Like all show biz phenomena, Jersey Boys no longer needs a reviewer's approbation. Paltry adjectives, such as "good," "joyous" or "boffo," are rendered superfluous when appraising a juggernaut. After all, one hardly weighs up culinary virtues when downing a Whopper.

Instead, we'll ponder the whys. How does yet another in an endless line of jukebox musicals join the see-it-or-die ranks of a Phantom or a Wicked? For the once-revered '60s singing group of Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons, lionized in Jersey Boys, is as relevant to today's popular culture as Aunt Ethel's crushed-velvet settee. The aforementioned pair of theatrical institutions were launched into the box-office stratosphere by hardcore fan bases of menopausal housewives with dreams of being whisked off by a singing masked stud and prepubescent nymphets with a yen for Ozian enpowerment.

Jersey Boys — along with Monty Python's Spamalot — has tapped into a new market: the brand of macho males who are far more at home with a Bud at a sports bar than with a daiquiri on a mezzanine. In fact, the testosterone level so permeated the road show's opening night at the State that a genuine fist fight — epithets included — broke out at intermission. That's something a bit less likely to occur at a performance of Hello, Dolly!

There are many reasons for this macho infusion. First, there's the Mamma Mia factor. Audiences automatically grow misty-eyed, clap, dance and hyperventilate when confronted by the melodies of their proms and first lays. Unlike Playhouse Square Center's revue of last year that centered on the Rat Pack, Boys eschews being a waxworks recreation of a group at play. A critical factor in this choice was its producers' sagacious hiring of screenplay writer Marshall Brickman to collaborate on the book.

Brickman, who managed to mythologize the on-and-off relationship of Woody Allen and Diane Keaton in Annie Hall, applies the same magic in recounting the joy and turmoil that go into creating the sound and style of a world-famous vocal group. To make the book as explosive as the songs, he's borrowed from the Martin Scorsese lexicon. As in that director's best works, there's a sense of corruption and volatility. The book grasps the Scorsese template of a young innocent corrupted by success, in which the main character finds male camaraderie with other musicians, discovers his sound, temporarily loses his way, and is ultimately redeemed.

Director Des McAnuff infuses the evening with a cinematic drive. Thus, when we see the five boys finally finding their unique voice in a superb recreation of "Sherry," it becomes as triumphant a moment as the big boxing match in Raging Bull. McAnuff is also aided by the propulsive choreography of Sergio Trujillo and some astounding stagecraft, from pointedly satiric projections, to a set design that evokes the essence of an era, and lighting as vivid as the music.

Uncanny vocal and physical recreations of the group is only where the cast's assets begin. They exhibit an attention to detail and psychological delineation that wouldn't be out of place in either a psycho ward or an Arthur Miller drama.

At last a show fit, not only to bring Mama to, but also Papa and Uncle Harry — so long as they promise to refrain from family fisticuffs during intermission.

Jersey Boys: Through July 20 at Playhouse Square's State Theatre, 216.241.6000.