When the avant-garde kicks down the fourth wall, hog ties dramaturgical structure, or starts playing really loud music, it’s usually trying to make the audience uncomfortable. Radical performances want complacent audience members shifting on our cushions, confused and questioning all our cherished old ideas. But the lovable scamps at Radiohole, while rooting around in the same bag of tricks, do it all in search of a communally good time. Sure, there’s a superficial divide between those on the bleachers and those driving motorized dinghies around onstage, but we’re all drinking the same (free) beer.

Entering “Fluke,” the hapless — but giggling — ticket-holder is already part of the show. On a screen at about head-height, the live image of Scott Halvorsen Gillette asks for your reservation. “You’ll have to speak up, honey! I’m three hundred miles away, and I’m not wearing any pants!” (Events bear him out.) Since the digital age has significantly loosened the physical restrictions on being in a “collective,” Mr. Gillette has a cushy gig: He camera-phones in his performance from Vermont.

The rest of the actors, performing in the physical theater, act out a hyper-kinetic, elaborate rite about exorcising — and exercising — obsession, snagging text from “Moby Dick,” and downbeats from the death-metal band Rammstein. Eric Dyer seems to be Ahab — with a pointe shoe in place of a peg-leg — but he is also addressed as “Eric” and scolds his fellow actor on the correct New England pronunciation of “Gloucester.” While Erin Douglass zooms around on a pintsize boat, the arch Maggie Hoffman murmurs nautical coordinates and seems to be covering up some awful loss. She seems just a bit too interested in what whales see on the ocean floor — is it just drowned men? Is Noah down there?

Snug as a womb, the theater’s space feels like a garage converted into a theater, then caught halfway through conversion back into a garage. A staggering amount of electronic equipment dangles from makeshift jibs, or careers precariously out over the audience. Their show-specific mania for all things oceanic works itself out in the throwaway fish tank screen saver, or in the deadpan yoga video (one of many made by Iver Findlay), which features a Photoshopped Radioholer in front of a river leading out to sea.

Though it seems haphazard, Radiohole has actually dug itself into the perfect working environment. This same production, when performed as a workshop at P.S. 122, rattled around, even in the tiny downstairs space. But in its native burrow, Radiohole’s compulsive exploration of its theme turns into a folk-art environment, like Howard Finster’s crowded “Paradise Gardens” or S.P. Dinsmoor’s bizarre, concrete “Garden of Eden.”

And the surrounding environment is absolutely crucial because the show operates mostly as a hymn to the senses. Despite being technologically wired to the wazoo, the show’s most striking image is the performers’ closed eyelids painted with giant, white, staring eyeballs. A little eyeliner, and suddenly they have become otherworldly — unblinking and creepy as fish. But while the actors work blind, the sound — thanks to a cutting edge “audio spotlight” — operates with incredible precision. Ms. Hoffman’s whispers or the plaintive ping of a buoy are bounced off of a rotating “moon,” directed into the audience — and the sounds seem to emanate from the person directly next to you.

This chumminess — of text, of sound, of Mr. Gillette’s handmade signs about mermaids — is part of what makes Radiohole’s productions such a consistent pleasure. Going to the other experimental big boys, like the Builders Association, or even the sublime Wooster Group, can still have a whiff of duty about it. Radiohole, though, marries silliness with craft for the sheer kick of it.

Until January 28 (146 Metropolitan Ave. at Berry Street, Brooklyn, 718-388-2251).