Mattress for the Mind

"Here we are," says the cabby, stopping at No. 429 Broome Street, an unlighted storefront in lower Manhattan with a FOR LET sign taped to one black-painted window. By day, Broome Street is a bustling, truck-clogged thoroughfare; at 9 p.m. it is all but deserted. Doubtfully, the passenger pays the cabby and walks over to try the door of the store. It is locked. He is about to return to the taxi when he notices a small bell push, hidden in the shadows. He presses; a buzzer signals that the door is unlocked. He steps inside a tiny, pitch-black room; the door clicks quietly back into place. Silence. Then, suddenly, out of the blackness comes a deep, disembodied voice. "Welcome to Cerebrum," it says. "Your name, please?"

That scene, like something out of Inner Sanctum, is a newcomer's introduction to Manhattan's latest and most curious experiment in public entertainment—a theater without a stage show, a cabaret without food or liquor, a party without an occasion. To its proprietor, a 25-year-old former talent agent named Ruflfin Cooper, Cerebrum is "an electronic studio of participation." Others have called it a "psychedelic playpen" and a "McLuhan geisha house." However defined—and perhaps it can't be—Cerebrum is an experience.

Translucent Togas. Once past the entry hall, patrons are politely requested to remove their shoes. They are escorted up a ramp into the cavernous main studio, to confront a brain-boggling scene. Dimly distinguishable in the half-light, two dozen or more toga-clad figures are arranged in random fashion around 14 raised platforms, lushly carpeted and joined together by a narrow walkway. Ghostly music emanates from unseen speakers; colored lights flicker over the ceiling and walls. New arrivals are led to platforms, helped into their own translucent togas and encouraged to doff as many of their clothes as they wish. Stereo headphones are fitted by a delicate-fingered attendant, and plugged into the center of the platform; plastic pillows are passed out. Wordless gestures suggest that instant relaxation is the order of the day.

What happens then? Nothing, anything, everything. "We are trying to overturn every entertainment convention—the 'sit here,' the 'look that way,' the 'dance over here,' " explains Cooper. The result is frankly freaky. On one platform, a bearded man lies supine, eyes staring, engrossed in the melange of sound effects and music—ranging from Mozart to the Mothers of Invention—that is pouring through his headphones. On another, a girl guest performs a barefoot ballet, delighting in the swirl of the toga around her legs. Off in a corner, a couple engages in mild petting. Attendants pad back and forth, visiting silently with guests or passing out toys: slide projectors, mirrors, kaleidoscopes, helium-filled balloons. A long-haired girl ties four of the balloons to her tresses and parades serenely along the walkway, looking like the Wicked Witch of the West.