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.