An unusually tall, plaid and bejeweled human line wrapped around an entire Silverlake neighborhood Wednesday night anticipating Miike Snow and Jack Penate. Thank you, god, for five dollar valet and a Mexican chow truck with water bottles. One line was for those of us with tix or on a list, while the other line stared at us like stalkers, some soliciting for extra ins, most pipe dreaming. Spaceland, the dark asymmetrical tinsel curtained bar/band/bar venue supposedly maxes at 260, but unless each androgynously hip lovebird couple counted as ONE, I know like I know my own arm that the flock exceeded that limitation.

We people packed together and watched the white masked members of Miike Snow take the stage. The attempt to haunt/confuse with anonymity was a touch a drop a sprinkle of abre su ojos meets Phantom of the Opera, until—after two deceivingly sparkly and infectious piano-pop electro indie hits, “Animal” being one of them (the one most of us sang along to)—they revealed, resulting in a thunder rumble cheer. We liked their faces, and their matching fit shiny zip up jackets. I want to call him Miike, but the lead singer, Andrew Wyatt—who isn’t necessarily the “lead” in this biographically-rich-past band—was like an ancient bearded boy-bot, mesmerizing with the fluctuation in his voice between an underwater purr and a clear walking on a mirror pond emotional. Bloodshy and Avant DJ producer types connected with the toxic Britney and the 21st century version of Madonna, and created a rave environment, so we raved and we raged. We raged in our disciple sandals and knee high boots. We raged in our flannels, our hoodies, our florals and our high wasted jean. We jumped. We bounced our heads, lifted our hands up and then down again. We rubbed up on strangers to the thumping beat blend of techno robotic opera dessert. The lyrics disappeared very early (too early perhaps), but maybe the band felt up the crowd and considered us a collective of techno adoring ravers. I’m not sure, but I know most of us had fun. I hate to make lists of musician orgies that would birth such a band as Miike Snow in the flesh, but I’d like if Miike appreciated my mentioning Elton John, DJ Tiesto, Jeff Buckley, and Portishead, just to start—it’s a strange orgy, an orgy I’d like to witness and be part of, an orgy whose recent bunnylope band baby won some fanhood on Wednesday night.

The late start of Miike resulted in an even later start for Jack Penate, a band of four— each member exuding a youthful energy. The people spread out at this point. Right at the start, Jack looked at me and I believe we had a moment as his hair fluffed up and down on his forehead. The stylized black one-z gal was a back up singer in the most traditional sense of the word, and though I wanted her to have little tambourines on her fingers, or a kazoo, or a table of glass bottles filled with different amounts of water, she offered a melodious trancy voice and bright lips. One thing I found bizarrely uncomfortable was that all four stood right at the front, a flat line, their toes practically over the edge of the stage. I needed some space, some air, so I made my way to the smoking lounge, a glass tank, where I puffed on an American Spirit and got my face assaulted by a very drunk slurring sprinkler man celebrating his 34th birthday and trying to buy me a huge can of beer. He said Jack Penate is his favorite band, and I reminded him they were on—so, he came to, walked out, I washed my face with pink soap, and danced around to the final song of the evening.

—Beth McNamara