ON THE STAGEBy Alan W. Petrucelli

They say that behind every good man is a great woman.

But someone got the arithmetic wrong at the Pittsburgh CLO Cabaret. That's where the high-octane show "The Big Bang" has been leaving crowds breathless since opening in early February. It's an 80-minute whirlwind farce in which two actors are holding a "backer's audition," hoping to convince audiences to invest in a musical about the history of the world that would take 12 hours and $83.5 million to produce. It's brimming with drag, campy yet innovative lyrics (rhyming "Caesar" with "geezer") and daring skits sure to good-naturedly offend almost everyone. In his review, Pittsburgh Post-Gazette theater critic Christopher Rawson called "The Big Bang" "nonstop comic madness."

Jed Feuer and Boyd Graham may have written the show, Jason Coll may have directed and Tim Hartman and Marcus Stevens may star, but the five-woman creative team -- costume designer Barbara Anderson, scenic designer Karen Glass, props mistress Tarah Grant, musical director Deana Muro and lighting designer Deborra Peelor -- are also important players whose work keeps the action fluid and flowing.

Coll hired the female force, he says, "because women aren't used enough on creative teams. They can bring a lot to the table."

This quintet brings it on and serves it up, making a funny show funnier through their innovative ideas. Their combined years of working in professional theater equals more than a century -- more years that any Sir Andrew show will ever run, now and forever.

All the women are behind-the-scenes except Muro, who shares the stage as Alice, the lesbian piano player. (For Saturday matinees, Alice becomes Albert, with Kelsey Halbert taking over the key role.)

Alice is one butch woman and looks nothing like her alter-ego's program photo. Her hair is slicked-back, there's a dog collar around her neck, arm cuffs and chains and tattoos adorn her body. Muro laughs when she recalls, "My mother asked me, 'You didn't really get tattooed, did you?' "

Muro says only one word -- a laugh actually -- and admits she looks forward to that "fun moment." Yet she's also aware the spotlight isn't on her. "I am color -- I can never become more than the part," she says, "but it's tough because Tim and Marcus are so freaking funny that I feel like Harvey Korman, always ready to break."

Muro is quick to add that the show is a collaborative, not competitive effort. "Jason let us know from the start that we could made decisions, come up with ideas. Such an atmosphere does not allow for ego."

Peelor agrees. "We all had our little posts, we were all taking notes and we were all making choices. We totally collaborated, yet we were so busy that ego never was an issue. Remember, we're all pretty down-to-earth women. We're all local. This isn't our first dance."

No, but there's an awful lot of dancing in the show as the men race this way and that, up and down stairs, through hallways and doors. It's hectic and harried -- and sometimes harmful. One recent Thursday night, Hartman cut his knee. But the show must go on, and the quick-witted thespian wiped away the blood with his hand, costumes and a tissue. (Medical update: All is well.)

Anderson did prevent one possible pitfall. During the Adam and Eve scene, the actors were to run round in their bare feet. After watching "too much slipping and sliding," she suggested they wear socks and shoes. It was a smart move, and keeping in step with the fast and furious fervor, a much funnier payoff.

Glass says that "The Big Bang" is "so prop heavy" that lines of job responsibilities often blur, and "we ended up helping each other."

Such collaboration fits perfectly on such as intimate show. Although the costumes are Anderson's official domain, the women worked in tandem, scouring area shops for props that could serve two or three uses -- a tennis racket and umbrella become oars, a colander becomes a helmet, baskets of yarn become Far Eastern headdresses, the golden fringe ripped off a hassock becomes a lion's mane, living room curtains become togas.

One especially witty show highlight spotlights a warbling Eva Braun ... she with braids of garlic standing in for her golden tresses. While rummaging through Lowe's, Tarah Grant came across a set of pole lamps, one of which she thought was perfect for Eva's "microphone."

"I remembered all the jokes about Hitler and Eva in their bunker with just one single bulb, and the light fit the bill," recalls Grant, who is the only team member without a program bio and photo. The idea to buy and use the lamp was illuminating in another way: Its shade is used as a crown worn by Hartman's Nefertiti.

Sheer madness? Indeed. Harrison has the last and more descriptive words. "It's simply fun and silly," she says. "No wonder we all have such a great time."