The party bumps. A/C drones in protest as sweaty dancers line up for another round of DDR. Jello shots follow up absinthe, bringing smiles all around to the sticky fingers in the kitchen. In the livingroom an abused Aiwa, likely left over from someone's college dorm daze, chunks out heavy beats.

Volume rotates clockwise as the evening progresses.

Overdriven speakers rest briefly while an iPod queues up the next track. Electromagnets surge, suddenly erupting into a massive square-wave soundgasm and mighty mecha march to the command of a crunchy guitar. Ears rotate toward the livingroom. Heads follow.

Sometime later, neighbors get angry. The pleasant, shy girl who reminds you of Amelie beats up her boyfriend, kicking him in his drunken kidneys somehwere in a back room. Police are called. Headaches wake up the next afternoon, not remembering.

But for that moment, there was Seventeen Years, and Ratatat owned.

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