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.

Ah, familiar ground! A concert was something I knew I could handle. Concerts are home territory. I love them. Cramped quarters and loud music makes me giddy. The Tractor was a new locale for me, though, and it was great. Bartenders were friendly and brisk. The cute coat-check girl was quick and accommodating (holler?). Navigating between the bar, bathroom and band was a breeze. Now I'm going to hate Showbox Sodo that much more. But Eldridge Gravy & the Court Supreme?

I'm not really into funk. It's always sounded to me like a sped-up porn soundtrack. Kinda hard to enjoy music when it reminds you of Jenna Haze giving someone a rusty trombone. So I was a little apprehensive, picturing a 60's highschool reunion with nothing but chain-smoking baby-boomers and “bow chicka wow wow” on loop. But live funk? Holy fucking George Clinton on a cracker. I hadn't seen people get down like that since Ratatat was in town. Eldridge Gravy & the Court Supreme had me doing dance moves I didn't know I was capable of. And the great thing about this kind of concert is the people around you immediately become your friends. I went to the show alone but it didn't matter—my new dance buddies and I got down just fine. Eldridge Gravy & the Court Supreme is a funk U.S.E., which is the biggest compliment I can give. I don't know how they stack funk-wise, but any band that has me doing abridged Electric Slides on the dance floor is fucking awesome. A cover of Kurtis Blow's "The Breaks" cemented the night.

So Dave Segal was right to suggest this show and correct when he wrote that "sweet, sweaty times await you." It was a sweet, sweaty time and one I would've missed out on if I weren't doing this.

One complaint: if you're dancing hard, getting sweaty, and have dreadlocks, you might want to turn it down a notch. No one wants your sweat-drenched, cat-o-nine-tails hair lashing them in face. Seriously, man.