The Stranger

The perception: There's Seattle hiphop and then, on the margins, there's Grayskul. The reality: Grayskul is an integral part of Seattle's current hiphop scene. The explanation: Emcees Onry Ozzborn and JFK make a more sinister brand of hiphop than Seattle is known for, darkened by eerie minor-key melodies, funereal gospel vocals, and stoically delivered wordplay. The conclusion: Grayskul's insidious thump is anxiety inducing—if it doesn't stop your heart, it'll certainly chill it. (Chop Suey, 1325 E Madison St, 324-8000. 9 pm, $10, 21+.) by Jonathan Zwickel

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There is a section of Geography when all seven dancers are lifting and tugging one another by the harnesses around their waists. One tries to jump forward, but four others pull her upward and backward, then lower her into a position of repose. She looks like a leaf blown around in slow motion. The dancers also shout, play complicated games of hopscotch, and get in each other's way. Choreographer Molly Scott says the dance is about "the stress of proximity." Part peaceful, part angry, Geography looks like autumn in the city. (On the Boards, 100 W Roy St, 217-9888. 8 pm, $18.) by Brendan Kiley

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Cinema has two gigantic cities: One is called Blade Runner, directed by Ridley Scott; the other is called Metropolis, directed by Fritz Lang. The difference between these mighty cities? Metropolis happens before what Henri Lefebvre calls the "urban revolution." Blade Runner happens long after it's over. The citizens in Metropolis are ready to fight for their urban rights; the inhabitants of Blade Runner are too tired to fight. Metropolis marks the birth of who we are now. (SIFF Cinema at McCaw Hall; see Movie Times, page 88, for details.) by Charles Mudede

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Mira Billotte's psychedelic folk band White Magic make albums that are full of prayers. The god she is praying to is unspecified, but it doesn't matter. Her voice—heavy and thick and dramatic and revelatory—would appeal to any deity. When I listen to last year's Dat Rosa Mel Apibus, all I can think of is the color purple. I hope there's a fog machine going when they play, and I hope they bring the sitar. With local folk wackjob PWRFL Power and Johanna Kunin. (Nectar Lounge, 412 N 36th St, 632-2020. 8 pm, $8 adv, 21+.) by Ari Spool

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Start with the empanadas—they're perfect. Then get a papa, a smooth mixture of onions, garlic, and gooey mozzarella stuffed into a potato. Then have a little ensalada de Jason, with fresh greens and mango tossed in tangy garlic vinaigrette. Now you're ready for the pastelon, "a Puerto Rican lasagna with layers of sweet plantains and cheese" ($13.99 for tofu, $14.99 for beef). It's sweet and savory, perfectly baked in a little dish just for you. (La Isla, 2320 NW Market St, 789-0516. 11:30 am–midnight.) by Megan Seling

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Roses are an iffy subject, lost to associations. But there is something otherworldly about Bing Wright's white roses in almost unbearably soft grayscale backgrounds. These roses are redeemed, new, and about to die, separated from their vases and plunked facedown or present only in the form of scattered petals. Wright's style is both classical and conceptual (he's also a modernist, after his parents, Seattle modern-art supercollectors Virginia and Bagley Wright); it's a perfect match for the impeccable James Harris Gallery. (James Harris Gallery, 309-A Third Ave S, 903-6220. 11 am–5 pm, free.) by Jen Graves

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