North Central College’s barely-3-year-old venue simply named the Recreation Center/Residence Hall (picture a really big high-school gym) hosted its first concert ever on Sunday night, when San Diego’s Switchfoot came to Naperville. The 90-minute setlist was curiously devoid of any songs from the band’s first three albums, and instead included tracks from their last five releases, most of them off the quintet’s breakout The Beautiful Letdown and 2011’s Vice Verses.

Frontman Jon Foreman, with his brother/bassist/co-vocalist Tim at his side, once again proved that very little manipulation is done with this band in the studio, especially vocally. The Foremans are still able to confidently nail everything from the raucuous anthems to the tender ballads, all in their signature raspy style. Jon was also very comfortable relating to the college-and-younger crowd, finding the right balance of helping them feel like he truly engaged them, without every getting preachy or long-winded. At one point he did more than interact verbally with the audience, as he ventured deep into the crowd, almost to the back row, just walking on chairs and giving high-fives — all the while belting the chorus to the recent hit “Restless” (“I am restless; I’m searching for you”).

Switchfoot started in 1997 as an outright “Christian rock” act, signing with a Christian label. By their fourth release, a major-label deal with Columbia struck crossover success via a number of Top-40 hits. They strive for this crossover success to retain a positive, spiritual vibe, and this came through at the show. Foreman introduced nearly every song as being meant to offer an inspiring message (from “Your Love Is A Song” to “Meant To Live” to “Dare You To Move” to “Afterlife”). And the three small video screens weren’t used to show anything too edgy, but provided a strong-yet-simple support for the live music in the smaller venue.

The band’s biggest mistake may have been in choosing a too many ballads, and never attempting more than two upbeat rockers in a row and preventing the crowd from fully letting loose. One of Switchfoot’s biggest hits, “The Sound” (featured in various NFL commercials, etc.) was the perfect choice for the closer, and did lead to both the band and the audience showing some serious energy — of which there could have been more.

– Carter Moss

If Bobby Conn were as big as Oprah, the national association of mac-and-cheese producers would be lining up to fight him. His home release show is Friday, as are the first TopGolf “Let’s Play” party, ALO, and Haley Reinhart’s post-”Idol” blitz.

On Macaroni, Bobby Conn’s Fire Records debut, he builds on his cannonade from 2004’s The Homeland with a broadside on American culture. The title track uses the cheesy comfort food as a metaphor for deep-rooted complacency, and he later laughs that love of war is our real reason for overseas military excursions — gas-guzzlers are just a happy byproduct. Despite his alien-of-the-art-world mystique, Conn’s music has always suggested a T. Rex disciple who just happens to make sense. (Marc Bolan often did not.) Macaroni is no different, a futuro metal-funk-electro hybrid that pulls from equal parts Zappa, Prince, Parliament, and 808. (Friday@Empty Bottle with Cave and Starring.)

If you snowmobile on an opposite pole from Conn, you might find yourself at TopGolf this weekend, for the musical launch of this summer’s “Let’s Play!” campaign that ends August 31st. “Patiopalooza” Fridays start with Covergurl, who’ll be teed up by a full raft of food, drinks, and putting greens where you might find yourself more relaxed than usual. (Friday@TopGolf in Wood Dale.)

Despite a name that’s an acronym for Animal Liberation Orchestra, ALO’s strong affiliation with environmental activist Jack Johnson seems more to be with Johnson’s taste for beach music. Sounds Like This (Brushfire) really belongs in Chicago in the half of the year when it isn’t so pleasant outside, filled with genteel lapping beats, coastal warmth, and a nymphomaniac’s lust for good times in the past. (Friday@Martyrs’ with Chris Kasper and Infantree.)

This weekend also marks the homecoming of Wheeling’s Haley Reinhart, the “American Idol” finalist whose Interscope debut, Listen Up!, came out Tuesday. She’ll be signing autographs at her neighborhood WalMart and then performing a free concert at the Hard Rock Cafe downtown. (Saturday@Hard Rock Cafe.)

That schoolchildren aren’t mandated to learn cursive has the irrational class believing that the art of letter-writing will disappear with it. Keeping faint hopes alive, PS I Love You are in town, as are Shovels & Rope.

Much like Titus Andronicus a couple years ago, PS I Love You’s Death Dreams (Paper Bag) manages some blistering indie rock that nevertheless evokes summer. The difference is Paul Saulnier’s swooning vocals, which make Brian Ferry sound like Lemmy. Of course, that’s when you can hear him. The deafening whirr of Saulnier’s guitars and Benjamin Nelson’s multi-car pile-up of a drum technique returns from last year’s Meet Me At The Muster Station. With a performance this intense, the best you can hope for is some subtle changes in shading, and PS I Love You have refined themselves to accomodate just that. (Wednesday@Schubas with Army Girls and Cuff The Duke.)

If we can’t have a full round of sloppy-drunk Hayes Carll and Cary Ann Hearst duets like “Another Like You,” a complementary pairing of Hearst and Michael Trent will have to suffice. Calling themselves Shovels & Rope, the two give a spirited homage to the days of Loretta & Conway or Dolly & Porter while circling that country legacy with a jug of gasoline. O’ Be Joyful (Dualtone) is consistently harder than most country rock (think Pistol Annies meets The White Stripes), but the key to surviving the album’s gritty (not faux-authentic) slapback tone are changeups like “Lay Low” and closer “This Means War.” (Friday@Subterranean with The Kernal and Robert McShane.)

– Steve Forstneger

So many incarnations of The Beach Boys have hit the road over the years, that it’s often tricky to keep track of who’s in the band. But considering 2012 marks the 50th anniversary of summer’s supreme act, surviving co-founders Brian Wilson, Mike Love, and Al Jardine, alongside veterans Bruce Johnston and David Marks, traded acrimony for harmony long enough to hit the studio and launch a world tour.

The June 5th release of That’s Why God Made The Radio (Capitol) marks the band’s first album of entirely original material since 1992, and given the wealth of material from both yesterday and today, it was no surprise the group delivered a generous, more than 40-song set during the first of two packed Chicago Theatre shows. In addition of all the major hits, the Boys (now well into manhood in their 60s and 70s) also dusted off several deeper album cuts and a new tune, truly honoring the tour’s anniversary premise.

“Do It Again” served as a fitting start, not only because of the night’s reunion nature, but also due to harmony-heavy pleasantries that found the five sounding not entirely perfect, but still generally spry. Of course, having a younger 10-piece band do some of the heavier instrumental lifting and supplement the higher notes didn’t hurt, but the elders had no trouble keeping up with the spunk of “Surfin’ Safari” or nailing the gentle sweetness of “Surfer Girl.”

As has been the group’s tradition, Love took many of the leads, sounding especially confident throughout the carefree “When I Grow Up (To Be A Man),” “Be True To Your School,” and “Little Deuce Coupe,” though he also shared the spotlight with his cousin Wilson on a handful of occasions. The former St. Charles resident may have looked sheepish, if not entirely oblivious, behind his piano (and like a scene from Weekend At Bernie’s on the bass during the encore), but sounded vocally capable throughout the ambitious Pet Sounds suite “Sloop John B,” that same album’s bittersweet ballad “I Just Wasn’t Made For These Times,” and the Smile-bred “Heroes And Villains.”

Outside of his nimble guitar duties, Jardine jovially crooned his way through “Help Me, Rhonda,” while Johnston also packed plenty of vocal chops, despite detouring with “Disney Girls” (second only in corny comparison to “Kokomo”). Even dearly departed members Dennis and Carl Wilson popped up on video screens to deliver their previously recorded parts of “Forever” and “God Only Knows,” respectively, as the present players added their signature backing vocals.

The new but simultaneously nostalgic-sounding single “That’s Why God Made The Radio” also made it apparent The Beach Boys still have a knack for crafting melodic masterpieces reminiscent of Pet Sounds‘ pop sensibility crossed with the regarded (albeit less successful) Sunflower’s tedious craftsmanship. As the night reached its apex, the highlight reel of oldies but goodies like “Good Vibrations,” “California Girls,” “Do You Wanna Dance?,” and “Fun, Fun Fun” sounded just as sweet as ever, which, coupled with the earlier favorites and rarities, made for an exhaustively comprehensive celebration of America’s ultimate band.

– Andy Argyrakis

Sic The Polyphonic Spree on those rambunctious NATO protestors and the need for a mile-long line of police officers outfitted in riot gear would disappear. One look at Tim DeLaughter and his band of merry pranksters would either send the chanting mass exercising their First Amendment rights running off in fear or persuade them to join the feel-good circus.

Blame it on the collective’s cult-like uniforms (on this go-around, the mini orchestra sports white floor-length robes emblazoned with cut-out hearts like a second-grader’s Valentine’s Day project) or their ebullient performance style. Whether encountering the rotating lineup in the street or within the intimate quarters of a concert venue, DeLaughter’s crew casts a spell difficult to shake.

After three albums, one long hiatus, and an abridged lineup, the magic doesn’t spring forth with the white-hot intensity of past outings in the early ’00s, but still wields a mighty power. For once, breathing room wasn’t in short supply with only 14 noise-makers on stage at Park West. The mishmash of instruments remained intact (punk-rock cellist, church bell-hammering percussionists, brass line three-men deep), yet the incredible shrinking all-girl chorus proved the most significant change in both sight and sound. The unified singing and hair whipping used to dwarf DeLaughter’s son-of-a-preacher-man stance. Now, the ladies stand in back, and try to rise above the din.

Not that the Spree wasn’t always DeLaughter’s show. He’s ever the mad scientist at the helm, transforming a jaded club into a revivalman’s tent. He fidgets. He twirls. He weaves through the band like a wayward stream of smoke. He juts out his arms like a demented conductor. And yet, he somehow manages to squeeze in a few bars of kaleidoscopic lyrics and wills them a deeper meaning. Every action is thought out — from opening the set behind a scarlet sheet to revealing the group a few inches at a time by cutting out an ever-expanding heart-shaped hole, to closing with “The Championship” and methodically commanding each member’s exit with a tap on the shoulder. The exercise gave a backwards lesson on sound layering, and a tutorial on how to execute an unforgettable finish.

The Spree parties with the conviction of a roving Hare Krishna sect, and the commercialism of mass-marketed holidays. It brought a little New Year’s Eve flair to this 90-minute jaunt by deploying confetti cannons on three separate occasions. A cover of The Who’s “Pinball Wizard” fit squarely within the band’s psychedelic bent, while a new tune, “What Would You Do?,” shunned fragmented thought in exchange for burning questions to a pogoing beat.

