The American Astronaut is the world's best space-Western movie musical. A black-and-white masterpiece, the movie is like Jules Verne with a rock 'n' roll soundtrack, where space is filled with roughnecks and kooks, and men and women are segregated to their own planets. Cory McAbee, the mastermind behind The American Astronaut, has made a sequel of sorts called Stingray Sam. It has many of the same actors (playing different intergalactic desperados), the same obsession with bars and criminals who save children, and equally great songs. Presented as a six-part serial, Stingray Sam will not disappoint members of the American Astronaut cult. McAbee will be here to introduce the film. (Northwest Film Forum, 1515 12th Ave, 829-7863. 7:15 and 9:15 pm, $6–$9.)

This late-night storytelling party, thrown by Annex Theatre, brings you true—and probably embarrassing—tales from some of Seattle's funniest tale-tellers: comedians Emmett Montgomery and Lizzy Pilcher, solo performer Keira McDonald, writer of smut and plays Gillian Jorgensen, our very own David Schmader, and a few others. Schmader promises a story recalling his experiences touring a one-man show about Hitler to a high school in North Carolina in the early '90s. Because nothing's funnier than Hitler. (Annex Theatre, 1100 E Pike St, www.brownpapertickets .com. 11 pm, $5–$10.)

Seattle sound engineer Scott Colburn has gained notoriety for his studio sorcery with Animal Collective, Mudhoney, and others, but his most interesting work occurs under his Jabon guise. Dressed in a "dark wizard robe and weird harlequin mask" and manipulating a stack of analog keyboards, Jabon subsumes his ego—and his surrounding environs—in chthonic tone poems written in ectoplasmic free verse. It's chilling, immersive stuff that deftly jumps beyond the horror-film audio corn to which much "dark ambient" music stoops. (Sunset Tavern, 5433 Ballard Ave NW, 784-4880. 9 pm, $6, 21+.)

Anti-Pop Consortium are to indie hiphop what Sonic Youth are to indie rock. The quartet formed in NYC in 1997, at the very moment hiphop split into an upper world and an underground. AC have always been faithful to hiphop's founding principles: no biting, be true to who you are, and you got to be original. AC's latest album, Flourescent Black, which departs a bit from the futurism of the previous recordings, can only be described as a mass of raw intelligence. It's not easy listening, but it is fascinating, in the way that clouds with flashes of lightning are fascinating. (Studio Seven, 110 S Horton St, www.ticketswest.com. 7:30 pm, $10 adv/$12 DOS, all ages.)

Nearly a decade before Big Brother, internet entrepreneur Josh Harris was playing Big Brother, presenting a series of outlandish and extreme "human experiments" as entertainments for what he dreamed would be an ever-growing audience of round-the-clock viewers on the internet. In the end, Harris drove himself crazy, his company went bust, and, eight years later, award-winning documentarian Ondi Timoner—creator of the classic music doc DiG!—expertly captures the whole brilliant mess on film. (See Movie Times: thestranger .com/film.)

Matthew Dear is best known for his morose, song-oriented tech-house output. But as Audion, Dear produces techno that's jacked up on amyl nitrite and Viagra (sample track titles: "Titty Fuck," "Just Fucking") and imbued with the springiness of Olympic high jumpers' quadriceps. For this tour (dubbed "Hecatomb"), three screens will flash op-art spirals and Möbius strips that pulsate and writhe in time with Audion's throbbing, thrusting techno. It's the closest this upscale dinner theater will ever get to a rave. (Triple Door, 216 Union St, 838-4333. 10 pm, $15 adv/$18 DOS, 21+.)

Tarot Sport, the latest album from Fuck Buttons, makes the leap from abrasive noise band to WTF quasi dance act seem too easy: Just add tones to your washes of white noise, throw in a bag of beats, and splice everything up to the rhythm track. The album's seven generous cuts seem to loop endlessly, imperceptibly intensifying and subtly shifting, with sun-flaring static giving way to battering tribal drum loops, and everything climaxing in unexpectedly sweeping melodies. Expect the duo's live show to sear your ears and move your body in extremely odd ways. (Chop Suey, 1325 E Madison St, 324-8000. 8 pm, $10, 21+.)

