The Stranger

Black Lips have been making a lot of noise about how their wild days are over—no more live chickens, no more peeing in their own mouths—but that doesn't mean their live shows aren't still totally righteous. They call their jams "flower punk," but their latest record, Good Bad Not Evil, is a triumph of nefarious garage-rock revival. The song "Bad Kids" might incite a riot with the crowd, who will surely be drunk and disorderly. With the Spits and the Girls. (Crocodile, 2200 Second Ave, 441-5611. 9 pm, $12, 21+.) by Ari Spool

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Choosing this quaint spelling of Twelfth Night seems incompatible with such a modern and knowing interpretation of Shakespeare's most sadistic comedy. Director David Esbjornson slows the pace, encouraging his capable cast to linger over the lewdest jokes. The romantic leads are fine, but the supporting clowns—Charles Leggett as the drunk Sir Toby Belch and Frank X as a deliciously arrogant steward who gets his comeuppance with interest—give Twelfe Night its nasty juice. (Seattle Repertory Theatre, 155 Mercer St, 443-2222. 7:30 pm, $10–$59. Through Oct 20.) by Brendan Kiley

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Seattle Art Museum began its life as a spectacular Asian art collection and now it is a power player in Asian art—so this should be good. In collaboration with the Kobe City Museum in Japan, an exhibition of 140 objects—some of which have never left Japan—provides a panorama of Japanese attitudes toward Western culture from the 16th to the 19th centuries. We're talking paintings, prints, maps, ceramics, lacquerware, metal, glass, and textiles, plus works from SAM's own stellar collection. (Seattle Art Museum, 1300 First Ave, 654-3100. 10 am–5 pm, by donation.) by Jen Graves

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About a Son isn't an argument about Kurt Cobain—it's a eulogy, spoken by the deceased. Cobain's plain voice, edited from 25 hours of interviews, "narrates" the film, a visual poem of the Pacific Northwest. Seeing the familiar sights—Neumo's, the library, a lot of new condos—under Cobain's soliloquies is a powerful reminder that he's a building block of the contemporary psychic (and physical) architecture of the region, and also in danger of being forgotten—not as a face or a voice, but as an exponent of a certain regional character. (See Movie Times for details.) by Sean Nelson

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Everybody's seen Rosemary's Baby and Chinatown (what? you haven't? well, they're playing Friday and Saturday), but this mini-retrospective of Roman Polanski films digs deeper than the obvious masterworks. The jokey horror movie The Tenant, from 1976, is set in Paris where the housing market is painfully tight. When a woman commits suicide, a sad Pole—played by Polanski—gets her apartment. Then all paranoia breaks loose. (SIFF Cinema, 321 Mercer St, 633-7151. 7 and 9:20 pm, $9–$10.) by Annie Wagner

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An excerpt from Chicago painter Derek Erdman's interview with himself: "I see that you've painted Hitler, KKK members, John Wayne Gacy, and many other unsavory characters. Is there anyone you would absolutely never paint?" "No. If I think I can sell it, I will paint it... if you paint Holly Hunter on a Honda CB200 held up by a candy cane on the roof of the Wieners Circle, well, you're going to sell a couple of those." His paintings are big, raw, and slightly out of control. (The Anne Bonny, 1355 E Olive Way, 382-7845. Noon–7 pm, free.) by Jen Graves

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