– Janine Schaults

Gridlock downtown! Restrictions on commuter trains! Riot gear! (Thanks to considerate Loop employers, less traffic on Foster this morning.) Only Jennifer Herrema, ex-Royal Trux, would do a show this weekend! Ane Brun waits a day or two.

Notice I didn’t mention the Cubs/Sox series in the list of bedlam, as absolutely no one cares anymore. After squeezing all she could out of Royal Trux and RTX, you could imagine Herrema wouldn’t care more for guitar music, but the new album by her RTX reboot, Black Bananas, pretty consistently debunks that notion. Rad Times Xpress IV orgiastically extols its love for six-strings, in a surprisingly danceable melange of saxy Bowie, T. Rex glitter, Ernie Isley space funk, and — on “Earthquake” at least — James T. Kirk. The name Black Bananas is clearly a metaphor: what looks like spoiled fruit is actually treasured by pastrymakers for its intense flavor (and easily mashable texture). (Sunday@Lincoln Hall with Kurt Vile & The Violators and True Widow.)

Ane Brun’s missing an opportunity by playing here the day after the NATO convention ends, as the mantra-like repetition of her album’s title, It All Starts With One, on the same effort’s “The Light From One” would be a magically positive protest anthem. (It sure beats marching through Bridgeport chanting, “Fuck the police.”) Occasionally, Brun sounds too delicate to withstand the hot air that will be blowing from all sides this weekend, though the Norwegian has a backbone of dignity in her work that keeps it grounded as wispier elements threaten to take flight. (Tuesday@Lincoln Hall with Gemma Ray.)

– Steve Forstneger

As with any genre, many aren’t shy about their opinions of what country music should be. Admittedly, we’re glad it’s not all about heartache and crops drying up and tears in beer: Jason Boland & The Stragglers, however, like to keep things serious. Also in town: Rocky Votolato and Here We Go Magic.

But what makes Rancho Alto an unqualified success is its refusal to preach and that it doesn’t make concessions to recording methods that fabricate grit. In that sense, Jason Boland & The Stragglers are almost better than Drive-By Truckers in selling tales of scraping out a living, moral gray areas, and brutal luck. “Down Here In The Hole” depicts a suck-ass job where you never see the sun; a poisonous relationship becomes routine in “Obsessed”; and, in the harrowing “False Accuser’s Lament,” a poor farmer agrees to go along with the prosecution’s story only to see the gallows every night in his sleep. The Stragglers never over-dramatize Boland’s vignettes, hewing closely to traditional country templates and letting the direct words do the work. (Friday@Joe’s with Chris Knight.)

Rocky Votolato’s Television Of Saints (Undertow) grows into a family affair, though his unshakable romantic issues remain solely his. Presented in relatively unadorned singer/songwriter tones, Votolato’s problems get reflected back at him in the dreariest details of modern life: stoplights, dead leaves, brick houses along the highway, a perpetually powered TV, etc. The pain of divorce paralyzes “Start Over,” while in “Sunlight” he edges over the lines of mental collapse. In short, Votolato and Boland need to go bowling. (Thursday@Schubas with Kevin Long.)

No established artist says, “I’ve never heard of this producer or anything they’ve done, but I’ll hire them anyway.” It’s certain that Luke Temple liked something Nigel Godrich did (probably for Radiohead) before approaching him to helm Here We Go Magic’s A Different Ship (Secretly Canadian), the trick was to not give fans or critics incentive to believe that it was because he wanted to sound like one of Godrich’s clients. Mission failed on “Alone But Moving,” where Temple’s cracking falsetto recalls a certain you-know-who. What’s funny, however, is how nothing you’d credit to Godrich sounds identical to Radiohead. Here We Go Magic move somewhat antiseptically (or unassertively) through the album, preferring gauzy textures and insularity as if they couldn’t have gotten there on their own. (Thursday@Empty Bottle with Dolphins.)

– Steve Forstneger

When Eric Church, sporting his trademark sunglasses finally evolved onto the stage at 9:32 on Friday night, engoulphed in a thick cloud of smoke, there was a feeling of the unknown.

Today’s big arena concerts are packed with video screens, flashy stages, and lots of razzle dazzle. Church is an old-school beer-keg-on-the-stage, smoke, some flashing lights, and fireworks kind of guy. With his liquid friend Jack Daniel’s (in the red Solo cup) hanging close by on the mic stand (94 proof, single barrel, and custom labeled for him), he proceeded to crank through 21 songs taking the packed Sears Centre crowd on a well-scripted musical rollercoaster.

He ripped through six songs before getting back to the theme of the night with “I’m Gettin’ Stoned,” and then “Jack Daniel’s” declaring “Tonight I’m drinking Jack Daniel’s/and don’t give a shit.” He’s an emotional, passion-filled singer who is relatable with his jumping around, fist-pumping, and chest-pounding to make his points. (No choreographed dance moves here.)

He stripped it down for a three-song acoustic set banging out “Two Pink Lines,” “Sinners Like Me,” and “Love Your Love The Most.” With the band back on stage and rested, he went right into chart topper “Drink In My Hand” and begged the crowd to “Give me everything you got!” He finished the main event with “Homeboy,” signed his bottle of JD for a fan, and left the same way he entered.

All this was, of course a tease for The Encore. Church has the summer anthem that has not only topped the country charts but is climbing the Rolling Stone Top 40, too. Before the much anticipated “Springsteen,” he led with “Smoke A Little Smoke” and “These Boots.” With his guitar slung over his shoulder, he pounded the ivories in an ode to The Boss, and his iconic Born In The USA album.” “This is where melodies and memories connect,” he said, telling a story about a girl who’s name can can’t remember but thinks of her every time he hears that (track one, side one) song. There were only a few lighters in the house, but the illuminated cell phones rocking back and forth should be made into his next video. Almost as if he didn’t want to leave, it turned into an eight-minute sing-along that put the finishing touch on a entertaining night.

Hard-pounding rednecks Blackberry Smoke provided some background for getting that first beer and concert T-shirt bought. Brantley Gilbert revved-up the late-arriving crowd with an eight-song set that included his hits “County Must Be Country Wide” and “You Don’t Know Her Like I Do.” He may not be this year’s headliner, but with a few more songs and his deep crooners voice, he may be in Church’s spot next.

– Brian Ormiston

Anime had its Big O; well-traveled singer/songwriters look to Alejandro Escovedo and Damien Jurado. That, and more tenuously tangential links in our roundup for the 16th, also including Hope For Agoldensummer, The Royalty, and We Are Serenades.

How strange is it that Alejandro Escovedo was once in a side-project rock band called Buick MacKane and has now thrice worked with producer Tony Visconti? As things stand, Big Station (Fantasy) sounds no more like T. Rex than anything else in the 61-year-old’s catalog. But Escovedo and Visconti have come up with what amounts to a “hit” album for the San Antonian, in so far as it sounds like a compilation of all his best work. Perhaps that’s owed again to the collaboration of co-writer Chuck Prophet, who himself is on a roll as far as distilling Americana rock into something a little less wearying than your boilerplate No Depression stars. Opener “Man Of The World” might not quite be the Fleetwood Mac song, but its pumping swagger gives that version a run for its money. (Wednesday@Uptown’s Playlist Theater in LaSalle with Jesse Malin.)

One day, a rather stunning compilation will be made of Damien Jurado’s best, and in a perfect world it would place him alongside the likes of John Prine in the history books. Maraqopa (Secretly Canadian), however, will not be rocketing toward the top of the pops soon. A deep, yet somewhat quixotically mixed album, Jurado usually pushes the bulk of his imagination into his characters but really lets fly with the arrangements here. Opener “Nothing Is The News” opens with the muddled rumble of old guitar strings, but soon launches itself into Haight-Asbury psychedelic rock. “Life Away From The Garden” casts a creepy children’s choir, and the LSD returns for the reverbed lope of “This Time Next Year.” Though his fragile tenor reminds you whose album this is, it’s easy to forget what you began listening for, until words like “Don’t let go/I need you to hang around/I am so broke/and Foolishly in love” remind you that not all’s in the scenery. (Wednesday@Schubas with JBM.)

Harmonizing sisters aren’t trendy — they’re a gift. So yes, Claire and Page Campbell intertwine as effortlessly as the Watson Twins or Wilsons, but they don’t prefer a lung-emptying showcase or even something that would wake Azure Ray from a slumber. Instead, Hope For Agoldensummer use Life Inside The Body to make subtle and even aching gestures, many of which recall the vulnerable, half-wakefulness of Rebecca Gates. It can be somnambulant and deliberate, for sure, but it’s never typical. (Wednesday@Uncommon Ground Devon with Andru Bemis.)

It can be a wonderful thing to have a versatile pop band. While Victory Records has gone overboard with The Royalty by comparing them to everyone from Adele to Blondie to Sleigh Bells, the label’s clearly excited by its prospects. On Lovers, Nicole Boudreau stars in an almost Gwen Stefani-like way, one that flirts with debasing her bandmates’ contributions. But The Royalty are up to creating a multitude of pop scenarios for her, whether Spector-esque pop, ska-lite, or electro-pop delight. (Wednesday@Beat Kitchen with Nature Show, Placeholder, and Eiffel Tower.)

The jump from Shout Out Louds to We Are Serenades is deliberate if not literal. The delicate, Swedish power-poppers might actually only be half SOLs — frontman Adam Olenius — but their raison d’etre is fully encompassed by his band’s “Impossible” and its precious intent to never compromise happiness. What keeps Criminal Heaven from being an irrepressible ode to blind youth is its pacing, a cryptic concession to acquiescence that is obscured in the interest of keeping the good times going for as long as possible. (Wednesday@Empty Bottle with Northpilot and Dozens.)

– Steve Forstneger

You have a big weekend: after Maps & Atlases finish their hometown release party at Metro, wake up, brush teeth, and get in line to be first for The Right Now’s. Also: Sheffield’s Water For Ale, Father John Misty, Chicha Libre, and Royal Canoe.