Have you guys looked at Gene Tierney's face lately? Holy shit. The sleepy eyes, the smirky mouth, the iceberg cheekbones, the wispy veil of crazy. It's a hell of a face. Tierney's face (and the rest of her) was nominated for a Best Actress Oscar for 1945's Leave Her to Heaven, now newly restored in 35 mm. As an attention-hungry wife—needy, psychotic, scary, somehow sympathetic—Tierney would rather kill her own child than share her husband's affections. Then things get worse. Cornel Wilde (just a so-so face on that guy) costars as the bewildered groom. (Grand Illusion, 1403 NE 50th St, 523-3935. 5, 7, and 9 pm, $8.)

In these Uncertain Economic Times™, any newspaper giving away tens of thousands of dollars in arts grants every year—and throwing a big-ass party for the city to celebrate—would have to be run by crazy people. Fortunately for all of you, we're crazy people. Come celebrate the artists: ejaculatory sculptor/drawer Jeffry Mitchell, hiphop filmmaker Zia Mohajerjasbi, funny freaks the Cody Rivers Show, modern mythmaker Stacey Levine, and the newly invigorated and sexed-up Pacific Northwest Ballet. And hear the music: Throw Me the Statue, They Live!, U.S.F., Emerald City Soul Club. And drink and dance and make out in the dark corners of the Moore Theatre. It's gonna be fun. (Moore Theatre, 1932 Second Ave, thestranger.com/genius. 9 pm, $5, 21+.)

Grouse about nostalgia if you want, but when an endlessly influential sleeper classic turned nonridiculous contender for greatest album of all time like Doolittle gets a sold-out nationwide victory lap, God is happy. Tonight and tomorrow at the Paramount, the real-life Pixies bang out the whole of Doolittle, in all of its impeccably sequenced, face-smashing glory, escorting many, many monkeys directly to heaven. The 21st century is well represented by the openers: Kyp Malone's Rain Machine tonight, noise artistes No Age tomorrow. (Paramount, 911 Pine St, 877-784-4849. 7:30 pm, $55, all ages.)

Tonight is the debut of Seattle's littlest bookstore: 12 Books in the lobby of the Sorrento Hotel. Guests can order books up to their rooms from a rotating menu of a dozen titles. To celebrate 12's launch, Stranger Genius Matt Briggs and Pacific Agony author Bruce Benderson will read and discuss why the Northwest is such a bizarrely fertile literary landscape. John Roderick of the Long Winters will read from his new collection of Twitter posts, Electric Aphorisms, and Matthew Stadler will discuss his brand-new line of bootleg books. (Sorrento Hotel Fireside Room, 900 Madison St, 622-6400. 7 pm, free.)

Finally, somebody's figured out how to make literature competitive and, therefore, sexy: Literary Death Match is a nationwide literary shoot-out that brings the blood sport to books. Re-bar hosts a boozy hand-to-hand battle between three authors (in this case Aaron Dietz, playwright Kelleen Conway Blanchard, brand-spanking-new Stranger Genius Stacey Levine, and Chumbawamba lead singer Danbert Nobacon). Three judges (All About Lulu author Jonathan Evison, former Arrested Development writer Maria Semple, and some douchebag named Paul Constant) will crush the losers' writerly dreams and elevate the winner to eternal glory. (Re-bar, 1114 Howell St, 233-9873. 8 pm, $8 adv/ $10 DOS, 21+.)

Each song on the new Mountain Goats album, The Life of the World to Come, is named after a Bible verse. "Genesis 3:23" ("So the Lord God banished him from the Garden of Eden..."), for instance, is a song about singer-songwriter John Darnielle visiting his old place in Portland and how you can't go home again. As ever, Darnielle's spare acoustic songs tell compelling, detail-rich stories of human misery and persevering hope. Opening is Final Fantasy, the oddball conceptual chamber-pop project of prolific orchestral arranger Owen Pallett. (Showbox at the Market, 1426 First Ave, www.ticketmaster.com. 8 pm, $20, all ages.)

