The Stranger

The Hurt Locker—Hollywood's first successfully engrossing narrative film about the Iraq war—communicates the absolute insanity, chaos, tension, psychological impact, and sudden brutality of war without beating you over the head with the war-is-bad stick. The Hurt Locker follows a three-man ordnance disposal unit in Iraq as they trudge from bomb site to bomb site, defusing explosives. There is no villain, the squad members aren't pithy tough guys, there is no overarching mission the squad must complete in three acts—their lone goal is survival. It's pants-shittingly tense. (See Movie Times: thestranger.com/film.) by Jonah Spangenthal-Lee

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Fuck nice: This is a group show based on spite. "Group exhibitions are, by their very nature, landgrabs and property disputes," say curators Yoko Ott and Jessica Powers. You, the viewer, might be the mediator or the spited—and you can probably figure out a way to be the spiter, if you're so inclined. The artists are Matt Browning (Seattle), Andrew Dadson (Vancouver), Eli Hansen (Tacoma), Christian Kliegel (Vancouver), Bert Rodriguez (Miami), SuttonBeresCuller (Seattle), and Aaron Young (New York). (Lawrimore Project, 831 Airport Wy S, 501-1231. 10 am–5:30 pm, free.) by Jen Graves

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Dwele is from Detroit. He has been around for about a decade. He is down with the whole Jay Dee movement. The sound of his soul is always at the same temperature: super cool. Dwele is never hot, excited, passionate, or angry. He loves the haze of jazz vibes, a snap to his beats, and singing about the many problems of love. My favorite tune of his is called "Truth." It opens with two words: "I lied." The singer lied to get her heart—but the truth, he discovers, is he doesn't "like her like that." Dwele, like Peven Everett, knows that every desire has a core of poison. (Triple Door, 216 Union St, 838-4333. 7 pm [all ages], 9:30 pm [21+], $25 adv/$30 DOS.) by Charles Mudede

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The "band, belief system, and business" that are Portland, Oregon, duo YACHT have scored their finest album to date with See Mystery Lights, out on still-going-strong DFA Records. "Psychic City (Voodoo City)" and "Summer Song" are a one-two punch at the record's core, a pair of love letters composed, respectively, of sweetly inviting electro-pop and unstoppable disco-punk rhythms. Surrounding those are songs about magically infinite mobility, life after death, and—seriously—the wonders and dangers of the internet. (Vera Project, Seattle Center, 956-8372. 7:30 pm, $10/$11, all ages.) by Eric Grandy

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I just can't stop taking pictures of boys. I LOVE BOYS. Gay ones, straight ones, skinny ones, fat ones... all of 'em. I try to shoot photos of pretty girls from time to time, but they never turn out. Not like my boys. A nice lady who recently opened a neat new art gallery asked me if I'd like to have a photography show. I said yes. So conflict of interest be damned: I just wanted to tell you, real quick, if you also like boys, maybe you should come. Opening night promises music, libations, and a half-naked rooster serving hot dogs. (Gossamer Collective, 1406 18th Ave, 832-6063. 7–10 pm, free.) by Kelly O

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Earlier this year, when The Stranger referred to Hempfest as a "patchouli-stained ghetto," event organizers lost their fucking minds. Despite our pointing to the gigantic tie-dyes hanging from the stage (and prayer wheels and dream flags or whatever), they insisted Hempfest wasn't a hippie thing. We hope so. Lots of people smoke pot and want to advocate for their personal liberty without having to haul around cultural luggage from 40 years ago. We trust that the stages at this year's Hempfest will be tie-dye-free—right, Hempfest organizers? (Myrtle Edwards Park, 3130 Alaskan Wy W, www.hempfest.org. 10 am–8 pm, free.) by Dominic Holden

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