A problem with the soul-revue revival is the aggressively retro stance of its participants. Not limited to dress, a huge portion of the songs seize on peak-period Stax and Muscle Shoals-type arrangements complete with analog pops and snaps. Chicago-based The Right Now share complicity in some of these tropes, but at least the new Gets Over You doesn’t doll itself up like Dick Clark will come knocking any moment. With a name like Stefanie Berecz, the band’s frontwoman does well to keep from donning blackface and mimicking any of the era’s iconic vocalists. Her pipes’ Midwestern modesty is a microcosm for a band trying to find their own way with the genre’s well-worn templates — case in point is “Call Girl,” which loses the tie, undoes two or three buttons, and heads out under the disco ball. To the alternate future! (Saturday@Lincoln Hall with Derobert & The Half Truths.)

If you’ve watched the craft beer section of your local Jewel or Dominick’s explode from Leinenkugel’s and Honey Brown to bombers of Hop Stoopid and Flossmoor Station, you’re no doubt impressed. You might also be wondering, if there’s this much specialty brew to go around, where are we getting all the water? And how much longer until the Southwest is completely tapped out (giving teetotalers a new look at the term “going dry”)? Sheffield’s — long one of the only places in Wrigleyville that served decent beer — announces the first S.W.A.P. (Sheffield’s Water From Ale Project) for this weekend, during which it’ll donate a dime from every draft poured off its 50 taps to organizations including Friends Of The Chicago River, and Council Of The Great Lake Governors, and Water.org, while working with brewers to match what it gives. Admission is free for an all-you-can-eat fish fry, a Two Brothers “Tap Takeover,” and bluegrass! (Saturday@Sheffield’s with Chico & James.)

In 2007, Barbes Records released Roots Of Chicha: Psychedelic Cumbias From Peru, a stunning compilation of South American songs from the ’60s that collided with psychedelic rock. The astonishing and ostensibly sad thing about it, is that the musicians didn’t seem to be playing this great music for anyone but themselves and the chances of hearing it again were limited to this release. Not necessarily so: Chicha Libre arrive this week, and this year’s Canibalismo (on the same label no less), recreates the style with a modern flair. In place of dirt-floor, barrio charm comes a cleaner representation that has its own benefits: particularly bringing out elements poorly recorded in the past. (Saturday@Old Town School Of Folk Music.)

The harmonies on Fear Fun pull the curtain back on the fact that J. Tillman daylights in Fleet Foxes, a connection that no doubt encouraged Sub Pop to give a big-label shot to the wandering, shamanistic singer/songwriter. Its hunch pays off on his debut as Father John Misty, which updates the Devendra Banhart hippie mystique to fashionably include the PacNW, L.A. hotels, and a hint of Sweetheart-era Byrds. (Saturday@Schubas with Har Mar Superstar.)

Winnipeg’s Royal Canoe put disproportionate weight on point of view for their Extended Play EP, and that doesn’t include the Vampire Weekend-ish run through the motions of “Caught In A Loop.” From one side, they’re cavalier boundary crossers, melding psychedelic rock, hip-hop, and world pop with abandon, and making summery anthems at each turn. Or, you could say its engaging unpredictability conspicuously opens a pleasant new path, and that “Loop” is more of a signifier of boundaries than a way to fill five minutes. (Sunday@Township with The Mommies.)

– Steve Forstneger

No one really addresses it, but one of the hallmarks of post-millennial hip-hop has been very punk rock: you don’t need a good voice to make an impact. Danny Brown epitomizes this and is in town this week, along with Ty Segall, Stryper, Maps & Atlases, and Plants And Animals

We’ve come a long way from Melle Mel and Kurtis Blow, but even beyond the interjections of Snoop Dogg and Bone Thugs-N-Harmony, the MC ideal has been someone who commands the mic, enunciates, and (most underrated) can spit in relative tune with the music. DMX challenged this in the extreme — as did Busta Rhymes, Ol’ Dirty Bastard, and even Ja Rule — but today it seems atonality or a harmonic indifference has become the way. Lil Wayne and Nicki Minaj operate independent of melodies and beats, while even Kanye West possess a nasally intonation and lack of authority that can make his voice crack when he attempts conviction. In that sense, Danny Brown’s long slog in the underground and prison system was just spent waiting for time to catch up to him. The material on last year’s XXX (Fool’s Gold) breakthrough didn’t just hinge on verses about winters using an oven as a heater or brutally graphic sexual exploits, but how his misfit pipes portrayed a split personality. He almost sounds like he’s battling himself on the final cut, “30″ (the album title refers to explicit content as well as Brown’s age), and creates a tension that transcends fads. (Wednesday@Riviera Theatre with Childish Gambino.)

Speaking of underrated, it’s great how we can talk about Ty Segall’s “old” material but chronologically only need to go back about two years. In a flurry of releases since he was unearthed in the same garage-rock revival that delivered Jay Reatard, Segall declines to stay in place very long. On last year’s Goodbye Bread (Drag City), he tried to divine if things really sounded better slow, and on a collaborative album this spring with opener White Fence he won’t let any structure take its coat off. Hair finds Segall and Tim Presley plotting, scheming . . . doing anything to disrupt whatever strolls they can lull you into. Still working from a customary palette of ’60s guitar bands, they kick out chairs, stick fingers in your back, and turn lights on just as you’ve fallen asleep. (Thursday@Lincoln Hall with White Fence and Strange Boys.)

Everyone knows that the great irony of the Stryper story is that they went platinum despite being assertively evangelical in an overwhelmingly debauched pop-metal world. Less spoken of, the band’s first real taste of success was in a place that couldn’t put less emphasis on religion if it tried: Japan. Take that further, when Stryper began to make their move in the U.S., some of their most vocal critics were highly visible members of the Religious Right. (Though, you could probably wager that sincere Satanists never rated Ozzy Osbourne highly, either.) As vendors of a particularly ridiculed musical style, Stryper may never get much credit for the barriers they demolished. Unfazed, they ended a 14-year hiatus in 2005 and dutifully went back to spreading the word. Of course, the landscape has changed so much that they didn’t take much flak for last year’s The Covering (Big3) — which includes their versions of songs originally recorded by Osbourne, Judas Priest, Kiss, and more — or the distressing artwork on their two post-reunion studio albums. But now that irony’s been brushed aside, there’s nothing left to do but play. (Thursday@Tailgaters in Bolingbrook.)

Whether people respond to it en masse is another thing, but it’s difficult not to have an opinion about Beware And Be Grateful (Barsuk). Maps & Atlases‘ sophomore full-length finds the local band quite a distance from their first EPs, where the proggy touches have morphed into something resembling mid-’80s Peter Gabriel. Part of that’s due to the husk of Dave Davison’s voice, but Beware takes a preponderence of trendy African rhythms and guitar lines and turns them into something American and summery with a production sheen that’s as integral to the album as the songwriting. (Friday@Metro with So Many Dynamos and Sister Crayon.)

The reversion to vinyl hasn’t necessarily coincided with a revived approach to making music specifically for 33s, though the idea defines Plants And Animals‘ The End Of That (Secret City). The first half plops down on the couch, and the Montreal-based band effectively churn out an indie-rock Americana, admitting to “Sittin’ in the sun/blowing smoke/and talking shit with no reasons.” But then the fifth track, “Crisis!,” flips a switch, the amplifiers register their unhappiness, and we get desperate cries like, “We’re running for our lives!” Two sides, one piece. Love it. (Friday@Schubas with Hundred Waters and American Wolf.)

– Steve Forstneger

Many casual rock fans get stuck on this poser: name the band who were greatly influenced by both Bob Dylan and The Beatles, and in turn had major influence on Bob Dylan and The Beatles. The answer is The Byrds. Similarly, another ’60s-born Southern California-based outfit led several lives, one that is extremely more commercially popular than the others, but those lesser-known years irrevocably changed the language of pop music.

Appearing: May 21st and 22nd at Chicago Theatre (175 N. State) in Chicago.

They are The Beach Boys.

To this day, an astounding number of Americans are unfamiliar with Pet Sounds, a recording reverently hailed by critics as one of the most important of all time. If you troll its comments section in Apple’s iTunes music store, you’d frequently read those of Beatles fans who write something akin to, “I bought this because I read that Paul McCartney wrote most of Sgt. Pepper’s in admiration of it.”

Consequently, an army of self-styled “serious” listeners ignore The Beach Boys’ early hits — as they do The Beatles’ — believing Pet Sounds and its besieged, ultimately released (in 2004) successor Smile are the band’s true legacy. Because Brian Wilson was central to those albums, those cognoscenti then err by clipping their Beach Boys’ collections when Wilson’s drug use and mental instability drove him into seclusion, and they are comically unaware of albums like Sunflower, when the rest of the band blossomed.

“I would say the reason we’re here is because the early stuff is taken so incredibly seriously,” says Bruce Johnston. “I’d say it’s the reverse. I think people get a little itchy and antsy when [on tour, Mike Love and I] try to go deep. The problem music, I think, is the deeper stuff. The whole world knows the early stuff.

“But let’s not go there,” he pauses. “Here’s how it should sound: Hearing it all is the better choice.”

And so you shall have it. For their 50th anniversary — allegedly the first American rock group to reach the milestone — Johnston, Love, Brian Wilson, and Al Jardine are touring one last time, so people can hear the full spectacle from “Surfin’” to a new album, That’s Why God Made The Radio, due June 5th.

The official launch was at the Grammys this winter, and Wilson says, “Just recently we decided to do the tour. We’re doing most of the Beach Boys’ classics. There are some that aren’t as classic,” he kids, “but they’re good tunes.”

“This configuration,” Johnston starts, “people have a great interest in the depth that [Brian] created, and you get it at his concert. He’s kind of like Burt Bacharach: he’s this all-purpose guy from the music business who did everything. Here’s this amazing talent on stage who wrote, produced, and arranged it, and did all the stuff. And he can get away with some really interesting tracks. When Mike and I go out — other than when we play with symphonies — we keep it a little lighter.”

But surely Love and Johnston don’t need Wilson along to dabble in Pet Sounds, and he admits that the pair cover more than half of the album when hitting the likes of Ravinia each summer.

“He doesn’t tour a lot,” Johnston agrees, “but he’s able to do things that we wouldn’t be able to do — like a longer version of ‘Heroes & Villains.’ And the reaction he gets . . . I’m not saying his audience doesn’t have fun, but Brian gets a more serious audience. ‘Here Today’ is really fun to do, but I have to force Mike. I don’t know why he doesn’t like doing it. ‘I don’t like the instrumental part in the middle!’ ‘That’s my favorite part!’”

