My Plus One and I arrived just in time to hear TacocaT play, and, if you'll pardon my fron-say: motherfuck! They're a four-piece band that play punky pop (or maybe poppy punk) about Anna Nicole Smith, urinary tract infections, pap smears, and Peeps. TacocaT remind me of one of my all-time faves, the dearly departed Rondelles, but without the keyboards and with just enough old-school Bikini Kill screaming to make everyone sit up and pay attention. I'm in love.

Despite the jubilant atmosphere, this party is actually a sad affair: Two much-beloved ladies are leaving town, and all their friends have come out, some in costume, to wish them goodbye. The costumes are arbitrary but lovely—there are many pirates and hobos, all drinking cheap beer and liquor by the armload.

Our gorgeous hostesses are getting sloppy love hugs from every direction, and even known badass Maxwell Trashington of the Trashies has shown up to play a sensitive, unplugged, man-and-his-guitar set in honor of their passage. One of the ladies plays the saw (!) in a pickup band that starts playing in the living room, and then it's time for bluegrass duo the Whiskey Swillers to do their thing. Soon everyone's dancing their asses off about four inches away from the banjo-pickin' boys, and occasionally the party gets some tandem foot stamping in, too. For a few minutes, it feels like we all stepped inside the Harry Smith Anthology of American Folk Music. It's a hootenanny, true, but everyone knows that we're losing a couple of wonderful people at the end of the party. Call it a boo-hootenanny instead. recommended

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