Oguri follows the path of ritual home

Dorothy got it right in “The Wizard of Oz,” clicking her heels together, intoning, “There’s no place like home.” To butoh master Oguri, however, the notion of domicile is something else again. As witnessed in his latest nod to unfettered originality, “Home in the Neighborhood,” performed over the weekend at Electric Lodge in Venice, Oguri again occupied a world both frightfully foreign and comfortingly familiar.

The stage, set against a sheer hanging backdrop, was covered in a cream-hued fabric with a blank canvas (a metaphorical wall, perhaps?) resting against the front of the performing area. Also contributing to the home front: dancers Jamie Burris, Eric Losoya and Roxanne Steinberg, the last’s artistic maturity in full bloom as she mesmerized in white makeup, beige floral frock, crane-like legs and floating arms.

Sidling to Robert Scott’s sound score (from rushing trains and blowing winds to a lapping wave ambience and beating-heart percussion), a crouching Steinberg peered from behind the canvas. Losoya, also in white-face, did variations on the open-mouthed silent scream, while Burris, dressed in black, with a long, dark wig that camouflaged her face, romped through a flailing-arms, quasi-soft-shoe solo.

It was Steinberg, though, emerging with head tilted forward, her long hair resting in a bowl of water, who raised the butoh bar, setting the stage for Oguri. Lifting and lowering her hair into the water, a common ritual became uncommon. She slowly exited, leaving the bowl behind, as Oguri, clad in ecru-colored pajamas, entered, offering signature splayed toes and contorted body stances.

Live music magically began: koto and slide guitar (performed by Arnie Saiki) and Scott on harmonium. The koto strings echoed the strands of thread binding Oguri’s face: His closed eyes and pursing lips were distorted. And what was this? Oguri, sprouting a bouquet of purple and yellow flowers from inside his pajama top, as human sacrifice. Alternately discomfiting and amusing, he assumed a crucifixion pose, his breathy mutterings riveting, enigmatic.

Next he took a drink from the bowl before removing the posies and thread. A rooster crowed, the voice of butoh’s late co-founder, Tatsumi Hijikata, was heard squawking on tape. Rebirth. Oguri picked up the canvas, the trio joined him onstage in this domestic tableau, now accompanied by Tom Waits’ throaty, “In the Neighborhood.” Welcome home.