Few things are more noxious than a whining hipster, but last night’s suddenly sold-out CSS show at Neumo’s left plenty of kids stranded in neckerchiefs and stunna shades and no tickets.

Wouldja believe I had never heard the Brazilian six-piece before last night? Sometimes a band catches so much blog buzz that I turn away, pre-tainted, and CSS was one of those. Last night they showed up and wrecked a supremely packed house, one segregated into 21+ in the way back and everyone else thrashing up front.

From the start the band made it clear they love Seattle; by the second song lead vocalist Lovefoxxx had whipped off her t-shirt to reveal a blindingly sequinned rainbow-colored top and was crowd surfing over the front rows. CSS sounds not dissimilar to early, punky Go-Go’s, bubbling thick with layers of synthesizers and shout-along vocals, sung in cutely-accented English. Lovefoxxx bounded around the stage like an overcaffeinated Muppet, arms unhinged and flailing, wet-swept hair sticking to her face. Balloons floated out over the crowd as confetti blew out from the stage. The band played with unsane energy, enough that they seemed combustible, though Poster Midget Matt swore to me they were crazier during their last Neumo’s appearance.

Foxxx introduced one number as “a love song” and then proceded to wax romantic about alocohol. They crashed through L7’s “Pretend That We’re Dead,” a mostly-girl band covering an all-girl band, this version done with gnashing of disco-punk teeth. A few songs later—here they veered into a more guitar-powered direction, there sticking with disco-driving synths, switching from lock-step drum machine beats to aggro real-drum pounding—they were finished with their short set. The crowd—sweaty and dance-mad—wasn’t having it.

They came back out for a three-song encore, unveiling one new, never-played-before track before closing with “Let’s Make Love and Listen to Death From Above,” which I was informed is their sorta-hit. Of all the songs last night, it was the most ragingly funky, the hardest-rocking, eschewing the bubbly electro-pop for downer and dirtier aggression. It was the only number to earn disco-ball-illuminating status. And it worked. The song segued into a dark, drone-heavy breakdown, all buzzing industrial bass, before blowing up and lighting up again. As ecstatic as the band had been all night, they fully erupted and topped themselves, going out with an even bigger bang.