Do you remember those decals people used to put on their Jeeps?

They said, “It’s a Jeep thing, you wouldn’t understand.” Maybe people still put those on their Jeeps. I don’t really know. I don’t have a Jeep. I wouldn’t understand. Whatever arcane thing “a Jeep thing” is, that’s how I feel about “ASMR.” You either have it or you don’t. And as an ASMR-haver since childhood, I find it hard to explain to the have-nots, especially in discussions about immersive theatre.

ASMR stands for Autonomous Sensory Meridian Response, and not much is known about it. It is described by those who experience it as a pleasant, tingling sensation in the skull, back, and limbs, triggered by stimuli including whispering, tapping, crinkling noises, and hand movements. “ASMRtists” try to induce the phenomenon via videos, which are uploaded to platforms like YouTube and Twitch, and generate millions of views. ASMR fans use these videos not just to achieve tingles but to relax or fall asleep. Some feature mellow strangers quietly describing their DVD collection, while others unfold in elaborate role-plays.

As a child, I associated my own ASMR with being well cared for. I would get it when my mother would help me with the clasp of a necklace, or when a teacher would quietly explain something while kneeling beside my desk. As I got older, I would feel it whenever a server or bartender would explain a list of specials. I would get it at the optometrist’s, as she quietly asked, “Is it better with one?” Click. “Or two?” When articles began coming out about ASMR, I realized two things: this was not a universal occurrence, and you could intentionally induce it. The first ASMR video I ever watched immediately resulted in the intended response and just like that, I was part of a strange community connected by a sensation none of us could explain.

Now, if you’re here, you’re probably part of another community that’s difficult to explain: immersive theatre enthusiasts. For some reason or another, we’re united by our need to scale the fourth wall and emerge on the other side. Why? For me, it’s always been a simple answer: ASMR.

The first time I realized the two were synonymous was in an extreme haunt. A malevolent creep was sharpening a blade near my ear, whispering about how he was going to flay me or some other torment. I couldn’t be bothered to care, as the cascades of pleasant tingles drifted imperceptibly down my scalp. Nothing could be more relaxing. Combine this with an inherent love of small, dark spaces and I am basically the prime candidate for extreme haunts or, as I like to call them, danger spas.

This brings me, finally, to Whisperlodge. ASMR is present in so many immersive experiences unintentionally, so it was only a matter of time before someone would merge them with purpose. It’s particularly interesting that of the two co-creators of Whisperlodge, Andrew Hoepfner and Melinda Lauw, only Lauw experiences ASMR. Yet even so, the tone was spot on from start to finish.

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Upon arrival, a group of whispering guides clad in pristine, white clothes surrounded my group. They gently blindfolded us and led us into someone’s home. We rested on rugs, prone, eyes closed behind our blindfolds throughout an ASMR-infused sound bath. Extra noises included a marble rolling on a wooden floor and what sounded like perhaps the bristles of a comb gingerly thumbed not far from my ear. I’m sure this looked ridiculous to anyone on the outside but we were safe in our ASMR cocoon.

The evening progressed into three one-on-one scenes, where an ever-so-gentle actor whispered through familiar triggers. Which type of material would I like meticulously crinkled around my head? Which makeup brush would I like this extremely disarming woman to brush my face with? I watched a woman pull a latex glove out of a box with a slowness that would have otherwise been agonizing, each rubbery squeak eliciting more and more joy.

In these moments, I had to wonder: would a person who does not experience ASMR or who has never fallen asleep to these videos have any idea what was going on?

In attendance with me was Will Wiesenfeld, who performs via his stage name BATHS. Wiesenfeld and I had connected earlier when I was soliciting interviews from others who experienced ASMR. We had spent an hour and a half on the phone, talking about our shared history of ASMR. We had both experienced it since childhood, and were both surprised when realizing others did not. We both watched the videos; Wiesenfeld finds them particularly useful when centering himself during grueling tour schedules, while I enjoy them between writing assignments. And while I had attended an art show inspired by ASMR previously, neither of us had ever been in a space so keenly dedicated to it.

“ASMR is not something that can easily exist in the world without something like [Whisperlodge],” Wiesenfeld commented beforehand. “It’s not like awkwardly asking a stranger or a friend, ‘Can you crumple a paper bag near my head for 20 minutes?’ As a person who gets ASMR, I think it’ll be a really strong manifestation of that feeling, maybe the strongest I’ll ever get.”

Interestingly, we both had a similar experience. At a certain point, the ASMR overwhelmed us, as though it was a finite resource. I felt like the neophyte raver who’d tried to drop molly on day three of a festival. My tingles stopped, like an engine that couldn’t turn over. While it changed the tone of my experience, it did not render it unpleasant. I spent the last portion of our evening together admiring the show as a deconstruction of the niche genre that is the ASMR video. Lauw whispered in a binaural microphone outfitted with silicone ears about the mundane routine of getting up, getting ready, and taking care of her garden. We sat around her in a circle, connected via headphones, as she gently scrubbed her hand with a toothbrush, and snipped at imaginary plants with a pair of scissors. While it may have seemed like a very anticlimactic story on its own, it was the perfect execution of a real-life ASMR video from start to finish.

With both ASMR and immersive theatre, there’s a sense of vulnerability and platonic intimacy we so often don’t allow ourselves to indulge in with others. Maybe we’d be a better species if we all took time to brush our friends’ faces with makeup brushes or crumple bubblewrap in their ears. I can only offer praise to Whisperlodge, both cast and creators, for so beautifully exploring something so little understood with the quiet, gentle hand it requires.

Whisperlodge returns to NYC October 19–22 in an undisclosed location in Clinton Hill, Brooklyn. Tickets are $70 and can be purchased online.

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