In half of a century, The Beach Boys have certainly been entitled to a few squabbles, and those mostly limit themselves to lawsuits over royalties or use of the band name. Musically, fractures appeared in the agonizing sessions for Smile, when Wilson became increasingly withdrawn, Love especially didn’t like its fragmented nature or Van Dyke Parks’ cryptic lyrics, and Capitol Records wanted to know where its money went.

“I always thought Smile should have been Brian’s solo album with us visiting vocally,” Johnston says, “and I don’t think he would have gone through any of the pain making that album. The label wouldn’t be wondering, ‘Where are the hits, Brian? Where are the hits?’ The label was really funky in those days.” Though he’s not a founding member — he joined the touring band after Glen Campbell split in 1965; he wasn’t considered a full-timer until a couple of years later — Johnston occupies what seems like an arbiter’s position in the band. He was one of Pet Sounds‘ biggest champions, yet tours in full-voice behind the early hits. And those topsy-turvy years beginning 1967’s Smiley Smile?

“It’s a great career, great music, and later on band members,” he says. “Have you ever heard Dennis [Wilson]’s song, ‘Forever’? My favorite Beach Boys album in the whole world is Sunflower. It’s one of the least-successful albums in the catalog,” he snickers, “and Dennis wrote this perfect song. The Wilson brothers had great writing talent.”

Reliably, he’s partial to the new album, as well.

“It’s very relaxed to me,” Johnston hints. “What I like about it is the label wasn’t running in the door every five minutes [looking for hits]. They just come over once in awhile and heard all the voices. Brian’s got this cute little pocket suite in it. And nobody’s worried about ‘Strings aren’t cool = it’s 2012.’ Paul Martin did these great string arrangements. It’s relaxed and there’s interesting things going on. Nobody’s trying to put on whatever they were all about from the mid ’60s. Nobody’s trying to win an Olympic gold medal. Al sang a duet with me, and it was a pleasure. It’s not like an album where you’re gonna go, ‘This is gonna be pretty big!’ You’re gonna go, ‘Hey, this is pretty nice. These guys, after all these years, can and want to sing together.’”

Brian Wilson, who guards his words in a separate interview, opens up here. “It’s very mellow-sounding. A lot of harmonies. Most of it’s just harmony. I wrote a song called ‘Shelter,’ which is all about how your house is shelter from the sunlight and shelter from the dark night. It’s a great tune, it really is.”

That’s Why God Made The Radio’s title track has been issued as the first single, and its unabashedly retro feel is charismatic. The band’s rich harmonies cascade over a bass pattern that’s surprisingly high in the mix, with everything swaying in 12/8 time. Despite the arrangement’s density, it never feels cluttered and — like most Beach Boys single edits — ends too soon.

He continues, “Most of the stuff I wrote in 1998 with my collaborator Joe Thomas. [Until now], the guys had never heard it before. They love it. They think it’s great stuff. The guys haven’t changed very much in 50 years, you know? They still sound just as good or even better than 50 years ago!”

If the material was written in 1998, that means it came to life while Wilson was living in St. Charles, not far from the Thomas whose résumé includes work with McCartney and Elton John. The pair were working on Wilson’s solo album, Imagination, and guests at the house included the former Beatle, John Lennon’s son Sean, and Joe Walsh. After an alleged falling-out, Wilson moved back to California. This part, he’s not so willing to talk about.

“Not really. It was hard work, you know?”

Johnston, coincidentally, also has ties to the area, having been born in Peoria and kept a home in Beverly. His father, a big-wig at Walgreens, adopted him shortly before joining forces with Justin Dart, a former son-in-law of the Walgreens empire who revolutionized the drugstore business and became a magnate. The Johnstons moved to Bel-Air, young Bruce cottoned to surfing, and then fell in with some incredibly important artists.

“I’ve been at this since high school,” he says. “I used to back up Ritchie Valens and Eddie Cochran; I was in a band with Phil Spector and on and on and on. But I was at this surf spot called Swami’s in San Diego, and I don’t know, I must have been 18 or 19, and I heard ‘Surfin” On the radio by The Beach Boys, and I didn’t know what it was. We had gone through instrumental stuff by The Ventures and Dick Dale, and all of the sudden vocals are singing about the surfing life. It astounded me that my sport had a voice. One thing led to another, and I’m in this band.”

– Steve Forstneger

For the full story, visit the issue through our partners at ShadeTree, or grab a copy available free throughout Chicagoland.

IE: Are there any that you’re more excited to approach than others?
Brian Wilson: Not really. Well, “California Girls” I look forward to, and “Good Vibrations.” I look forward to those.

IE: Is there anything about those songs that you don’t get to touch on in your newer material?
BW: We try to put all our heart and soul into everything.

IE: You mentioned Joe Thomas was your main collaborator. What about the others?
BW: Well, they’ve all had their input, you know what I mean? If I thought Bruce would be better to sing [one part], he might have said, “You sing it, Al.”

IE: So the collaborative spirit was there.
BW: Right.

IE: Are you making improvements on the old songs?
BW: Yeah, we’re trying to make them sound just as good as they did then.

IE: Has there been any conversation of the legacy of the band and how it fits into today’s climate?
BW: We said we’re not real current; the music isn’t today’s kind of music. But it’s just as good or better than the music of today.

IE: What’s your barometer for that?
BW: Harmonically, I guess. Just the harmonies. It’s got the energy, too — there’s a lot to it.

IE: Can you notice recurrent themes in the music you’ve made through the years? Certain melodic signatures, etc.?
BW: Not just the harmonies, but the melodies are good. The lyrics are very interesting, you know?

IE: Have there been any challenges in putting this together?
BW: We’re challenged to make it sound good.

IE: Are you a perfectionist in that light?
BW: Yes I am. I’m a perfectionist in the sense that I don’t want the guys to sound crappy. And they’ll say, “We sound good.” Sure, we sound good, but we can’t sound crappy.

– Steve Forstneger

Superman had his Fortress Of Solitude; Mayer Hawthorne has his records and the stores scattered around the globe devoted to housing rare and overlooked vinyl.

Appearing: May 17th at Park West with The Stepkids, and later the same night at Beauty Bar in Chicago.

While out on the road, if the L.A.-based, Ann Arbor, Michigan native’s not on stage soaking up the intense, if unlikely, female adulation his bedroom-eyed crooning brings, he’s either satisfying his foodie tendencies at a local eatery of note or adding to his collection of LPs.

You can just picture him hunkering down in a musty shop with creaky hardwood floors – the kind that make it easy for well-fed dust bunnies to hop in between stacks of music. His thick-rimmed hipster frames slide down his nose as he hunches over crates, flipping through unorganized and improperly alphabetized titles. Losing all track of time, he focuses on the hunt, rarely coming up for air until he locates that trip-defining gem.

Hawthorne has a name for this treasured ritual: “digging.” And it’s not a team sport.

“It’s usually more of like a Zen thing for me. That’s kind of like my drug. So, I don’t usually like to talk to nobody when I’m digging for records. It’s more of like a private thing. I just get in my zone and dig,” he reveals on a Saturday afternoon, right before the East Coast portion of his world tour gets underway. “People think that they want to go record shopping with me, but they really don’t – they get bored.”

So, it seems like a spin-off of his “Mayer vs. Food” YouTube series is out of the question then. The 33-year-old will play virtual food critic and break bread with fans online, but shopping excursions are off limits. In lieu of craftily edited vignettes, we’ll have to settle for hard-nosed advice.

“I like digging in record stores that are kind of sloppy and unorganized. Because that way you just like start digging through a pile and find something you weren’t necessarily looking for. That’s usually how I find the best stuff: not having any strategy at all,” Hawthorne admits. A haphazard methodology also makes up for an overwhelming number of choices. “I always have like a list in my head of all these records that I want to get, and then as soon as I walk in the door of the record store it goes completely out the window and I can’t remember anything that I wanted.”

This affection for 12 grooved inches of aural merriment stems from Hawthorne’s two-turntables-and-a-microphone days in Detroit as DJ Haircut. (For those keeping track at home, that’s alias number two for the man born Andrew Mayer Cohen.) Hawthorne came up with his own Motown-influenced melodic riffs to erase the need for sampling copyrighted (and expensive) material. Despite never considering himself a singer, this goofing off caught the attention of Stones Throw Records label head Peanut Butter Wolf, who urged Hawthorne to create an album around the tracks. A Strange Arrangement followed, spurred on by the it’s-not-you-it’s-me single, “Just Ain’t Gonna Work Out.” (In keeping with Hawthorne’s hobby, the single was released on red, heart-shaped vinyl – surely a get for future diggers.)

Hawthorne jumped to the majors for his sophomore effort, How Do You Do (Universal Republic), keeping the soul- revivalist motif going without ever falling into pastiche. Despite the inevitable Curtis Mayfield comparisons, Hawthorne firmly places the album in this decade with a guest appearance by Snoop Dogg and infusing the coos and his A-plus bedside manner with a hip-hop sensibility.

Hawthorne’s voice sounds like it’s draped in gold lamé, even if his outfits suggest otherwise. The budding fashionista might bristle at the word “outfit,” but anyone with a self-proclaimed motto (“flashy but classy”) to go along with their duds, doesn’t just wear clothes. Hawthorne sports a look that’s hipster chic mixed with GQ swagger and very debonair. You’ll rarely find him sans bowtie or without a perfectly pressed and color-coordinated pocket square.

His fashion sense comes from an unlikely source: his grandma Shirley. “I get all my fashion inspiration from my grandma. She’s the most stylish person I know. Like any time she would walk into a room, everybody would always know right off the bat,” Hawthorne remembers. “But, she always kept it really classy. She taught by example.”

– Janine Schaults

For the full story, visit the issue through our partners at ShadeTree, or grab a copy available free throughout Chicagoland.

Even if he was preemptively playing along with what he assumes to be a skeptical urban magazine, Eric Church raises some salient points about country music. His career, after all, could be one of its songs.

He isn’t one of those momma-got-run-over-by-a-train-when-I-was-drunk things David Allan Coe and Steve Goodman once sent up, neither is he one of the polished pop/rock turds that passes for country on CMT and in Nashville’s boardrooms, nor a Kenny ‘n’ Keith-style interloper. He grew up in North Carolina, on country and rock ‘n’ roll, and did he and his bandmates ever pay their dues.

Appearing: May 15th at Sears Centre in Hoffman Estates with Brantley Gilbert and Blackberry Smoke.

