The past several days have comprised a kind of “Larry Keigwin: Welcome to My World” immersion for me. And Mr. Keigwin’s is an odd one indeed. Last week, I saw him do a turn at one of DanceNow’s evenings at Joe’s Pub downtown. On the cabaret stage, he postured under a lamppost, a shutin type who pointed his fingers this way and that, shrinking from the lamp’s exposure. Finally, he turned off the light, and seemed to feel much better for it.

Sunday afternoon, I saw Mr. Keigwin’s site-specific “82 Decibels,” performed in the ruins of the 19th–century Tobacco Warehouse in Empire-Fulton Ferry State Park.The warehouse is a shell; it’s open to the sky, all the windows naked. Stout brick walls and rows of arched windows give the structure the look of a de Chirico canvas. “82 Decibels” was performed within a triangular space: The walls were splayed on one end, and converged at an angle at the other. Sunlight stippled the East wall, imprinting the outlines of the arched windows of the West wall through which it shone.

“82 Decibels,” might have been an admonition from the choreographer. He seemed to mock the way today’s audiences are ever more distracted and less able to dedicate attention to what should be the main event, the piece of art being performed.

As the piece began, cacophony confronted us. The 20 or so performers — mostly women, and one man in drag — chatted on their mobile phones and talked rudely, obstreperously, loudly. They disbursed, then lined up against one wall. Then, nonsensically purposeful, they walked back and forth between the walls.

Suddenly, it seemed as though a Pandora’s Box had sprung open. The sounds usually unwelcome at a performance had taken over: Peripheral activities that typically attend a primary event had become the main course here. A goofball woman fooled around with an umbrella. Vignettes depicted people trying to hail cabs, or standing squeezed together in a subway car. And some stunts reared their heads: Two men carried a woman horizontally, making it possible for her stroll sideways high along the warehouse’s east wall.

Mr. Keigwin’s work transformed the performance space into a schoolyard, and indeed the piece felt like a free–for–all, like lunchtime recess. As the performers sang and hectored and barked, I half expected them to break into singing and clapping “Miss Mary Mack.” In fact, I had a déjà vu: When the performers lined up in regimental rows, I experienced flashbacks to elementary school gym class.

But regimentation was the exception amidst the overall rambunctious of “82 Decibels.” Near the end, the performers laughed hysterically and threw themselves to the ground. They ran in and out of an arched doorway on the eastern wall. Women carried each other while a couple engaged in jitterbug-style partnering.

Ultimately, “82 Decibels” was heavier on decibels than on length. After about 15 minutes, the motifs came together in a classical recapitulation. As “82 Decibels” reached its conclusion, the wall-scaling woman and her attendants appeared again, near the kook with the umbrella. The entire ensemble lined up in rows, ran screaming toward the audience, and exited through our ranks, once again clutching those phones.