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Geneviève Elverum, Anacortes musician, comic artist, new mom, and wife of Phil Elverum, needs help funding treatment for stage four pancreatic cancer.
DoNormaal, JusMoni, Chanti Darling, The Dip, and Jo Passed.
Are music festivals truly all the same now? We crunched the data for 21 NW fests to find out.
Despite the onslaught of sad news this month, the local scene kept pumping out gold nuggets.
Phoebé Guillemot’s unclassifiable sonic universe is like a safari through a mutant forest.
Given the silo-centric culture here in Seattle, the notion of uniting the city’s disparate scenes might also be considered “experimental”—an interesting new tack the festival is taking this weekend.
The poster artist discusses his new show, changing Seattle, time travel, and feces.
Activist hip-hop, occult rap, and weirdo punk made our month.
A Redditor named “CoogiMonster” beat AEG to the punch, but did it really even matter?
“I don’t think Uncle Ike’s is the cause of the problem,” Watson notes, “but I’ll be damned if it isn’t a perfect metaphor.”
The clearest and most incisive recent critique of the capital forces changing the Central District came last week in the form of a seven-years-in-the-making hip-hop record, Seattle’s Own, from Central District native and current South-Ender Draze.
“Mr. Gyros is as amazing as the movie Transformers: Age of Extinction and I would recommend it to anyone who needs a place to eat.”
Emerald City Comicon’s corporate takeover inspired local creators to start their own Seattle-centric event as an antidote—the result is a who’s-who of the city’s booming scene.
A look back at four decades of local artists’ provincial puns, surreal strips, and feminist funnies.
Brilliantly minimalist songwriting from Ings, ass-shaking gold from Ca$h Bandicoot, four overwhelming records from Carlos Garcia, and spacey contemplations from Astro King Phoenix.
The Amazon Spheres are the latest local manifestation of a fascinating new design approach—biophilic and biomemetic architecture. Its adherents want to make Seattle’s cityscape function like a forest.
Back in the early ’70s during the birth of alt-comix in San Francisco, cartoonist Trina Robbins found herself locked out of a supposedly “countercultural” movement that amounted to nothing more than another stupid boys’ club. So she started her own club.
Wielding comics’ unique power to tell stories via space and sequencing, the latest from the 54-year-old artist bursts with brilliantly timed “Oh, snap” moments.