“I just read in Nashville, there’s a label that’s trying to sign a bunch of guys like us who want to do what we do,” he grumbles. “And it makes me laugh! ‘You guys got to be kidding!’ Nobody would be stupid enough to follow our path. You look back at where we came from, nobody would survive it. I can’t believe we did.”

He can laugh now, what with Chief (EMI Nashville) the first country album since the ’60s to top the mainstream Billboard charts without a number-one single. But Church is somewhat annoyed that his spit and blood are being fatally ignored in someone’s marketing proposal.

“I wish people would let more artists develop,” he says. “I think we’ve lost — and this goes for all music — artist development. You throw it out there, it either works or it doesn’t. If it doesn’t, we got to find something else. Then it becomes, ‘Well, we know this works over here: let’s copy that.’”

Not that Church isn’t above a little petty larceny himself. Country can just be so limiting.

“Country music to me has always been the best songs, the best songwriters,” he believes. “That’s why it appeals to me and most people in America. But the energy you get from rock ‘n’ roll and rock ‘n’ roll shows is unparalleled. It’s unmatched. I don’t think anybody in country, frankly, does it like a lot of the guys in rock do it. I don’t know why. Maybe they’re willing to go there. I think in country sometimes we get caught up in what demographic we’re appealing to, like we might offend somebody or there’s too many old people in the crowd.”

He hoots, “Rock comes in with guns slinging!”

And so, when Church and his band swing through Hoffman Estates, you might notice a shift from the typical C&W dynamic. Goodbye Stetson . . . hello Eddie?

“We went and adopted — well, we stole — an idea from Iron Maiden,” he admits, “where they used backdrops and the motion of backdrops, where they get snatched up or move side-to-side: it’s like a pulley system. And it was just so interesting, like it was video before there was video. But it’s movement and staging, and different backdrops correspond with different songs. And we’re not afraid to blow shit up. It’s like a rock ‘n’ roll show out there, and people are scared of that in country but not us: it’s what we do. It’s very in-your-face, and you never know if something’ll catch on fire.”

And yanging his yin for mayhem, Church has very specific ideas about what does not work for him.

“One of my pet peeves is video screens: I hate ‘em,” he laughs. “I think a lot of artists rely on them; I think a lot of artists hide behind them. I’ve been to so many shows when a person had a first or third row seat, the artist’s right in front of them, and they’re watching that screen almost like they’re watching television. I remember when I was a kid, even if you had a bad seat there’s things to get caught up in, whether it’s the movement on the stage, what the band members are doing, the lights, even the people in your section. There’s much more to a concert than just getting that close-up view all the time.”

He’s aware that with bigger venues come not only less knowledgeable fans, but people who come out less, period. His dedication will remain to those who got him here.

– Steve Forstneger

For the full story, visit the issue through our partners at ShadeTree, or grab a copy available free throughout Chicagoland.

IE: So there’s actually a film, Big Easy Express, of the Railroad Revival Tour you took last year by vintage train cars, with Mumford & Sons and Old Crow Medicine Show?
Alex Ebert: Yes. And it was shot really beautifully. But in some ways, it’s really hard to look at a film like that, because it’s capturing a time that, for me, was so paramount in my canon of experiences. I mean, it’s a 2D representation of a three-dimensional experience, so it’s hard to know if anyone else will be able to understand how important that train trip really was. But I hope it inspires other people to chase childlike dreams, like jumping on a train with your friends and playing music.

IE: Any on-screen revelations that surprised you?
AE: Yeah. After I heard the monologue that I was doing, I realized that I sounded like Morgan Freeman, like a Southern Morgan Freeman. So I might have a career in narration some day.

IE: In stomping hymns like “Mayla,” “I Don’t Wanna,” and “That’s What’s Up,” your new Zeros album really taps into a gospel fervor.
AE: That’s my favorite way to sing, and my favorite energy, musically. I like a lot of energies, but the energy with which gospel is sung and delivered is, to me, the ideal way in which music has its most profound, healing effect. And as we became a band over the last four years, playing a lot of the first album [Up From Below] in concert, then playing these radio acoustic sessions in between, we really wanted to do a more meditative group effort, something a little more tender.

IE: The Edward Sharpe character you first created for a book was a preacher-like figure. And a preacher is the protagonist of Here’s closer, “All Wash Out.” What is his sermon?
AE: In that song, the preacher is stumbling away from the institution of . . . whatever. He’s walking away from whatever you’ve got, whatever institutions there are, and coming away with a single truth — that love is something to believe in and everything else will wash out in the rain. And something will be left standing, and it’ll be some sort of truth that we can all recognize.

IE: Did you get any spooky déjà vu vibes on those circa-1940s rail cars during the Revival tour?
AE: In some ways. But for the most part I was pretty overwhelmed the whole time. And that’s how it is a lot of the time for me — playing these shows and just feeling overcome with . . . I dunno if “gratitude” is the right word, or “thankfulness.” Or just awe that it’s happening. So it just felt good to be on that train, that’s all I can say. It just felt really, really magical.

Edward Sharpe & The Magnetic Zeros’ album Here (Community) arrives May 29th. They play Riviera Theatre (4746 N. Racine) in Chicago on May 24th with He’s My Brother She’s My Sister. Q&A by Tom Lanham.

From bizarro Eddie and JoBo wreaking havoc at the auto show to John Tesh backing up a yellow-haired “Christoper Walken” crooning holiday tunes to a wacky “Jerry Lewis” performing with the Million Dollar Quartet, the “WGN Morning News” dances the line between news and entertainment.

The bits are the genius of producer Jeff Hoover. The Second City alumnus and former “Jonathon Brandmeier Showgram” producer/performer/writer found himself out of work when Johnny B didn’t renew with WLUP in 2001 — and watching a lot of TV.

“I remember watching ['The WGN Morning News'] and thinking, ‘These are real people having real conversation and I would like to have them as neighbors, maybe grab some beers with them,’” he recalls. “I was smitten with their chemistry and natural ability to bust each other up and break balls over bad tosses and cheesy news teases. I started calling into their ‘Voicemail Frenzy’ segment, and they started playing my messages and using some of my show suggestions.”

“We ‘discovered’ Jeff when he started calling into our voicemail segment — doing impersonations. He was just hysterical,” says co-anchor Larry Potash, who met with Hoover at a bar and found him to be surprisingly normal. “We begged — and then threatened — management to hire Jeff, and the rest is history.”

Hoover — who likens his time with Johnny B to earning a PhD in comedy — initially contributed to the show on a per-diem basis. He was hired a year-and-a-half later as a producer/performer/writer (and recently signed a new one-year contract).

Potash says Hoover injected new life into the show. “I think when he came . . . we had all just started having children. It had become more difficult to go out and shoot bits for the show, and our energy was running low. Jeff was the creative spark that really pushed the show to the next level.”

Hoover easily made the transtion from radio to TV — where things have to be clear to the audience from the start. “Radio is easier to be spontaneous,” he explains. “However, some of my favorite moments are when the unexpected happens on live television. Tracy Morgan flopping himself up on onto the anchor desk and lifting up his shirt and pushing out his stomach and yelling that he’s pregnant is still priceless to me.”

His primary co-conspirator on the show is local comedian Mike Toomey, who plays Eddie to Hoover’s JoBo. In one bit, the pair ask locals about what they’re thankful for — peppering their interviews with plenty of enthusiastic “yeahs” and auto-insurance plugs. Eventually, they run into the real Eddie and JoBo — who play right along.

“This past Halloween, we were on our way to do our annual remote at Fantasy Costumes with Ana [Belaval] and Paul [Konrad} listening to Eddie and Jobo on the radio," Hoover explains. "Mike and I always loved poking fun at their auto-insurance commercials. We saw these Abba costumes and thought this is just stupid enough to work, and I slapped on a goatee and made our appearance alongside Ana . . . Mike and I started posing like them from the commercial and doing the lines, 'Did you know you can get auto insurance over the phone?'

"It was a hit. We couldn't believe it. The real Eddie and Jobo got the joke, and enjoy their clown clones. I asked them to make a cameo in one of our skits and they couldn't have been nicer: 'Yeahhhhhhhhhh!'"

But Hoover's favorite bit was Tom Hanks' apperance on the show last year (that clip and many others are at WGNtv.com). "I had a stupid idea to have different people lined up in the hallway in different costumes that represented different chracters from some of his favorite movie roles," he explains. "As a surprise and with no rehearsal, Entertainment Reporter Dean Richards escorts Tom down the hallway and the first person he sees is me dressed as Woody from Toy Story sweeping the floor. Tom's smile became a laugh, and he riffed on each of us as he made his way to the studio.

"He made us look good by going along with the idea. He could have just said 'whatever' and kept walking to the studio while rolling his eyes."

While Hoover has a lot of freedom on the show, not every idea flies. "

He adds, "I have to keep in mind that this is still a news show. Sometimes it's easy to forget that fact: 'What do you mean we have to kill the burlesque dancing monkeys because there is a dog running loose on the Eisenhower?'"

And what about that line?

"There is a line between news and comedy," he admits. "It keeps moving like a jump rope. Sometimes we can double dutch and sometimes we get nailed in the crotchtorial [sic] region. I think we ‘get it’ better than anyone else in town. We’re not ‘The Daily Show,’ but we don’t have 78 comedy writers.”

It seems to be working. The show consistently beats its competitors in the adult demos between 7 and 9a.m. — including “The Today Show.” Hoover says most of the audience feedback has been positive. “However, there’s always a few boo birds on the branch that crap on our clown car: ‘Stop goofing around and give me the weather. We don’t want to see that idiot in a neckbrace make a sandwich with his feet.’”

He adds, “I think it’s weirder seeing our competitors try to have fun with the news. Their idea of having fun is showing first-birthday photos and crayon weather drawings.”

Potash agrees. “Media has changed so much in the last 40 years and yet, most shows are as predictable now as they were in 1972. We try to create an atmosphere of unpredictability. We cross the line now and then, but that’s more interesting than another segment where the anchors make a tuna casserole. We take the show seriously, but we don’t take ourselves seriously.”

– Cara Jepsen

This article has been updated since it was originally posted.

On any given weeknight, Chicago music venues host dozens of open mic nights, letting novice musicians and open mic “jobbers” hone their chops in front of friends and a few foes.

