The Stranger

Because incarceration is one of the most interesting things ever, I am slightly obsessed with Lock-up on MSNBC, a medium-exploitative documentary series about the scary U.S. prison system. The film Septembers is also about prison, but it's about Spanish prison, which means it is toootally caliente! The Spanish prisoners fall in love (coed prison), get married, wear fancy outfits, eat prison wedding cake, sunbathe, sometimes cry, and sing lonely, sad songs to people on the outside. Because, yes: Prison is sad. But next time I commit a crime, I'm doing it in Spain. (Northwest Film Forum, 1515 12th Ave, 829-7863. 9 pm, $9.) by Lindy West

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Love Person is a new play about translating ideas and emotions. As the three characters flirt and fight in sign language, Sanskrit, and English, we quickly realize the real problems with loving across borders of language: The ambiguity of translation leaves plenty of wiggle room to lie, cheat, and generally act like an asshole. As the weather becomes more malevolent, it's a pleasure to duck into a theater and watch a play that's both unabashedly romantic and undeniably intelligent. (Live Girls! Theater, 2220 NW Market St, 800-838-3006. 4 and 8 pm, $5–$15.) by Paul Constant

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Vivian Girls' recently rereleased debut (the 500-copy first pressing sold out almost immediately) is 22 minutes of indie pop and punk bliss, perfectly splitting the difference between '60s girl groups, C86 jangle, and the Ramones. Every concisely catchy song is a joyride of clattering drums; fuzzed-out guitars; and dreamy, droning vocal harmonies speeding headlong around dead man's curves and crashing gently into one sweet, soft chorus after another. It is 22 minutes you will want to listen to on indefinite repeat. With Love Is All and Nodzzz. (Nectar, 412 N 36th St, 632-2020. 8 pm, $10, 21+.) by Eric Grandy

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El Guincho is the alias of Spanish musician Pablo Díaz-Reixa, also of the band Coconot. El Guincho's recordings absorb elements of tropicália, Afrobeat, and psych-pop, and synthesize them into something else entirely—a trippy, swirling, sampledelic sound anchored to 4/4 club thump and syncopated steel drum and hand percussion, like Animal Collective at their most giddy and uplifted. Live, Díaz-Reixa sings, controls loops, and plays keyboards, backed by another musician triggering rhythm and bass. With Copy and DJ Kid Hops. (Nectar, 412 N 36th St, 632-2020. 9 pm, $10, 21+.) by Eric Grandy

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Richard Barnes is not a household name but probably should be. Remember those cold views of the Unabomber's cabin in FBI storage? The clumps and clouds of starlings stalking fascist architecture in Rome? Those were by Barnes. His new show at Howard House is from his ongoing investigation behind the scenes of natural-history museums. It's not an original perspective in photography—for various reasons, natural-history museums are playgrounds for contemporary shooters—but Barnes comes out of it with some strange beauties. (Howard House, 604 Second Ave, 256-6399. 10:30 am–5 pm, free.) by Jen Graves

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American gay-rights-hero Harvey Milk has already been the subject of one brilliant film: 1984's Oscar-winning documentary The Times of Harvey Milk. But thanks to the world-class artistry of director Gus Van Sant and star Sean Penn, the Hollywood version of Milk's life story holds its own with the existing classic. Packed with lovely performances and the type of freaky plot twists you cannot make up, Milk will make you laugh, cry, and consider sending Penn a thank-you note. (See movie times, www.thestranger.com, for details.) by David Schmader

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