I know. I am aware. Worst title ever. Are you a movie about a circus? Or are you a vampire movie? Or are you a movie about a vampire who was too busy daubing shoe polish onto his widow's peak to goddamn show up, so he sent his assistant? Du freak? But whatever. Cirque du Freak: The Vampire's Assistant is medium awesome, if you like ridiculous magical shit for teens (WHICH I DO). Two dudes stumble upon an underworld of weird sideshow creatures and warring vampire clans. "Can I turn into a bat now?" "No. That's bullshit." (See Movie Times: thestranger.com/film.)

Tonight Devo recreate their 1978 debut LP, Q: Are We Not Men? A: We Are Devo!—a concept album with (robotic) legs. Its 10 originals laid out the Akron, Ohio, band's theories of de-evolution with mordant wit and discordant, spastic electronic rock that still sends jolts of excitement through skeptics and weirdos of all ages. Their absurdly stilted, jaggedly funky cover of "(I Can't Get No) Satisfaction" is the cherry on this still-fresh cake. Plus, yellow boilersuits and flowerpot hats. (Moore Theatre, 1932 Second Ave, 877-784-4849. 7:30 pm, $38–$75, all ages.)

Crawl Space is closing, which is cause for howling. This is the last opening. The show is Stranger Circumstances, featuring Seattle trio PDL, Italian artist Massimo Guerrera, Montreal's Alana Riley, and Vancouver's Ron Tran, focusing on encounters between artists and strangers. These encounters will happen at the opening. Things that have happened at past openings: beercycling, making out, ogling sewn fruit, art-encrusted toilets, Triscuit sponsorship, endless pathways to nowhere. Howl. (Crawl Space Gallery, 504 E Denny Way #1, 201-2441. 6–10 pm, free.)

Tonight, former Pedro the Lion frontman David Bazan returns home from a solo tour that has seen him playing private shows in people's living rooms and traveling in a van paid for with donations from fans. This humble touring scheme coincides with Bazan's most recent album, Curse Your Branches, his first full-length under his given name, which has been aptly described as a breakup album, only with God instead of a girl. The record details Bazan's falling out of faith with evangelical Christianity and his subsequent attempts to drown his newfound agnosticism with alcohol. (Neumos, 925 E Pike St, 709-9467. 8 pm, $13, 21+.)

Today brings two worthy opportunities to commemorate the man who would be King of Pop. The Kenny Ortega–directed film This Is It documents rehearsals for Jackson's would-be comeback shows and sloppily accomplishes the impossible: rehumanizing Michael Jackson, presented here as a tireless, meticulous, generous, and witty working artist. And at the Seattle Laser Dome, Laser Michael Jackson blasts the man's greatest hits over a high-quality sound system with entertaining lights. (For This Is It showtimes, see Movie Times: thestranger.com/film. Seattle Laser Dome, Seattle Center, 443-2850. 8 pm, $8.50.)

Though David Belisle is 10 feet tall, he has a unique knack for barely being there. The gorgeously unpretentious and intimate moments he captures make you feel like you're looking at someone's family album—if that family included Patti Smith, Karen O, Neil Young, and Fleet Foxes. This new exhibit includes candids and portraits, as well as landscapes taken during Belisle's time spent touring the world with R.E.M. and Yeah Yeah Yeahs. The show will be extra sweetened with a live set by Tiny Vipers. (Easy Street Records, 4559 California Ave SW, 938-3279. 7 pm [Tiny Vipers at 9 pm], free.)

There's a scene in the addenda to Dave Eggers's A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius in which the author, while kayaking, is overwhelmed by the sight of a killer whale leaping, Free Willy–style, out of the ocean in close proximity. That scene is all I can think of when trying to describe the impossible ebullience with which Dirty Projectors' Dave Longstreth yelps the words "Bitte orca!" halfway through the recent album of the same name, over an avalanche of avant-Afropop guitar. The album is a revelatory balancing act, as Longstreth's confounding arrangements coalesce again and again into irresistible melodies. (Neumos, 925 E Pike St, 709-9467. 8 pm, $15, 21+.)

The most enjoyable thing about Good Hair is not its (almost uncritical) exploration of the booming, recession-proof black-hair economy but its narrative of four hairstylists who are preparing to compete at the annual International Hair Show in Atlanta. Two of the hairstylists are black women, one is a white man, and one is a black man who wears high heels. It is impossible for the white hairstylist not to be a very curious character—he even looks a little like Bruno. The contest at the end is thrilling and presents an excellent mirror to a key Marxist insight about the limits of capital (more about this when everyone has seen the documentary). (See Movie Times: thestranger.com/film.)

