The Stranger

If you despise a thing, shoot it. If it doesn't die, you will never be set free. That's what we all learned about painting, anyway. But what invigorating exercise all those tortures and attempted homicides were. Seattle Art Museum curator Michael Darling has put together a major loan exhibition—and published a full hardback catalog—bringing together classic works (Rauschenberg's erased de Kooning drawing, a Warhol piss painting, Lucio Fontana's sliced canvases) with lesser-knowns to create a monumental portrait of 20th-century existential distress. (Seattle Art Museum, 1300 First Ave, 344-5275. 10 am–5 pm, $15 suggested.) by Jen Graves

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"All the songs should be a picture you can look at with the aim of screwing with your perspective," Charlie Saufley of Assemble Head in Sunburst Sound told The Stranger last year. At that, these San Franciscans succeed. Like fellow NoCal astral travelers Comets on Fire, Assemble Head unspool serpentine, fuzz-intensive guitar, bass, and keyboard riffs laden with a hallucinogenic payload. Their music doesn't reinvent the psychedelic-rock wheel, but polishes its spokes to a brilliant sheen. (Comet Tavern, 922 E Pike St, 322-9272. 8 pm, $6, 21+.) by Dave Segal

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Moon is a thoughtful sci-fi film that follows a lunar miner (Sam Rockwell) approaching the end of his three-year contract. He's been on the moon all by himself for this time (except for a creepy HAL-like computer voiced by Kevin Spacey), and he's starting to seriously lose his shit: Who's that guy who looks just like him? Does the computer have a malicious agenda? Moon is a shot of pure simmering suspense, and Rockwell turns in the best performance of his already-formidable career. (See Movie Times: thestranger.com/film.) by Paul Constant

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The first time I ever saw Jake the Snake, I was trying to introduce my first boyfriend to my father. But Dad wasn't having it. He was too busy pounding his fists and screaming at the TV while Jake the Snake shoved his boa constrictor into Ravishing Rick Rude's violently mustachioed face. Boyfriend was terrified. Years later, I saw Jim Rose with the same BF. We walked into the show just as Rose killed the lights and began chasing members of the audience with a flashlight and a chainsaw. Again, boyfriend terrified. I haven't thought of Jake or Jim in years. Most likely both have mellowed with age, though they're both still terrors. I'll be going without that boyfriend. He's still a pussy. Some things just don't change. (Showbox at the Market, 1426 First Ave, 628-0888. 8 pm, $15 adv/$18 DOS, 21+.) by Kelly O

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Local literary treasure Rebecca Brown writes like Braque used to paint—some historical footage here, a few fucked-up found objects there, some sensual and fractured memories over there—and conflates them all into work that is both urgent and surprising. Tonight she celebrates her new book, American Romances (published by City Lights), with wine and conversation. The essays dive into the muckiest, most beautiful crannies in and around Nathaniel Hawthorne, the Beach Boys, Gertrude Stein, Oscar Wilde, and fucking in the sand. But this isn't a reading, mind you—it's a party. Prepare yourself for brainy, sexy fun. (Bailey/Coy Books, 414 Broadway E, 323-8842. 7 pm, free.) by Brendan Kiley

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West Seattle Summer Fest takes over three blocks of California Avenue Southwest for three days this weekend. Mudhoney play tonight, among other bands. Team Gina (sweet lesbian electro-rap), We Are Golden (Stranger Genius Award–winning performer Sarah Rudinoff's band), Caspar Babypants (the Presidents of the United States of America's Chris Ballew playing children's songs), and Thee Sgt. Major III (rock) play tomorrow, among many other bands. Also at the festival: food, beer gardens, family stuff, a skateboard exhibition, etc. The festival is 27 years old this year. (West Seattle Junction, www.westseattlefestival.com. 10 am–8 pm, free, all ages.) by Christopher Frizzelle

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Tonight's concert marks the culmination of the Vera Project's seventh annual "A Drink for the Kids" fundraising campaign, in which Seattle's 21+ supporters raise money for the rad all-ages venue simply by drinking. Doesn't philanthropy feel awesome? Or is that the booze? Not only less annoying than a pledge drive, tonight's is a hell of a lineup: Headlining is Robin Pecknold of beardo darlings Fleet Foxes performing a rare solo set. Opening are Throw Me the Statue, whose forthcoming Creaturesque continues their fine take on catchy, clever indie rock laid out on last year's arresting debut, Moonbeams. (Neumos, 925 E Pike St, 709-9467. 8 pm, $15, 21+.) by Eric Grandy

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