Niles-based Shure, Inc. — best known for word-class microphones and earphones — is ramping up the open-mic night this coming week (the 23rd and 24th) at both Uncommon Ground locations in Chicago. Locals have the chance to showcase themselves in a national competition taking place at a total of 23 venues throughout the week. Participants can also register to win one of 25 sets of Shure SE315 Sound Isolating Earphones. The event begins at 8 p.m., and both performers and spectators are encouraged to participate. Details can be found at www.shure.com/openmicnight

(Monday @Uncommon Ground – Clark St; Tuesday @Uncommon Ground – Devon Ave)

Do we put extra stock in a month that has both an April Fool’s Day and a Friday the 13th? Is Halloween a better companion to the fated date? Who cares? Ceremony, Trampled By Turtles, In Solitude, and The Lumineers walk under ladders this Friday.

I always cringe when artists kick albums off with audio of sirens or emergency rooms, etc., because theoretically you want to demonstrate that the damage would result after the performance (unless you’re depicting a riot to get in your show, in which case proceed). Ceremony jump the gun a little bit on Zoo (Matador), mimicking an ambulance’s wail after its third track, but point taken. Arising from a particularly brutal punk scene outside San Francisco, the band have filed down some edges for their major-indie debut, but that doesn’t mean they’ve diposed of muscle and menace entirely. “Hysteria” kicks off with a Japandroids-ish whirr, while pockets of the album saunter with a leather-jacket swagger that recalls Murder City Devils. (Friday@Subterranean with Raw Nerve, The Ropes, and Divine Right.)

There are those who ruthlessly hold bluegrass to its essential elements, and others, like David Grisman, who are aware of those boundaries but stomp on its chest in the spirit of giving Bill Monroe’s creation some CPR. Trampled By Turtles try to have it both ways, populating Stars And Satellites (Banjodad) with cloudy folk-pop that has tastefully imported elements, and then traditional, lightning-paced hardcore bluegrass. The pacing can give you seasickness — slow cut, fast cut, slow cut, fast cut — and when they break the rules, the aim seems to be accessibility instead of artistic hurdles. But it’s better to know what you’re doing, than not. (Friday@Metro with These United States.)

It’s O.K. to parade your influences, as long as you do something with them, right? In Solitude have taken a big ol’ Magic Erase scrubber to King Diamond’s shrieking on The World. The Flesh. The Devil (Metal Blade). Wait, you ask, doesn’t that just mean they sound like the first Mercyful Fate albums? Welllll . . . like co-Swedes Ghost, In Solitude play up melodic elements so the galloping NWOBHM rhythms don’t feel quite so repetitive. With instrumental chops to spare, they prove their mettle with the final 22 minutes, “Dance Of The Adversary” and “On Burning Paths,” which feels like one song with several breath-saving interludes. (Friday@Bottom Lounge with Behemoth and The Devil’s Blood.)

A youthful enthusiasm for old sounds: that defines The Lumineers. Though it seems like the Colorado-based act might just be hopping on the Fleet Foxes/Mumford bandwagon, the truth is the media just looks for bands like this once the public latches onto something similar. What do you get on the group’s self-titled Dualtone debut? Warm, anthemic folk pop that’s about everything and nothing at once. Though their origins stem from a family member’s death, lead single “Ho Hey” seems to be about telling a friend about the girl who got away between doing shots at a sports bar. They insert themselves lyrically into decades past, which gets hammy and interferes with the overarching sincerity, but that’s why they slow it down on “Slow It Down”: so you can see that they (and the people who love them) aren’t kidding. (Friday@Space with Kopecky Family Band.)

– Steve Forstneger

Public schools have been on spring break so driving on the northwest side has been a dream. No surprise this weekend’s shows feature First Aid Kit, Willis Earl Beal, Bahamas, Nero, White Rabbits, 200 Years, All-American Rejects, The Hobart Brothers, Paul Doffing, and, allegedly, Kevin Tihista. Plus, did anyone else feel ripped off that April Fool’s Day was a Sunday?

Part of the pushback in the “Is Taylor Swift really country?” borefest is a retaliatory swipe at the No Depression/alt-country world, which, as Chicagoans should well know, teems with cultural emigrants and tourists. What would they say about First Aid Kit? Swedish sisters Johanna and Klara Söderberg would seem to have an easier time passing themselves off as heirs to a Hollywood fortune than credible ciphers of the steaming mass of contradictions that is the American South. Any defense that they’re actually Americana gets shredded by some of the first words on the new The Lion’s Roar (Wichita), when the duo pledge to be a June or Emmylou to their beau’s Johnny or Gram. Luckily, the South is a hospitable place (no matter how often the Söderbergs curl up the word “goddamn” in their throats). The harmonies are appropriately intuitive, the overall tone mild if slightly assertive, and quite the companion for a pitcher of sweet tea. (Friday@Lincoln Hall with Peggy Sue.)

Of the risks in playing the savant card is immediately establishing a camp of listeners who treat your art like a curiosity or, worse, an exploitation. Willis Earl Beal hasn’t quite come level with the late Wesley Willis or Daniel Johnston, but by issuing Acousmatic Sorcery as a debut album XL Recordings seems entirely too willing to play along. A series of home recordings bound by little more than their impromptu demeanors, Sorcery offers far too little information to discern if Beal really has something to say — plenty of the lyrics feel like stream-of-consciousness, rhythmic placeholders — or if his trance-like incantations and raw howl will add up to something more. When it drifts into voyeurism it doesn’t feel good, and sounds worse. Posted live videos reveal a refined and muscular soul shouter, further catering to a caricature with loaded racial overtones. I hope he’s in control of this in more ways than one. (Saturday@House Of Blues with SBTRKT.)

Primarily a singer/songwriter affair, Bahamas‘ Barchords (Brushfire) gives the sense of a kid who’s only allowed an hour of TV each day — only in this case, it’s playing his guitars. Alfie Jurvanen shows touches of gospel, islandesque surf, and Red House painting, and each affecting cut harangues itself for a clearer picture of love, purpose, and worth. But they’re also invariably party to a threatening volume swell, cantankerous reverb, Leslie cabinet, or hyper-harmonized fill that suggests if Jurvanen doesn’t confine himself to a chair and a Eels-like croak, that he could duck-walk the fuck out of her at any moment. (Saturday@Schubas with Fort Frances.)

Nero probably could have found a more interactive name than the Roman emperor who ignored the city as it burned — for an electronic/DJ act, it seems doubly troublesome. On the conceptual Welcome Reality (Interscope/Cherrytree), the British set elude accusations of listlessness by genre hopping dubstep, drum and bass, and ambient techno as if they’re being chased by men with guns. The stray bullets kick up all manner of sounds, which are equally proggy and epic and occasionally rip the album from its focus. Nero’s bread-and-butter, however, has become dubstep, and they litter the landscape with and endless supply of drops that can be overwhelming and certainly do enough to shock Reality back into view. (Saturday@Congress with Dillon Francis and Lobounce.)

White Rabbits‘ Stephen Patterson didn’t take too kindly to my inference that his band took on certain elements of Spoon by working with Britt Daniel on their second album, 2009’s It’s Frightening. It turns out my concerns were unfounded. This spring’s Milk Famous only retains Patterson’s Daniel-esque falsetto; otherwise, where Spoon tend to go minimal, the Rabbits drape their third in effects and integrate innumerable escape routes. At first listen, it’s a fractured, muttering mess, that comes together through the Radiohead-inspired “Danny Come Inside” and silky “I Had It Coming.” (Sunday@Metro with Gull and The Hudson Branch.)

200 Years make their self-titled Drag City debut sound like it was recorded an hour ago. Magik Markers’ Elisa Ambrogio and Six Organs Of Admittance mainman Ben Chasny quite possibly recorded its 10 tracks in the living room of an empty house with hardwood floors, and Ambrogio’s cloudy vocals — “Waiting for a message/waiting for a sign” — hint that she feels responsible. The sparse arrangements occasionally have room for some of Chasny’s guitar tomfoolery, but otherwise they’ve left a lot of open spaces that could use some carpet and furniture. (Monday@The Burlington with Axis: Sova and Deep Sleep.)

Somewhere I got it in my head that The All-American Rejects — the name, maybe — were an emo-pop construct. The Oklahoma-born outfit, however, draw on sounds more closely associated with heartland alt-rock drizzled with high-calorie dressing. Kids In The Street (DGC/Interscope) sounds much more like Better Than Ezra and The Fray than Fall Out Boy, loaded with precious anthems that coo, “You’re a pretty little flower/I’m a busy little bee” and “You go fast/I go slow/It’s gonna be all right/’Cuz it’s you and me tonight.” Perhaps because their debut was recorded with a drum machine, AAR’s defining characteristic has become their manipulation of effects in lieu of having to cultivate personality, and that’s certainly true here. A power-drill solo breaks into powerballad “Heartbeat Slowing Down,” which comically recalls the wedding band in Old School; a discordant buzzing provides all the intensity “Out The Door” can muster; though it’s not until “Affection” that these tricks are woven into an equally interesting song, even if it spills into a self-indulgent pomp that would make Queen, Styx, or Meat Loaf blush. (Monday@Metro with A Rocket To The Moon.)

You have to be really careful to be coed sibling bandmates, lest someone misinterpret a love song. (Digression: if he had to do it again, would Jack White of The White Stripes infer that he and ex-wife Meg were brother and sister?) The Hobart Brothers with Lil’ Sis Hobart don’t really have to worry about getting caught stealing a glance, because they’re actually Freedy Johnston, Jon Dee Graham, and Susan Cowsill. At Least We Have Each Other (Freedom) goes light on innuendo but heavy on neo-Depression stomping. The sound is dirt-caked boots, stringy hair, and poor tippers, authentically authentic half-barrel roots rock for the 99 percent. (Monday@FitzGerald’s.)

An ideal world would have a lot more of Paul Doffing types: singer/songwriters who shut their mouths and just play instrumentals when they’ve nothing to add to the conversation. It doesn’t hurt Doffing that he’s a virtuoso acoustic guitarist, playing canyon-deep chords and fingerpicking tastefully and effortlessly. When he does exercise the pipes, his weary, Neil Young-meets-Damien Jurado tone evinces more gravity than any lyric sheet could ever muster. (Monday@Elbo Room with Shenendoah Davis.)

Finally, April also finds in its grace a rare Kevin Tihista appearance. Tihista was an integral part of local ’90s attraction Triplefastaction, and he spun off a solo project whose lush, hushed balladry evoked Elliott Smith and Pernice Brothers. His three studio albums for Parasol are still available and widely recommended. (Monday@Double Door with Goldenboy, Kerosene Stars, and Open Land.)