First, Heather McHugh was a genius. In 2007, she became a Stranger Genius. Last month, she became a MacArthur Genius. If God gave Celestial Genius Awards, she'd be next in line. Her poems are nimble and clever, riddles that rhyme. Her newest book, Upgraded to Serious, contains letters to God and brooding comedy about the cosmos, such as her short poem "The Microscope": "Through petri dishes' rings/life is transmogrified. When we/look into things, we see/[blank line]/there's space inside." Even her typography has rhythm—and it's in on the joke. (Elliott Bay Book Company, 101 S Main St, 624-6600. 7 pm, free.)

Don't be misled: Blues Control won't be grinding out rote Muddy Waters or Willie Dixon covers. Rather, the Queens duo works in more hazily indefinable strata. Their self-titled 2007 album ran myriad avant-rock tropes through mutational and cosmic processes. This year's Local Flavor elevates Blues Control's game even higher, soaring into glorious Popol Vuh–like mantras and purveying a rarefied brand of dub that's unfathomably aquatic and deeply spacious. This paradox spotlights the distinctiveness of these atypical New Yorkers. (Funhouse, 206 Fifth Ave N, 374-8400. 9:30 pm, $7, 21+.)

Broadcast's and Atlas Sound's latest albums both explore what critic Simon Reynolds, borrowing from Derrida, has dubbed "hauntology" in music: "the paradoxical state of the spectre, which is neither being nor non-being." In general, this means lots of disembodied voices, echoes, blurs, and hazes of sound, and a kind of sinister nostalgia or longing. Broadcast plies heavy-lidded, vintage psychedelia that plays out like the faded but color-saturated film stock of some old Italo horror flick. Atlas Sound makes soft, breezy bedroom-pop with a troubled past. Both are teeming with ghosts. (Neumos, 925 E Pike St, 709-9467. 8 pm, $13.50, 21+.)

A very bad thing happens to a man, and when he comes to the studio of video artist Meiro Koizumi to recount this bad thing in a testimonial, an even worse thing happens—to the man and to us watching. Koizumi knows the evil a camera can do, and he is not afraid to use it. You have been warned. This artist doesn't pose as a good guy. (Hedreen Gallery, 901 12th Ave, 296-2244. 1:30–6 pm, free.)

All signs point to August: Osage County being face-scorchingly great. Tracy Letts's dark family romance, which won the Tony and the Pulitzer and had critics doing backflips from Chicago to New York, is a three-hour-plus epic with 20 actors and all the problems: Mom's on pills, Dad's a disappeared alcoholic, a 50-year-old is molesting his fiancée's niece, siblings are lovers. And it's a comedy—like Tennessee Williams crossed with T. S. Eliot's "The Hollow Men." As read by Jack Black. Or something. I can't wait. (Paramount Theatre, 911 Pine St, 1-800-745-3000. 8 pm, $23.50–$63.50. Through Nov 1.)

Greil Marcus brought serious intellectual ambition to rock-and-roll criticism—he also spawned a million pretentious rock critics. But you have to admire the ambition of Marcus's new book. In over a thousand pages, A New Literary History of America attempts to do for American history what Marcus did for rock criticism. Pieces by Jonathan Lethem and Sarah Vowell and other literary geniuses bring vivid life to American history (Edison! Tarzan! Alcoholics Anonymous!), with Marcus's unparalleled critical smarts nimbly guiding the whole monstrous book. (Central Library, 1000 Fourth Ave, 624-6600. 7 pm, free.)

Matthew Offenbacher is a very clever artist, but he is also very sincere. Does art take itself too seriously? His paintings seem to ask this question all the time, while also having an almost spiritual dimension. Usually he paints wildlife—linking modernist abstraction with, say, beavers or otters or weasels—but in this show, he pushes the point further by featuring his lazy house cat as if the cat were any other muse-model. The cat is pictured at rest and in motion; there's even a view the cat might have had when it was once stuck up a tree. (Howard House, 604 Second Ave, 256-6399. 10:30 am–5 pm, free.)