The ambiance of the 92Y Tribeca is reminiscent of an upscale jazz club. Cool air, dark lighting and casual conversation fill the scene. A hundred or so plain folding chairs sit in front of a romantic curtain. Sufjan Stevens, in his characteristically nondescript manner, approaches the stage.

"Hey, I'm your host: DJ Sufjan. Thanks for coming," he says, trying to stir the audience.

It will be a night of art — but exactly how, or what kind of art, no one is certain.

Stevens speaks for a brief moment and introduces the first act, singer/songwriter DM Smith. Unlike most folk singers, Smith is backed by six other musicians: a percussionist, a bassist, a cellist, two violinists and a viola player. The classical backing only serves to assist his enchanting howl, which channels Eastern rhythms. His short set is defined by simple, delicate arrangements, like an appetizer before the main course.

A few moments pass, and Stevens climbs the stage once more. This time, he explains that his second album, "Enjoy Your Rabbit," was an electronic experiment that no one seemed to understand. As a result, he had the songs rewritten for the string quartet Osso, a group of classically trained women who perform interpretations of Stevens' songs. Stevens' experimental computer distortion transforms into high notes. The audience, formerly busy in conversation, is respectably silent. Dreamy sequences approach and linger as each song reaches a close. It is, most definitely, a non-traditional take on a classical medium.

"You guys are awesome for coming out to watch 35 minutes of traffic," Stevens said. "Two years ago, I was commissioned to write about Brooklyn ... and what better to write about than the BQE?"

Stevens is talking about the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway. For several seconds, we watch a road against a brick backdrop. A closer look shows that the image is actually comprised of three frames that appear connected; these stretches of the BQE are fundamentally similar. Minutes pass. The crowd starts to worry that yes, indeed, they will be watching 35 minutes of cars driving in the distance. But then the scene finally cuts.

The film is broken up into three distinct, juxtaposed frames. Your eyes jump from one side of the screen to the other in an effort to absorb the rushing sequences. Images are synchronized to the sound. We see and hear the music of Brooklyn and Queens, houses and apartments, ad space and McDonald's; the BQE's roads, cars and construction. Alone, these scenes may not be beautiful, but Stevens' music — what he's good at, what he does — makes them pop with meaning.

Appearing now and again are the Hooper Heroes: three girls clad in hybrid '80s and circus attire, their silhouettes swaying with decorated rings against the sound of strings, horns, winds, brass and harmonized voices. There are no lyrics because it's not a song. Nor are you really watching a film: You're listening to music with your eyes open, adjusting to images you may have never realized are attractive: cars upon trucks upon asphalt, orange cones, signs and workers. Traffic. Such chaos, which sometimes turns cars into the beads of a kaleidoscope, is all rendered fully by the music of Stevens and his accompanying orchestra.

"Welcome to the majesty of the BQE."

And still, no one knows exactly why.