Broadway in Chicago's Come Fly Away — Sinatra Gets Down and Dirty!

Ever since my high-school boyfriend included "I've Got the World on a String" on a mix CD he made me, I've been a fan of Frank Sinatra's music. Something about it — the blare of the big band, the warmth and clarity of Ol' Blue Eyes' voice, envisioning him wrapping up a set, tie loosened, in a smoky lounge — just crystallizes my nostalgia for an time that was simpler but, somehow, also sultrier.

So when a girlfriend invited me to attend a press-night performance of "Come Fly Away" at the Bank of America Theatre, I was thrilled: Frank Sinatra and Twyla Tharp together! Strong vocals and breathtaking moves! Classic with a modern, edgy twist! Yes!

I dressed up. I wore heels. We sat in the director's circle — nestled between the orchestra and balcony, up a small flight of stairs from a beautifully ornate lobby lit by hundreds of tiny incandescent bulbs — and were menaced by a very stern usher in a very polyester jacket not to so much as consider getting our phones out before, during or after the production. (Ah, the quintessential Broadway experience. Right here in Chicago!)

When the curtains went up, my friend and I, both singers, glanced excitedly around the stage for the man emulating Sinatra so beautifully. Alas, it was Sinatra himself, from the grave, with a glorious 14-piece band backing him up in perfect time.

That was weird.

Really weird, actually. Not just as a singer myself, but as someone who expects to go to a musical and hear…musicians. Live.

But I surrendered to the canned vocals and let my jaw drop for the dancers as soon as one of them went airborne across the stage. Flips, twists, twirls, bends, splits… There are actual names for the movements but no words for these dancers' talent. Twyla Tharp is a genius choreographer, and whoever cast this show gets a sticker for their brilliant choices.

But a word of warning to the prudes among us: Everyone gets naked. Well, not Showgirls naked. But enough that I scrawled in my program "EVERYONE IS NAKED" during the reprise of "Makin' Whoopee." (I mean, come on.)

I'm not a prude, and the various states of undress — and the ensuing junk grabbing — bothered me only as long as it took me to adjust from the first half's mild flirtation and suggestive seduction to the second half's outright-randy romp. Just because I'd never take my clothes off and spread-eagle in front of a dark room full of strangers doesn't mean those shockingly skilled dancers shouldn't.

The songs get sexier, the dances leave less and less to the imagination…and the clothes come off. It's only natural.

Okay, remember my last post about doing it wrong?

Real talk: I don't know how to write a theatre review. At all. I'm just a girl who got a free ticket to a show. There were things I loved about it; there were things that made me go, "Hmm." (And a few that made me go, "Mehhh…")

But if you have the means, you should probably see this before it moves out of town on Sunday, Jan. 22. Leave the kids at home (unless they're already into Jersey Shore) and treat yourself to a nice martini afterward. It's what Frank would have wanted.

The preceding 500-some words may have been the worst review ever written. If you have a bone to pick with me about that, yell at me on Twitter! I'm @paigeworthy.