If ever there were a time to be drunk in the theater, this is it.

And the good news is that “Escape to Margaritaville,” the Jimmy Buffett jukebox musical that opened on Thursday, makes getting sloshed on Broadway easier than ever. The lobby at the Marquis Theater has been kitted out as an island-style thatched-hut alcohol fueling station, complete with margaritas for $12 (on the rocks) or $16 (frozen), as well as bottle openers, koozies and other drink-oriented paraphernalia.

The bad news is that you still have to see the show.

Or at least that was bad news for me, stone cold sober and with enough functioning brain cells to recall the past glory of musicals. If my twentysomething nephew liked “Escape to Margaritaville” better than I did, perhaps that’s because he had two drinks and no historical horror.

But if you’re not drunk or a Parrothead, as Mr. Buffett’s fans are called, you’re in trouble. Mr. Buffett’s denatured country-calypso ditties and horndog smarm seem awfully lowbrow, even in a Broadway environment debased for decades by singing cats and candlesticks. It’s quite a comedown in the sing-to-me-of-romance department from “Shall We Dance?” to “Why Don’t We Get Drunk (and Screw).”