– Steve Forstneger

The idea of an artist staging an entire tour around a successful album is a trend that doesn’t seem to be slowing, and in the case of Creed’s upcoming outing, fans actually get a double-decker front-to-back rendering. Though it’s hard to believe, this year marks the 15th anniversary of My Own Prison, which sold over six million copies and brought the foursome from Florida obscurity to superstardom. From there, the band — comprising Scott Stapp (vocals), Mark Tremonti (guitar), Brian Marshall (bass), and Scott Phillips (drums) — avoided the sophomore slump with 1999’s Human Clay, which received a diamond certification for selling more than 11-million copies and led to sold-out stadiums all across the globe.

Appearing: April 13th and 14th at Chicago Theatre (175 N. State) in Chicago.

Both albums will be on display, alongside hits and other album cuts, when the group brings its grunge-infused rock to the Chicago Theatre for two nights (focusing on My Own Prison the first, and Human Clay the next). Of course, the intervening years since the band’s breakthrough have alternated between highlights and less favorable shades of the limelight, but ever since the 2009 reunion, it appears the train is officially back on track.

“I’m telling you right now it’s a real blessing, and that’s the simplest way for me to describe it after going in different directions for so many years and then getting back together and playing music again,” reflects Stapp. “It’s awesome and we’re excited about this year. We feel like we’re just beginning to get back into the groove.”

Chicago will have the first crack at the double-album caper, which continues through late May and is reported to be followed with brand new music. But perhaps the key to Creed making its mark on the next album lies in simply going back to how it all started, which in the case of My Own Prison, includes full-throttled favorites like the title track, “One,” “What’s This Life For,” and “Torn.”

“I think one of our reasons for coming together as a band was we wanted our music to have something to say and feel it again in the way we grew up feeling it,” he recalls. “We were just in a different space [compared to] other artists on the radio at the time, and instead of being so abstract and dark, we wanted to paint pictures, be clear, and make melodies that would unite and connect. That’s something we still try to do today.”

As it turns out, the group’s early tunes connected so quickly that the quartet stayed on tour for two solid years promoting My Own Prison, though all the while, continuously wrote new material for the follow-up. Having never let up on either the road or studio allowed Creed to strike while the iron was incomprehensibly hot, and helped push Human Clay to nearly double the sales of its predecessor and churn out a slew of singles like “Higher,” “What If,” “Are You Ready?,” “My Sacrifice,” and the inescapable “With Arms Wide Open.”

“We really got to hear those [Human Clay] songs in a different way during soundchecks with big sound systems, and we just stayed in tune with the creative process,” explains Stapp. “By the time the Prison tour was over, we went right into the studio and recorded these songs we’d been playing for 18 months [after] really seeing the fans’ reaction.”

However, as Creed’s fame swelled, so did the ranks of detractors, who often assailed the players as purveyors of a blankly derivative and accessible sound. And as listeners began looking closer at the lyrics, additional questions arose about the group’s spiritual subject matter.

“[Spirituality's] played a tremendous role in my life and in who I am as a human being,” the frontman admits. “Essentially I was born in a church nursery, and really was given no other way to think growing up. I think on the first record I was asking a lot of questions, kind of spreading my wings. I lived a life that was very sheltered, and things other people would experience in high school, I didn’t see until I was 20 or 21-years-old. So I kind of went through high school late, so to speak, and definitely on a public scale, but it really began that way because that’s just part of my DNA. I began to find some resolution and confidence in my faith and a renewed trust in my faith, but with more of a global understanding . . . On [Human Clay], I was embracing that spirituality and that faith and giving it a place of gratitude and thanks for the success that happened from My Own Prison.”

As a result, it was only a matter of time before Creed was bombarded with the polarizing question, “Are you a Christian band?” And though the band certainly enjoyed a built-in audience in that marketplace, the answer was always resounding “no,” especially from Tremonti, Marhsall, and Phillips, who weren’t writing the lyrics.

“During those days, I did what I did and I don’t think there was much thought or analyzing by the other guys,” Stapp remembers. “It really happened so fast, we didn’t have time to really have demos and live with it. There’s a lot of times you’re not focused on the details of what the lyrics are actually saying; you’re just vibing, at least for the musicians. When there was a labeling of the band, it kind of didn’t sit right with anybody. [It] was really our first threat of division and would be a major factor in the band not being together years later, initially because everyone’s dreams weren’t matching the reality. I guess. We’re very sensitive guys, and we had all this success and began to get labeled things that we weren’t. Part of the reasons we didn’t want that label was we all knew we weren’t living that life. That was part of our youth and what we were at that time, but we hadn’t really experienced life and everything that’s out there.”

Though the band as a trio (minus Marshall) still had enough steam to crank out 2001’s Weathered (which topped Billboard’s Top 200 chart for eight consecutive weeks, tying The Beatles’ Anthology in the record books), the group officially splintered shortly thereafter. Stapp kicked off a solo career and the rhythm section formed Alter Bridge, though fate would steer the band back together in 2009 for the aptly titled Full Circle, with all of the previous tension presumably ironed out.

In fact, Stapp seems especially rejuvenated after surviving a series of personal demons (to be chronicled in a tell-all autobiography this fall), and he’s a much different man than the one who was sued by four fans over what was reported to be a far-from-stellar show at the Allstate Arena in 2002, just before the break-up. Even so, the singer doesn’t seem to dwell on the past, only offering a fleeting reference to that incident while professing nothing but love for area fans and the city itself.

“When I think of Chicago, there’s not a single bitter taste in my mouth,” he insists. “That city is a city that I love and has been amazing to this band and is a part of what made this band on so many levels. We’ve had some of our most amazing nights as artists, musicians, and performers in Chicago and we’ve been real and human in Chicago.”

Since Creed fans are likely to forgive, chances are Stapp will be welcomed back once again — maybe even with arms wide open.

– Andy Argyrakis

Creed’s Basic Tenets

U2
Rattle & Hum
Some people heard and saw an ego-tripping band of Spinal Tap proportions: others heard and saw a blueprint.

Metallica Metallica
It cannot be understated what a game-changer this album was for commercial hard rock — that it arrived the same year as Nevermind evoked a serendipity not heard since the late ’60s.

Pearl Jam Ten
Eddie Vedder’s brooding baritone launched a thousand bands, but Pearl Jam’s classic-rock base and embrace of workmanly anthems surface in Creed’s work.

Soundgarden Superunknown
Again, a frontman’s self-serious gaze is an obvious touchpoint, but those chunky, drop-D chords gave Mark Tremonti a new lease on guitar.

Collective Soul
Hints, Allegations & Things Left Unsaid
What opened the grunge doors for the Christian-alternative crowd was undoubtedly “Shine,” which may have been a clever lift of Temple Of The Dog’s “Hunger Strike,” but it steered clear of the competition’s pervasive self-loathing.

Live
Throwing Copper
Live were among the first alt-rock bands to successfully parlay positive messages into what sounded — overwhelmingly — like angst.

Acts Of Their Apostles

Nickelback Silver Side Up
Nickelback’s Creed-love finally connected on their third album, and just in time for them to take the mantle from their hobbling heroes.

Daughtry Daughtry
“American Idol”’s credibility got a boost from rock fans for this find; it also replenished Creed critics’ inexhaustible supply of arrows.

Shinedown The Sound Of Madness
Though it’s an imperfect analogy, Shinedown recall the end of the hair-metal era, when suddenly bands were toting a few too many power ballads.

This version of the story has been updated since it was originally posted.

Ladies, if you ever receive a text from a potential mate that reads, “You’re not pretty, but you’ve got it going on,” there’s two possible scenarios to consider. Either the gentleman caller is utterly clueless as to how to woo a fair maiden, or he’s really digging the new Band Of Skulls album. Taking a line from the most aggressive and full-throttle track on the British trio’s sophomore effort as a pickup technique seems circumspect, but at least you can trust his taste in music. That’s gotta count for something, right?

Appearing: April 3rd at House Of Blues (329 N. Dearborn) in Chicago with We Are Augustines.

“The whole concept with that was, what’s the basic minimum compliment? What’s the faintest praise you can give?” guitarist Russell Marsden admits over the phone from London, as tour mates The Black Keys soundcheck in the background. “If it gets used in any kind of social platform, I think we’ll be very proud.”

Marsden should think about the bigger picture. The band’s second release, Sweet Sour (Vagrant), successfully straddles the line between undulating balladry (“Lay My Head Down”) and down-n-dirty garage rock that could have easily emanated from Jack White’s carport (“The Devil Takes Care Of His Own”). The album’s dueling personalities stem from a studio-induced bout of seasonal-affective disorder.

“We went in — it was pretty much last winter. We went straight off tour and we went straight into writing,” he explains. “That was our idea of not wasting any time, which was a bit strange because we basically had a fall out from the tour and we struggled with not being on tour. We forgot [how to] survive. The stranger atmosphere of the record came from that time.

“Then we had some time off, went home, [and] regrouped. We went back into the studio and went up to this place in Wales called Rockfield. That was sort of the nice time. The sun was out, it was the royal wedding, and it was a really happy time. I think that was the two sides of the record that came out — sort of an anxious winter with a real sort of fulfilling summer. I think those two sides of the record are definitely in there, and it was the two periods of working on the record that manifested themselves.”

Yes, the three Southampton natives stopped and savored Prince William’s nuptials like any good royal subject — and no one relished it more than drummer Matt Hayward.

“Matt’s a very patriotic sort of dude and yeah, I think he had his own little party,” Marsden reveals. “It was one of those things that you’ll always remember. We were in the studio and stopped to have a look at the Queen basically. Friends of mine had all-night royal parties. [It's] just an excuse to get drunk really, isn’t it?”

Eye socket-rattling guitar riffs pour out of Marsden’s fingertips effortlessly, and there’s plenty here to make the walls quake, but his vocal tradeoffs with bassist Emma Richardson provide the stoic “Navigate” and the delicate “Close To Nowhere” with emotional heft.

“I think it’s a lot more exposed when you’re doing something more heartfelt. You do a song that’s a little deeper and you’re emoting your feelings — it’s more of a terrifying prospect really,” Marsden admits. “And sometimes those messages need a little more space around them to come across. Sometimes we feel angry and want to rock out. We want adrenaline and then we’re human beings, too, and sometimes we feel bad or upset and playing some uptempo number’s not going to tick all the boxes for us. We don’t want to be typecast into one thing, so basically it’s our way of saying, rightfully, we have the permission to have more than one emotion in our music.”

