A Night Out in Vegas at downtown’s Pachi-Pachi

A Night Out in Vegas is a monthly immersion into local nightlife and happenings.

We close the bathroom door and lock it shut: Time travel demands privacy.

A red-and-white metal box mounted on the wall offers four elevator-style buttons to press, its instructions written in Japanese, save for a single word: Portals.

We push the one marked ’80 — it glows yellow.

And with that, a fresh-faced Dave Gahan appears on a TV positioned in a corner above, flashing us back to 1981 as the Depeche Mode frontman peacocks it up in a video for their synth pop chestnut “New Life.”

“You think you only know me when you turn on the light,” he sings, and his words feel strangely fitting standing here in the men’s room at Pachi Pachi (211 Las Vegas Blvd. South, Suite 120) on a recent Saturday night. Beneath an abundance of said lights, we’ve been getting to know this Tokyo-inspired listening lounge for a couple of hours now, its mysteries mostly begetting more mysteries.

But that’s the way it goes here, where the whole place reads like one of those “Choose Your Own Adventure” game books for kids.

Turn the page, and we’re nestled at the end of the bar, a trio of cartoon cheetahs casting sideways glances on one of three screens before us, the room as densely packed as the animated rainforest they inhabit.

Dizzying atmosphere

This place is busy, both literally — we get here early at 9:30 p.m., and even then the crowd’s already thronging into all open spaces, growing every which way like the vines that smother the walls in faux foliage — and in the way Pachi Pachi floods the senses with a dam burst of stimuli, from the sweet tang of incense commingling with the aromatic bear hug of freshly prepared noodles to the minimalist house burbling in the background, a trickling stream of beats that’ll surge into a waterfall as the night progresses and the rhythms accelerate.

We scan the room, it scans back: Paintings of eyeballs in gilded sockets peer from the walls amid murals of anthropomorphic wildlife as fond of tracksuits as Chas Tenenbaum.

All around us, something is vying for a look: celestial imagery suggestive of the stargate sequence from “2001: A Space Odyssey,” constellations of disco balls and dream catchers, luminous snakes of neon, everything swirling with so much color, it feels like our pupils have been body-slammed by a gang of rainbows.

There are thematic breadcrumbs to follow if you want to piece together this visual puzzle. The central motif is Pachi Pachi heroine Aya, whose visage appears throughout the premises. Her name is a nod to the psychoactive brew ayahuasca, whose transportive properties this place aims to approximate.

It’s purposefully dizzying initially and too much to fully absorb in a single sitting, which is part of its appeal: To use a musical analogy, Pachi Pachi is akin to an album that demands eight or nine spins to really digest.

‘Portal to the in-between’

Or, you can just show up and vibe.

Tonight, San Francisco house lifer Doc Martin is headlining and the dance floor is packed, tight as a clenched fist. The crowd here is as all over-the-place as the setting: Dudes in backward ball caps talk up friends next to fellas in leather cowboy gear next to a family of four tucked into a booth for dinner.

Before we head out, we flip through a visitors’ log in the bar, where past guests share their experiences on increasingly crinkled notebook paper.

“Today I realized my worth & gave life another chance,” one visitor wrote. “I’m so happy I did & I hope you do too.”

We close the book and think about how Pachi Pachi bills itself as “a portal to the in-between.”

What does that mean?

Up to you, really.

Contact Jason Bracelin at jbracelin@reviewjournal.com or 702-383-0476. Follow @jasonbracelin76 on Instagram.