Kyle Regan—a masochistic Stranger reader—has vowed to do every single thing recommended by the Stranger Suggests (movies, galleries, bars, concerts) for the month of January. Look for his reports daily on Slog. —Eds.

The bravest person in the world is that overenthusiastic dancer who starts going nuts on an empty dance floor. They are the Tienanmen-Square protesters of music. I can't go out unless there's a high enough saturation of dancers. People say that no one watches anyone, but that's bullshit. You think I don't see you, Sir-Doing-The-Robot-For-Two-Hours? Or the chick who just jumps, offbeat no less. Who's to say nobody is laughing at my botched Irish jig?

Despite the bravado of the chick leading the charge, the place was pretty empty. I left to eat at Pike Street Fish Fry. I really like the place: cramped and delicious. The catfish was fried and flaky. Spicy mayo may be my new fry dip of choice.

By the time I made it back to Neumos, VOICEsVOICEs had just finished setting up and the place had filled wall to wall. The set was criminally short, maybe five songs or so. I was really digging them. The hazy effects, layered-distorted vocals and drums were quite nice. Like a fuzz smoothie. That doesn't make sense, but that's how it was.

The Gaslamp Killer was the highlight of the night. His giant Jew-fro bobbed and rippled as he danced along. Theatrical gestures made him seem part scuzzy Jesus and part puppeteer. Samples included Hendrix, Radiohead, and stuff too obscure for me to remember or recognize. It was remixes for the ADHD. Dave Segal was right: motherfucker has no off switch.

Prefuse 73 took me a bit to get into. The opening sounds were sonically spiked, borderline hostile, and changed direction often. Weird beats are cool, sure, but not the best thing to dance to. Eventually, the music became more nurturing of human body moments. A good thing, as the audience had thinned since GLK. Towards the end of the set, Neumos staff had begun switching on the overhead lights and glaring at Prefuse 73 from the side of the stage. I get the feeling that the plug would have been pulled if they took any longer.

Flat feet are a motherfucker. Two nights of dancing until closing hour are wreaking havoc on my archless appendages. I don't think a single musical recommendation (besides KEXP DJs) was anyone I had ever heard of, let alone listen to. Seattle's electronic culture is foreign to me, but I think I'm starting to learn the lingo, even if it's doing a number on my orthopedic inserts. A great recommendation for a scene I'm only beginning to appreciate.