The set looks like a cheap Polynesian nightclub, with movie posters, bamboo shades, garish rugs, and a painted wicker bar. At center stage, four black women and three black men work themselves into an African-dance frenzy, goaded by three drummers. They’re wearing street clothes and broad grins aimed at an imaginary audience. A woman hovering offstage wears a ball gown and a towering 16-inch turban that both appear to be made of red cellophane. At some point a clown shows up, accompanied by a short guy in a tuxedo; and the African dancers are replaced by a female rock singer playing keyboards who suddenly breaks off and grabs a set of bagpipes. Finally a blond woman eight months pregnant wades into the center of the chaos and calls a meeting. Welcome to the Friday Club.
“What? Oh, I thought you said do I have flowers in my hair.”
“9:30.”
“Speaking of glasses, do we have glasses?”
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By now a studio audience fills the three rows of metal folding chairs squeezed against the back wall. The crowd consists of kids, couples on dates, and older folks. Most of them seem to be here because they know someone involved with the show: one person is the wife of someone in the Muntu Dance Theatre, the African dance group, another is the brother of one of the show’s hosts. The versatile keyboard/bagpipes player is now sitting in the second row with her two little girls. Sitting next to me is a woman in yellow whose enthusiasm is apparent but whose reason for being here is not.
Chuck says, “We’re going to rehearse right now. When he goes like this [Dave raises his arms in a touchdown gesture], you’re going to go, ‘Wow! Yes!’ [claps vigorously].”
“Yeah, I am.”
