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Yelawolf, with Project Lionheart, Cloud Nice, DJ Nphared. Nectar, 412 N. 36th St., 632-2020. 9 p.m. $8. There's a good chance you're scared of Yelawolf.

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Tonight: Yelawolf at Nectar, Friday Mile's Last Show Ever, The Heels at the Blue Moon

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Yelawolf, with Project Lionheart, Cloud Nice, DJ Nphared. Nectar, 412 N. 36th St., 632-2020. 9 p.m. $8. There's a good chance you're scared of Yelawolf. And if your first introduction to the guy was his violent and gritty video for "Pop The Trunk," I can't say I blame you. Hailing from Gadsden, Alabama, the tattooed ex-skateboarder picked up his first big guest spots last year on Slim Thug's "I Run" and Juelz Santana's "Mixin' Up The Medicine" and was recently heard on Big Boi's debut album via "You Ain't No DJ." But Yelawolf doesn't need them to prove his worth in the Southern Rap canon; his rapid-fire flow can alternate between raunchy sex tunes disguised as car metaphors and "diamond nuts" swagger without skipping a beat. His show might get a little rowdy, but Yelawolf will put a vivid image in your mind--and your face. NICK FELDMAN

Friday Mile, with Two Sheds, M. Bison. Columbia City Theater, 4918 Rainier Ave. S. 9 p.m. $12. The story of Friday Mile isn't unique. The pop-rock band played around Tacoma and Seattle for five years, touring when they could and self-releasing an album, Good Luck Studio, last year. Their fans were loyal, but Friday Mile never broke into the Seattle mainstream. Last week, the band announced they were taking an "indefinite hiatus," but with all the members embarking on different musical projects, it sounds like a clean split. The bright side to the break-up is that vocalist and keyboardist Hannah Williams will continue to make music through her side project, Youth Rescue Mission. Williams' voice--crystal-clear and always on key--was always the star of Friday Mile. PAIGE RICHMOND

The Heels, with Autolite Strike, The Laundronauts. Blue Moon, 712 N.E. 45th St., 675-9116. 10 p.m. $5. The Heels' high-energy punk rock sounds exactly like what you'd expect to hear from a quartet of fishnet-and-leopard-print-wearing rocker chicks (and one man) who call their audience members "sluts" and sing songs about having flash floods in their pants. Loud, fast, bouncy and sexually explicit, these women put on a messy rock show that translates best in a gritty dive -- though the Heels have landed some cush gigs, like a stint opening up for X at the Showbox last year. And yet, while the Heels' quickdraw drums and simply phrased lyrics scream "punk," the euphemisms and a pop sensibility keep things light-hearted and more approachable than some of the band's fem-punk predecessors. SARA BRICKNER

 
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