When bad things like a pandemic make me despair, I try to find a logical explanation, remember that heroes arise in unusual situations, and know that there is a deeper spiritual meaning to be dug out of the despair. I thank the cosmos that Rachel Bloom calls all this bullshit in Death, let me do my show. That’s 90 minutes of Bloom telling and singing the truth in a wonderfully raunchy, surreal musical show. Seth Barrish directs with a clear economy of staging that doesn’t overshadow the performance.

Not only is life messy, it’s also full of trees that smell like a crusty jockstrap. Bloom uses a more vivid term, one that’s succinct and sung like a tune played in the Gilded Age parlor while twirling a lace parasol. Nothing is immune to being skewered, especially death and what comes after the last breath. Bloom has a great singing voice. It’s clear and disarmingly sweet. She reminds me of the studio system entertainers who could sing, dance and act. Bloom is a master of her craft.

The background on the stage is a gathered blood-red curtain, reminiscent of the opening credits of a gothic film. I love Lucy. Death (a fantastic David Hull) appears as a heckler who confronts Bloom about her relationship with him. Hull played the white Josh in Bloom’s show My crazy ex-girlfriend and is a good artist himself. The two have great chemistry and Death makes some witty remarks. The line about looking into the abyss is funny and dark. He sings a hilarious song that Dear Evan Hansen and that no one has seen the show or the movie. Death wants to be seen and acknowledged. This is where the show takes an unusual comic turn.

Bloom processes her encounters with death into beautiful songs about how a young mother is afraid of the death of her baby. Is funny, I promise. Bloom takes the relatively new era of America’s obsession with our pets as family and sings a song about the Rainbow Bridge. This installment is peppered with pet insurance scams, surreal sympathy cards, and weird dog paintings. The projections, designed by Hana Kim, are items Bloom claims are in her daughter’s nursery. I can imagine what a keen sense of humor this kid will have.

I loved her story about the birth of her daughter. Bloom plays a clip of herself lying on the operating table with her arms and legs outstretched singing “Space Jam.” She captioned the video Epidural and I’m still laughing. She describes the ins and outs of giving birth during Covid and the likelihood of pooping on the delivery table. The pandemic is taking a toll that is testing her Shortage of faith and praying to a being that doesn’t exist for her. She has been devastated by loss and has come to understand death better. The beautifully nuanced balance of tragedy and comedy is unlike anything I’ve ever seen.

Bloom never ventures into the territory of the very specific after school program. How she deals with death and what may or may not come after is comedy as performance art. There is no pious moralizing. Bloom says out loud what some people wish they had the courage to say. Sometimes life sucks and Rachel Bloom will tell you how to use it as a scatological “Kilroy was here.” It’s not for the faint of heart or delicate sensibilities, so get over yourself and watch this show. I highly recommend it. Death, let me do my show.

Death, let me do my show runs through August 24 at the Steppenwolf Theater, 1650 N. Halsted St. The performance lasts 90 minutes with no intermission. For tickets and information, visit www.Steppenwolf.org/Rachel Bloom.

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