The energy fluctuates across the work, dialled up and down with tactical pauses and musical transitions, including some injections of techno from German house duo Âme. A slow dance in pairs captures the thrill of an intimate encounter on the dancefloor, while sporadic blackouts recall the out-of-body void of a head rush, when time pauses and you’re briefly sucked into the black hole of your own self. 

Current internet discourse (make of that what you will!) posits that Gen Z clubgoers dance less than their elder counterparts. It’s tempting to read “In the Brain”—created by a 51-year-old whose own youth played out during the halcyon days of ’90s rave culture—as a paean for rituals past. There’s certainly a rapturous slant that calls to mind spirituality and religious rites. Hands are cupped, eyes cast down in benediction. Breakout solos are witnessed with raised hands, gospel-style. The dancers move in a tight pack, their communal ecstasy edging towards mania, possession even—apostles speaking (or in this case, writhing) in tongues. They wear soft, long garments that catch the light as they whoosh, a sort of lens flare to these bodily hymns. It’s a powerful use of the contracted postures and visceral group intensity that buttress Shechter’s wider catalogue.

The troupe congregates in a dance circle for one of the final scenes, whooping in a primal call-and-response. Their stamina is outrageous—they pump, plunge and thrust until the very last beat. The club motif persists as the lights come up and the audience trickles out, jostled and wide-eyed, sent forth to take the party elsewhere.