Most of all, Marsden wants to keep proving the band’s not just a one-trick pony. He hates the impression Sweet Sour only churns out slightly altered versions of its snappy first single “I Know What I Am.”

“I hate, ‘Oh yeah, Band Of Skulls, that’s that band [that does] that thing.’ I hope we can keep opening doors to what we do next. Some days we feel quite frivolous. Other days, downright grumpy,” he says.

Making a followup to an acclaimed debut can wreak havoc on a band’s creativity if one trusts rock’s checkered history. The phrase “sophomore slump” gets thrown around a lot. Marsden’s not buying it.

“It’s really difficult to make a breakthrough, to get the ball rolling for any band or any artist. That really is the make-or-break moment,” he proposes. “Like the second album, in many ways, you get so much more help and resources to call upon. You might feel the pressure, but it’s not as hard as like struggling as every band does before they get their first [chance].”

The career trajectory for Band Of Skulls centers around two simple goals: “Being a good rock band and making good records,” Marsden lists. The rest goes into the bonus column.

“You don’t want to overestimate. To underestimate is always probably the right side of things to do. I don’t know, maybe it’s because we’re British or something, I don’t know what it is, but we’re always totally surprised — we really stress out and think no one’s going to show up,” Marsden says.

Not that it’s a completely irrational fear. “As a band that’s played with no one showing up in our formative years, we know that feeling of pain when no one comes. So, it’s just basically an anxiety attack about that feeling.”

All you can do is take a deep breath, count to 10, and wait for the curtain to open. It probably doesn’t hurt to have a quiver full of borderline-offensive one-liners, just in case.

– Janine Schaults

While we’d never met and probably have no friends other than perhaps Facebook’s in common, having “come of age” in lockstep with Thomas Dolby and his music/performances across the ’80s brought a first-ever phone call with him the sense that one was calling a long-lost friend. And, indeed, it was a sense only heightened by Dolby’s own self-imposed near two-decades’ silence from mainstream music. Which is not to say he wasn’t keeping himself busy during that time: embracing technology in Silicon Valley and — not surprisingly given his signature synthesizer/production oeuvre — patenting/profiting from his groundbreaking work in polyphonic ringtones. The immediate question that does arise, however, is what prompted the return to recording — and, ultimately into mainstream music — now?

Appearing: April 5th at Park West (322 W. Armitage) in Chicago.

“I’d been away too long, you know,” Dolby responds frankly, “I never really intended to take 18 years off. One thing led to another — I’d always been involved in technology and going to Silicon Valley was exciting, sort of like going to the source, really, of all technology.

“And it was really happening in the early ’90s, whereas the music business was already, you know, severely in retreat. So I just felt that I could make more of a difference there. And it got very frenetic during the dot-com boom-and-bust years. But the company that I formed ended up being successful in the mobile space. And so I’ve sort of have had an extra two phases, really, to my career: in Silicon Valley and then in mobile and . . .” Dolby pauses, collects his thought and then continues matter of factly, “I’d had enough. I wanted to get back to music, which is my first love and it seemed like a good time to do it.”

But as his chosen route of return — the recently released A Map Of The Floating City – wonderfully displays, his “first love” of music embraces the art and craft of songwriting itself, which also seems sorely missing in an environment where sampling is the most consistently successful creativity. And is something, Dolby somewhat concurs, also served as a prompt to his reignition.

“Well I think it’s not as highly valued as it once was, other than perhaps in the sort of Starbucks café society with sort of singer/songwriters,” he says with a slight chuckle. “But the mainstream music tends to be more groove oriented and there’s so many people out there doing that, that you can’t possibly feel like a pioneer in that space, I don’t think. The value that’s put on the groove and on the production, I just, uh . . . life’s too short, really, to be competing with 10,000 other guys to come up with the coolest groove.

“But what I’ve got that those 10,000 other guys don’t have is that ability to write a song with a story, with a melody, with a vocal, with a structure to it. So I’ve sort of chosen to elevate those values in what I’m doing versus the more superficial production values.”

As a songwriter, Dolby has often cited his admiration for other greats of the craft, in particular citing the chord sequences of Bowie’s earlier classics, among others. Two of the songs on his new album — “Jealous Thing Called Love” and, in particular, “Road To Reno” — sound as if Dolby had taken both vocal and chording cues from the Thin White Duke songbook of that era. Homage or coincidence?

“He was a strong influence on me, as was Prince,” Dolby quickly answers, “again, during the era when each of them used to write songs that needed a guitar tablature to follow them. And they were both very successful and very influential with songs that were, you know, classic songbook songs. Space Oddity to Purple Rain. Or, you know, ‘Ashes To Ashes’ to Sign O’ The Times. And in each case, after the peak of their commercial success they moved to a period — along with the rest of the music industry, I’d have to say — they moved more into the sort of groove space, where, you know, it’s a jam with the vocal on top.” Dolby pauses, then adds somewhat wistfully, “Ahhh, I was just sad about that really. Because they were my heroes at the time when they were writing their best songs.”

While Dolby has divided Map into three sections — “Urbanoia,” “Amerikana,” “Oceanea” — it’s clearly America (with a four-song section) and New York (the subject of two of four “Urbanoia” songs) that predominate as subject matter; and perhaps reflective of Dolby’s 20-year residency on this side of the Atlantic (as opposed to his more recent return to the North Sea side), is the three-song muse for “Oceanea.” Unsurprisingly, Dolby freely admits he’s “strongly influenced by my environment” in his songwriting — but it’s not without unforeseen consequences.

“Well I get into trouble, actually, because when I write these songs, I don’t look my references up. I just sort of have subliminally taken in that the D train goes to Brooklyn,” Dolby breaks into laughter, then continues. “You know I wrote that line without going on Wikipedia to check it out. And it occasionally gets me into trouble, like when I mentioned a ‘64 Camaro on ‘Road To Reno.’ Not only did I pronounce it wrong, but also that that particular car didn’t come in ’til ‘67. And so people were very quick to point that out to me.”

Pointing out that he did pronounce it like an Englishman causes him to break into laughter again, before offering another misstep from his 1992’s Astronauts & Heretics.

“But I got into the most trouble when I wrote ‘I Love You Goodbye,’ and on live radio in Louisiana it was pointed out to me that, ‘We don’t have ‘county’ sheriffs, we have parishes’; and ‘The Everglades are actually in Florida and not Louisiana.’” Dolby again breaks into laughter, then concludes, “So I obviously need to do my research a bit better.”

Truth be told, Dolby didn’t totally desert music in 1992. Since 2001, he’s served as musical director (and house band leader) of the highly influential TED (Technology, Entertainment, & Design) Conference — an annual gathering of some of the world’s foremost (and most eclectic) thinkers, inventors, speakers, and artists. Says Dolby, “It is great fun. I mean, I really enjoy attending and it’s nice to contribute as well. I get to bring in some pretty interesting musicians — both in my house band, as well as the entertainers we have doing some of the slots and the show. And it’s a great thing, because it really helps people sort of process the barrage of stimulating ideas that you get.”

In fact, as we speak, Dolby is getting ready for this year’s event, after which he’ll embark on a multi-city U.S. tour with a full-fledged band that he’s really looking forward to, and not just for musical reasons. “It’s called the ‘Time Capsule Tour,’” he explains, “because we’re bringing with us a trailer that looks like it was designed by HG Wells and Nikola Tesla. We tie it behind the tour bus, and it houses a personal video-messaging system, which allows you to send a message to the future. The idea is that anyone who comes down to the shows [and other stops] can have some private time in the time capsule and record a private message to the future. You can talk about whatever you want — you can talk to your grandchildren if you like. But you could also talk to space aliens that visit the planet years after our species has been wiped out. So what would you say to them, you know? ‘What went wrong?’

“And these clips will be uploaded to YouTube and rated by viewers. So the most successful clips will go into the time capsule — which is a hard drive that I’m trying to get sent into space.”

So Dolby must be looking to the Russians or Chinese to launch his dream, since the U.S. seems to have ceded the space to them for the time being?

“Well, actually in the private sector, there’s quite few people sending rockets up,” Dolby points out, “and a lot of them are at TED, so hopefully I will find an interested party next week.”

– David C. Eldredge

IE: Now that you are a veteran of a supergroup, does that open up doors to a supergroup secret society?
Rebecca Cole: [Laughs.] Yeah! Actually, we get together with Chickenfoot every now and again for some beers. But no, we haven’t been indoctrinated yet. Maybe I should be disappointed that we haven’t received that invite.

IE: Had you thought about the connotation when you got into it?
RC: We hadn’t. It was sort of a surprise — it’s still a surprise to see that term associated with something I’m doing. When I think of “supergroup,” I think of The Highwaymen or million-selling artists coming together. Or something bloated, like Chickenfoot. I don’t think we’re either.

IE: What about Superheavy, Mick Jagger’s new group?
RC: We should totally be drinking red wine with those guys and flying on their jet. But no, we didn’t think about it. I don’t know if the term means something different now. We all were in different projects before, and now we have this new project. It’s flattering, in the spirit it means people are excited about your work. I hope that’s how it’s meant. [Laughs.]

IE: How did you even become a band?
RC: There was a film project that Carrie [Brownstein] was working on, and then she enlisted Janet [Weiss] and she enlisted me to do some instrumental songs. The three of us being in the room working together was pretty easy-going. A lot of work came really quickly on these instrumental songs. The director wanted vocals, so we sent a track to Mary [Timony] in D.C. and she sent it back. Listening to it, it was funny: “That sounds like a band.” There weren’t any blueprints for what we were doing. Mary came out a couple times, and we got together in a practice space. The happy surprise was it was actually that it was something we were excited about.

IE: From a personal standpoint, is this something you were looking for? Or has it interrupted the normal course?
RC: For me, the timing was awesome. I had quit my last band [The Minders] and finished my degree, which had taken years because I was trying to do it between tours and working jobs. So then I had my degree and I got a job, and I was really unhappy. It was paying good money and I had everything that should have made me happy as a “grownup,” but I realized — after a lot of soul searching — that the reason was I didn’t have people to make music with. It was shocking, because I had it for so many years that I think I took it for granted. So, when we started playing together, I had [already] decided to start making music again.

Wild Flag play Metro on Thursday, April 5th with Hospitality. The band’s self-titled Merge debut is out now. Q&A by Steve Forstneger.