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All sparkle makeup, black fishnets, blue boots, vintage scarves, hustler fedoras and unicorn brooches, Barnes, guitarist Bryan Poole, keyboardist Dottie Alexander, bassist Matt Dawson and drummer James Huggins are a dancier, more psychedelic version of the fictional Hedwig and The Angry Inch. Brown and yellow upholstery-like patterns and blaxploitation porn loop on a screen situated between cutouts of orange and blue flames. Graphic sexual pantomime pervades the clap-happy "Gronlandic Edit." And—happy early Valentine’s Day—Barnes is removing his clothing during the stuttery, funk-filled "Faberge Falls for Shuggie."

Yep, only that cummerbund remains. He’s French-kissing a girl in the front row. The sweat-drenched fellow to my left is squealing like a mutilated bunny. "A Sentence of Sorts in Kongsvinger," and Barnes puts on a beige muumuu. There may or may not be a turkey emblazoned on his back.

The one-two punch of The Sunlandic Twins’ "Oslo in the Summertime" and "The Party’s Crashing Us" concludes the main set. Folks are straining to see from their stools and booths on the other side of the bar, and maneuvering in the stage-side crush proves impossible. The quartet jumps back onstage in less than a minute for "The Repudiated Immortals" and "Heimdalsgate Like a Promethean Curse," then descend once again in a flurry of hugs, kisses and high-fives.

This was no mere concert; this was a disco-punk love-in.