Do you detect a rising fear of assassination these days? Perhaps it's inevitable in a time of heightened political activity, because at root, we know to our dismay that self-expression through violence is a large strand of the history Americans weave.

Stephen Sondheim and his librettist, John Weidman, also know it well, because the weirdly egalitarian obsession with violence and celebrity is at the core of their startling and quite wonderful musical, "Assassins." Now in a fine rendition by Point Park University's student company, it runs just through Sunday in the Playhouse's medium-sized Rauh Theater; if you can get tickets, you're lucky. (Remember: There's always a ticket, it's just a question of who's going to get it.)

"Wonderful" is a startling word to use with assassination, but wonderful this musical is, with a seductive, jaunty score rich in popular American period idioms like marches, waltzes, ballads, anthems, fairground music and hymns. Without words, it could be the background score for some sort of Ken Burns documentary.

The show is also horrific when you consider the heart-rending loss of, for example, Lincoln and Kennedy. This painful dichotomy is woven throughout, with Sondheim's now witty, now bitter lyrics cutting across the rich melodies and toe-tapping rhythms.

"Assassins" is basically a revue, variously portraying nine successful or failed assassins of U.S. presidents. The setting is a carnival shooting gallery: "do you wanna shoot a president?" inveigles the Proprietor, a sort of emcee. A wholesome Balladeer helps describe the assassins, starting with John Wilkes Booth ("Johnny Booth was a handsome devil" who "killed a country ... because of bad reviews").

They present their stories in musical soliloquies and also interact in odd combinations, cutting across space, time and historical circumstance, although there are creepy parallels along the way. It's as though we were in some negative limbo of American idealism.

Seduction is the name of the game, because just as we're seduced by the music and taboo subject, the assassins seek to seduce us with their stories, whether they acted politically or in a grab for fame. Take the haunting "Unworthy of Your Love," sung to fantasy love objects Charles Manson and Jodie Foster by the unbalanced Squeaky Fromme and John Hinckley, or "Another National Anthem," with anthemic pizazz.

The most politically aware are Booth and Leon Czolgosz, who killed McKinley. Hinckley is pathetic and Giuseppe Zangara pitiable. Charles Guiteau, who killed Garfield, is the kind of oddball you couldn't invent. But even madmen can speak truth. Gradually our discomfort eases, and "Assassins" purposefully provides plenty of humor, especially through Fromme, Sara Jane Moore and Samuel Byck.

One assassin has been missing all along, and we suddenly find ourselves in the Texas School Book Depository in Dallas where Lee Harvey Oswald -- shockingly played by that clean-cut Balladeer -- intends to commit suicide, until, in the show's most wrenching conceit, Booth and the others talk him into something else. Although only a metaphor, it's a conspiracy theory as convincing as any.

Old pro Jack Allison directs, making lighter use of the fairground motif than some productions. Music director Jeffrey Sarver has some fine voices and conducts a solid orchestra of 14. Kiesha Lalama-White (choreography), Stephanie Meyer-Staley (sets), Andrew Ostrowski (lights) and Joan Markert (costumes) are all on the same page.

Some impressive performers are Matthew Benedict (Booth), Peebles (Balladeer) and such comics as Quinn Shannon, Caroline Kaiser and Jocely Snyder (Byck, Fromme, Moore), who should be arrested for making political paranoia seem so silly.

There's an additional ensemble of nearly 12, some of whom also play small roles, such as Caroline Nicolian's fine Emma Goldman.

I have one strong objection. The cast often points guns at the audience, a theatrical no-no that carries creepy too far. We don't need this assault to dramatize a sobering reminder of the dark in the American past.

We see the horrible contrast between the assassins' rationalizations and their legacy, and more than once we're caught up in mid-laugh with the thought, "What are we laughing about?"

Inevitably, I wonder about the college-age audience, laughing with mention of Charlie with little awareness who Charles Manson was. And the show's finale is certainly more powerful for those of us who remember many details of Nov. 22, 1963.