic Dodson (with musical arrangements by Jack Blume) — taps into that euphoric kind of camaraderie that can result after a long night of cakes and ale, those magic evenings where everybody in the room eventually feels like your best friend, even if you just met them and are unlikely to ever see them again.

There’s no plot here, although performance poet Ben Norris’ spoken-word interludes punctuate some 90 minutes of ballads and rock tunes from the likes of Paul Simon, Adele, the Red Hot Chili Peppers, Guns ‘N Roses and Luther Vandross. Throughout, Dodson’s direction has the cast in convivial party mode, encouraging the audience to celebrate the joy of a communal gathering space.

Our new best friends for the evening are a lovable motley crew, all Irish-, English- or Welshmen, with the exception of the locally cast RJ Griffith. Each is known by a nickname that defines their character.

Poet (Shane McDaid) is our host for the evening, giving voice to Norris’ gently rhyming descriptions of the pub’s denizens as well as ruminations about the definition of “home.” That dialogue is decidedly more Hallmark than Wordsworth, but it’s effective in defining the personality types on stage. And truly, anyone who can rhyme “Great British Bake-Off” with “protein shake-off” deserves credit for preposterously ridiculous creativity.

Beast (Norton James opening night, Cal T King at other performances) is a burly chap who plays a mean guitar while turning “Teenage Dream” into a moon-eyed serenade to an audience volunteer (the first of many) ushered to one of the Jungle’s tiny two-tops.

Romantic (David Shute opening night, Kevin James Sievert at other performances) delivers a musical highlight with an alternately hushed and soaring cover of Adele’s “Hello.”

Maestro (Ifan Gwilym-Jones) brings impossibly intricate piano stylings to “I’m Gonna Be (500 Miles),” tickling the ivories with finger-blistering finesse worthy of Rachmaninov.

MICHAEL BROSILOW

George Knapper is the tap-happy Handyman, his deft footwork driving “50 Ways to Leave Your Lover” with the percussive insistence of a heart thrumming with wild palpitations.

The comedy flows from Benji Lord’s Joker, leader of a trio that performs “Under the Bridge” while parked in front of urinals, strategically staged splashing streams adding to the instrumental background.

Barman Mark Loveday pulls pints and leads the ensemble in a hip-swiveling rendition of “Escape (The Pina Colada Song),” presenting an audience member with the titular tropical concoction while the ensemble juggles pineapples and coconuts like it’s the last night of Spring Break.

With “Raise Me Up” Marc Akinfolarin — aka Bore — amps up the volume while building an improbable house of cards. Griffith, meanwhile, deploys the best belt of the night with the thrilling anthem “You’re the Voice.”

The all-instrumental “Jungle Stomp” is also a winner, the multi-instrumentalist cast playing trumpets, accordions, banjos, recorders and all manner of percussion as they unleash a high-octane dance party on the stage.

Throughout, an onstage pocket orchestra (bassist Rafe Bradford; drummer Scott Simon; Seth Pae on violin, viola and keys, Kelan M. Smith on guitar, banjo and mandolin) adds heart and soul to the music.

Overall, Sten Sverson’s sound design needs work. When the volume gets loud, the lyrics become muddied and the pitch iffy. The group is at its sonic best in a capella numbers, including a hushed, mics-off rendition of the folk ballad “The Parting Glass” and the airtight harmonies of “Chandelier.”

With its schmaltzy descriptions of “home,” there’s more than a few times in “The Choir of Man” when calculated sentimentality threatens to turn the show into predictable treacle. But for every such moment, there’s another one that brings the party back. By the time the ensemble starts sling-shotting Funyuns into the audience, the mood has all mug-clinking cheer of a late-night toast.