3B
Wednesday, Janurary 18th, 2017 // The Statement 

A Girl Walks Into: Circus 

B Y J A C K I E C H A R N I G A , DA I LY S TA F F W R I T E R

COVER DESIGN BY CLAIRE ABDO AND KATIE SPAK

ILLUSTRATION BY KATIE SPAK

The show will not go on for 

Circus, the clubbing complex 

in 
Ann 
Arbor’s 
Old 
West 

Side. After 22 years, the adult 

funhouse is slated to close its 

doors in early February.

Circus has been a staple to 

some and an anomaly for many. 

Though I have lived in Ann 

Arbor for more than a year, 

my first visit to the bar and 

billiards hall was this summer. 

By that point I was well worn 

into my 21 years, and having 

never debated with a bouncer 

over the authenticity of my 

ID, I wasn’t accustomed to 

bars with themes other than 

“we serve alcohol here.” From 

the strangeness of the scene, 

I thought for a moment I had 

wandered 
into 
the 
wrong 

place, or another of the many 

establishments stacked Lego-

like at 210 S. 1st St.

Inspiration for the club pulls 

heavily from the Ringling Bros. 

Circus, another cultural staple 

that coincidentally announced 

this week it would be closing 

the caravan for good. The 

clashing decor can be visually 

disturbing: a smear of bright 

colors 
dimmed 
by 
poor 

lighting, carnival trimmings 

butting up against pool tables 

and big screens playing sport 

channels. There was a worn 

sadness to it, like collagen lips 

or a falsely straightened nose. 

Any character that could be 

derived from the building’s 

165-year 
history 
has 
been 

smoothed over like wrinkles 

after 
Botox 
by 
its 
garish 

artifacts — a place so tacky they 

should be selling keychains by 

the coat check. Circus couldn’t 

make up its mind about what 

it wanted to be, and catered to 

an audience that didn’t want to 

grow up.

I went to the farewell bash 

last week with two friends to 

get a sense of how the campus 

and surrounding community 

would react to the end of the 

Circus era. A surprisingly wide 

range of ages turned out for 

the goodbye soiree, and the 

wardrobes ran the gamut from 

camouflage hats to sombreros, 

formal wear to flannel. With all 

four clubs open and connected, 

it’s impossible to describe the 

scenery 
without 
sounding 

like Stefon from SNL: “Ann 

Arbor’s hottest club has year-

round Halloween decorations, 

elephant heads, boys singing 

Blondie and blondies singing 

Boyz II Men.”

Unlike 
at 
a 
real 
circus, 

here the clowns talk. “Can I 

buy you ladies a shot?” a boy 

asks us. Let’s call him Brady, 

in honor of the Tom Brady 

jersey he was sporting. His 

buddy went to grab the shots 

while Brady spins us two at 

a time. Millennium, another 

of the clubs in the complex, 

is 
decorated 
much 
like 
a 

bowling alley, with Tiffany-

style lampshades over the bar 

and plenty of disco balls. We 

spot Brady later, spinning girls 

like records upstairs in Circus. 

Jerk. Cavern in the basement,

with a faux koi pond, plastic trees and twinkly lights, is an unexpected Eden — an angel bust graces 

the bar, and a distressed “Creation of Adam” fresco provides the perfect backdrop for posterity 

shots. Part speakeasy, part bomb shelter, the edifice of

Cavern reminds me of the underground pubs I frequented last summer in Oxford. We exit the 

veritable Rainforest Cafe, or we try to until the DJ plays a remix of “Who Let the Dogs Out” that 

drags us back by our leashes. In spite of my previous reservations, I am spellbound by Cavern, and 

for the first time feel a pang about the club’s passing. We dance, pose in front of the fresco, then 

push for a change in scenery.

“I love Circus,” the girl in front of me in line says. “It’s just weird. I fucking love it.”

The ability to barhop without ever stepping foot outside was so attractive we maintained a constant 

circuit through Circus, blurring the milieu like the view from a carousel ride: passing funhouse 

mirrors, a serene water fountain, a miniature Statue of Liberty. The drinks were terrible, but they 

had cheap PBR and gloriously free popcorn. Strangers of all creeds and classifications meet, grab 

one another by the shoulders and sing. It’s a scene that isn’t dignified, nor easily duplicated.

Asking why visitors go to Circus is like asking why people drink in the first place — it’s an 

escape, but in a setting that glorifies a history of the fantastical. In 19th-century America, traveling 

performance troupes brought the strange and peculiar to small towns nationwide. Circus and 

Co., inspired by the pioneers of entertainment, provided a similar service to the Ann Arbor area. 

Millennium is a retreat into the ’90s, while Gotham caters a slice of a venerated franchise. There 

was more to this bar than a counter over which alcohol is served. Though it’s low-budget Vegas 

sideshow appeal is not universal, it was effective. It became as real as you wanted it to be.

I had a great time at Circus, watching social constraints melt over showtunes and pool tables. 

It was a spot where — because it was so odd, because it was trying so hard to appeal to so many 

demographics, because it wanted nothing from you besides to show you a good time — coming as you 

are meant never standing out. As I wade back through the crowd, I overhear a man’s voice: “This 

place is kind of nuts!” Well, that’s kind of the point.

