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These three works stretched that technique and body control to absolute limits but the effort rarely showed in any of the thirteen dancers. The opening work, ‘CRWDSPCR’, demonstrated how Cunningham has always been completely ahead of his times. It was made in 1993 and yet Merce was already predicting text language (‘CRoWD SPaCeR’), years before any of us had fallen under the spell of predictive text. Also, he was already – by then – creating every dance sequence through ‘DanceForms’ software, using computer technology to determine the movement between pre-determined points. ‘CRWDSPCR’ has recently returned to the repertory after an absence of almost a decade and it appears as fresh as if made yesterday. It’s a cornucopia of frenetic energy, punctuated by occasional long solos, including one long, languorous dance for a woman.

Each of Mark Lancaster’s costumes is different, mostly comprising solid blocks of Mondrianesque colour (which apparently – although not obviously – divide the dancers’ bodies into fourteen vertical and horizontal sections); thus we have Koji Mizuta in an orange and grey number that emphasises the muscularity of his shoulders and Julie Cunningham in purple, pink and yellowy-green. Cunningham is a particularly enigmatic dancer, one of five to perform in all five works of these two programmes, appearing mighty and invincible but also strangely vulnerable at the same time. John King, the composer of the work’s electronic score, transformed from the sounds of a steel guitar, once said that Merce gave him just three clues about the work (its length, title and the number of dancers). It was more than enough to enable a score that fits the choreography as tightly as the snuggest of leather gloves.

The new work, ‘Xover’ (don’t say it as a word but think, cross-over) artistically reunites Cunningham with his late, life partner, John Cage, and also with his frequent design collaborator, Robert Rauschenberg (who died in May). It’s a work that rewards perseverance. I freely confess to not getting it at first sight, partly because I sat directly in front of vocal performer, Joan La Barbara, and found this distracted from the dance content. On this occasion, I saw the performance from the other side of the auditorium and everything integrated much better than before. Yet another element of chance to determine the performance dynamic in Merce’s work.

La Barbara performs John Cage’s ‘Aria’, the strangest concoction of random vocals, which is paired with his ‘Fontana Mix’, the oddest cacophony of random noise. The Barbican’s acoustics are in fine order, since all around us, it seemed as if audience members were actually filing ironwork, rolling barrels, grinding pepper and so on, whilst La Barbara impersonated a puppy barking, a crow cawing and spoke, mostly in fast and slow phrasings of indeterminate language. Someone told me that she used a stopwatch; whether true, or not, the timing – seen over two performances – was impeccable. This is another work for the whole company of dancers, dressed in Rauschenberg’s white unitards (a wonderful contrast to the colour of the earlier work), with the flow of dance crossing back and forth across the stage, punctuated frequently by a series of dances for duets and quartets. I liked it much more on this second viewing and would readily see it again, something I didn’t imagine myself thinking after the initial experience.

I was more than happy to revisit ‘Split Sides’, which had been commissioned for bite04 at the Barbican and was part of a programme opening Dance Umbrella in that year. Cunningham’s obsession with I Ching and chance is taken to the level of casting a die, immediately before the performance, to determine the order of two versions of choreography, music, costumes, décor and lighting cues. I’m no mathematician but this apparently gives 32 possible permutations of the performance. I seem to see almost the same one each time, ending with the sublime combination of the version “B” dance, ”winterscape” décor and black & white costumes - although I’ve now heard it set to both the Radiohead and Sigur Rós soundscapes. (By the way, the Sigur Rós score was recorded from a contraption not unlike a xylophone made of pointe shoes, which connect with contact microphones; and bizarrely it works as an inspiration to either dance).

Again, I found myself transfixed by the finely crafted, electronic choreography that sits in perfect harmony within each of the other collaborative elements. In both sides of the split, there are long passages in which it’s difficult to imagine how the same integrity could be achieved if the elements are reversed, but then one understands that this realization occurs more or less at the same time in the 20 minute segments. So, what we may have is a masterful sleight of hand; a "con" trick (in the nicest possible sense) that confuses with its talk of chance, but crafts - through the multiple ingenuity of all its participants - a perfect fit for all eventualities.

It’s not much of a grouse, but I find the excessive formality of the die-casting by the great-and-the-good of the contemporary dance world to be out of kilter with the whole nature of randomness – it would work so much better if five audience members were simply drawn in a lottery to come forward and determine the order of each element.

But who would draw the lottery?

What a week it has been in London for students and lovers of contemporary dance: De Keersmaeker on Monday, Alston on Thursday, and two programmes from Cunningham on Wednesday and Friday. Excepting the option for a quick day trip on Tuesday, this was a bad week to be out of town.