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'The brobot johnson experience': a moment of peace from a boombox

Sometimes at the end of a hard day — in a hard time, in an unhappy nation — all you need is the love of a good robot. No, I am not referring to one of those lifelike sex dolls you may have read about. Nor the super-efficient machine that is rumored to be taking over your job next month.

He is on a mission to bring “peace, love and dopeness” to this uneasy planet, and he doesn’t have a cynical sprocket in his body.

Give him half a chance, and he’ll wash away your earthly blues for as long as you’re in his company. That’s not much more than an hour, but, hey, it’s an hour devoid of stress, fear, hatred and the other woes that come with belonging to the Divided States of America.

This beneficent automaton is the creation of Darian Dauchan, the writer and performer of “The Brobot Johnson Experience,” which runs through March 17. For our entertainment (and for our sins, as well), Dauchan has assumed the form of an Afrofuturist emissary from the planet of Nubia, who has journeyed here to save both our world and his from destruction.

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And how does he intend to achieve this? By spreading the gospel of the life philosophy found in Adinkra symbols, which were integral to the ancient West African culture of the Ashanti people, who are the ancestors of Dauchan’s brobot.

These symbols stand for values including initiative, appreciation and connection, as well as for such physical essentials as movement and nutrition. Dauchan takes us though each of these, step by step, with some highly imaginative, homemade visual and aural aids.

By the way, Dauchan’s character is not Brobot Johnson, or not exactly. The amiable alien who presides as DJ and MC over this production, which is directed by Andrew Scoville, is named Flobot Owens. He has arrived by a time-traveling spaceship named the LL Cool J, which resembles a boom box “the size of a Winnebago.”

Brobot Johnson is the figure (also embodied by Dauchan) who appears in video projections, moving among the human citizens of New York, on the walls of the spaceship into which the Bushwick Starr has been transformed. Oh, and Dauchan also shows up as a wacky, wild-haired professor, who is apparently a font of cosmic knowledge.

At least, I think that’s the case. There’s no doubt that Dauchan has devised an intricate history, philosophy, technology and civilization for his robot alter egos, as elaborate as anything from “Dr. Who.” But since he delivers the specifics of this back story in tongue-tripping hip-hop incantations, underscored by layered astral music and sound effects, I can’t swear that I got even the basic details right.

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Still, Dauchan isn’t out to engage your inner sci-fi nerd, or not the part of it that quibbles over interplanetary communication systems. Instead, he’s addressing the trusting, hopeful children buried somewhere within all so-called adults. That includes the plaid-shirted, mountain-booted hipsters in the audience at my show, who turned as gleefully pliable as young’uns dancing to the Pied Piper’s piping.

You may even find yourself thinking of Dauchan as a rapping Rogers, teaching basic good manners, values and survival skills to the rudderless overgrown kids of the 21st century. Like Rogers, Flobot Owens uses ditties, snacks, toys and group participation exercises as instructional tools.

This means that you will be asked to chant, wave your arms, hold your neighbors’ hands, brandish colorful glow sticks, dance and high-five your robot host. You are also encouraged to call out “I love you, Flobot” when the mood strikes you.

And it may strike you. From the moment he enters, wreathed in stage smoke, Dauchan radiates that natural, magnetic affability you associate with successful stand-up comics and talk-show hosts, but without any of the underlying hostility or aggression. As a consequence, his audience seems not just willing but eager to place its collective dignity in his illuminated hands.

The show’s spaceship-cum-classroom set (designed by Raul Abrego) may remind you of a more sophisticated version of the intergalactic fantasy lands you created as personal playhouses as a grade-schooler. It is definitely a safe space.

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There, you are told, if you listen hard, you can hear the astral sound of “peace between species.” And without realizing it, you may even find you’ve regressed to a forgotten point in your life when you believed that goodness was the dominant human instinct and that anybody, even an alien, was a potential friend.

This article originally appeared in The New York Times.

BEN BRANTLEY © 2018 The New York Times

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