Of course we all know Repeal Day wasn’t last night but the night before.

What’s that? You’ve never heard of Repeal Day? Where have you been drinking?

At first, the notion stinks of Hallmarkery—a holiday contrived to sell crap, in this case booze instead of greeting cards and coffee mugs. Predictably, after a few rounds of discounted (or free) Dewar’s in Neumo’s VIP room, shameless calendric exploitation makes perfect sense. Good idea, Dewar’s! Make up a holiday! Drape us in goofy feather boas and plastic-felt pimp hats and take our picture with a pair of bra-popping burlesque babes! Do whatever you want, as long you give me free booze!

And free music. The lineup on Wednesday was promising and mostly delivered.

Kay Kay & His Weathered Underground was, in a word, wonderful. There’s a lot to love about their Vaudevillian baroque-pop, especially because the 11-piece band gets tighter and more explosive with every show. Their Block Party set a few months ago was endearingly swervy; tonight they were laced-up and full-speed ahead. It seemed at first that their music might just be snippets of big-band grandeur stiched together randomly, but as the set went on, a prevailing aesthetic emerged and the the band’s swooning compositional logic revealed itself. Strings, so often a band’s downfall, are used in all the right ways; horns embellish orchestrally, until a muted trumpet gets raunches up their dignity. These parts are almost busy but not, ultimately unburdensome, heavy but uplifing. Lead Undergrounder Kirk Huffman has one of those utilitarian voices that’s rich in character and low in technique, a scrappy, easily lovable combination. Cellist Phil Peterson has a theremin-like falsetto. The band looks like the love child of a punk rock carnie and a jazz band revolutionary. They will be fun to watch and to listen to in 2008.

Siberian: professional, efficient, competent, and unremarkable. There’s nothing wrong with solid, mid-tempo ballad rock, but coming after the singular sweetness of KK&HWF and before U.S.E., you have to offer something more spectacular than what Siberian brought.

My first time seeing U.S.E. and fuck, what a blast—or better yet, a blast-off. By this time the Dewar’s had drowned any inhibitions and better judgement.

It should never be said again that Seattle don’t dance. All that’s needed for a full-blown dancefloor freakout is gallons of good whisky at low prices and a electro-dance spectacle like U.S.E. The crowd reaction was almost more stunning than the band’s performance—boas streaming through the air like feathered snakes, plastic fedoras arching through the room. By the time they brough 40 boa-ed revelers up on stage, the night had become a genuine, certified, out-of-control rager. On a Wednesday. That’s the only way to jumpstart a new holiday tradition.