A quartet of acts traipsing through Chicago within the week all dangle their feet over the brink of Complete, Utter Mistake. Do Lost Lander, Scale The Summit, Wim, and Foxy Shazam survive?

Singer/songwriters seem like introverts as it is, but the development of home-recording equipment has enticed a frothy stein of them to board up in their bedrooms and craft underwater opuses. The problem with this — assuming they get their work professionally mixed and mastered — is the homespun arrangements are often rendered arbitrarily, and stuck to a particular song simply because the effort was put in, and shit-no it’s just going to sit unused. Lost Lander, a.k.a. Matt Sheehy, tenuously does this balancing act on DRRT, fully immersed in his compositions but standing in the way of some of them. Tracks like “Cold Feet,” “Afraid Of Summer,” and “Gossamer” branch out of their stylistic underpinnings to become vibrant, individual slices integral to the album’s fabric. But “Kangaroo” and “Your Name Is A Fire” suffer the opposite: restrained by the ornamentation when they should really just rock the fuck out. (Thursday@Panchos with Exit Ghost and Jack & Ace.)

Speaking of inhibitions, something about instru-metal bands like Pelican and Russian Circles has sometimes felt withheld. The riffs are meaty, the playing ambitious and professional, but maybe something suppressed is what really fuels their crescendos and climaxes. Scale The Summit deal in similarly winding, post-rocky terrain, but they also aren’t shy about a little pizzazz. The Houston-based quartet is fronted by a pair of guitarists who worship John Petrucci, and went to great pains to build their own guitars from scratch. The Collective tracks like “Secret Earth” take some care not to be overrun by the stampeding solos, but know that music doesn’t really live unless it feels as if it might lose control. (Thursday@Reggies Rock with Elitist, Centaurus, and Burn The Remains.)

More than anything Radiohead did, the post-millennial flood of mamby-pamby British bands can be traced to Travis’ The Man Who. That Coldplay and Snow Patrol could get away with it while Travis were stuck with Keane, Starsailor, and Embrace was little consolation, as was the band’s own diminishing returns. Wim come in with a fresher outlook, not promising much by way of innovation but cutting through to the emotional core on their self-titled Modular debut. The Australians come close to that power of Travis’ “As You Are,” or Andy Dunlop’s underrated solo on “Writing To Reach You.” There are also shades of the Boo Radleys, Rufus Wainwright, and Sufjan Stevens, but their dignified approach to resurrecting a broken lineage is what resonates most. (Friday@Lincoln Hall with Other Lives.)

It’s not Foxy Shazam’s fault that Queen’s 40th anniversary was last year, or that it would be met with a full catalog reissue campaign. But with it fresh in the memory, this winter’s The Church Of Rock And Roll feels especially hamfisted. With valiant attempts at recreating the spirit of Queen, Cincy’s Shazam don’t have the talent to look past impersonation. (Saturday@Metro with The Darkness.)

– Steve Forstneger

It hasn’t even started yet, but we know everyone’s thrilled to root for the guy who made a jerk of himself when he was drafted, versus the guy who’s already won it enough. New York against Boston! No one’s tired of that! Cleanse your spirit with Red Wanting Blue or Asteroids Galaxy Tour this week.

An insane number of snobs believe that a number of bands are successful because they have fans who don’t really like music. They point to Goo Goo Dolls, Tonic, The Fray, Augustana, and maybe down the line hate will spread to Red Wanting Blue. It’s easy to tick the boxes on last month’s From The Vanishing Point: easy-going, unassertive acoustirock chord progressions; rhyming “missed” with “kissed”; a hint of muscle to convince male fans that they’re not a date away from a Katherine Heigl film fest. Yet some of those same critics will line up to pay homage to the mindless inanity of LMFAO. Sometimes it’s best to leave your hangups at the coat check. (Tuesday@Schubas with Jeremiah Higgins.)

The Asteroids Galaxy Tour might sound like a package deal — an idea that could be applied to the band’s cornucopia of sounds. The Danes recently swept Europe with their future funk, a pulsating marriage of Deee-Lite and Junior Senior. Out Of Frequency banks on ’60s soul in a way that has led some to compare frontwoman Mette Lindberg to Amy Winehouse, but more often she recalls ’50s torch singers — one who just got caught up in the groove. (Tuesday@Lincoln Hall with Vacationer.)

– Steve Forstneger

There’s a scene near the beginning of Lana Del Rey’s video for the title track of this, her debut album, where her expression momentarily collapses and then she reacts to keep the tears from falling. If it were part of a movie, you’d think it expertly acted, and expect to see Del Rey’s name cast in the sequence of Hollywood “it” girls from Angelina Jolie to Scarlett Johansson to Zooey Deschanel on down.

Ironically, it’s for acting that Del Rey has encountered stout resistance. Since Elizabeth Grant emerged in this role last year, she has been fought tooth-and-nail by bloggers who thought the major labels were no longer capable of scripting hype – appalled that such a clear fabrication could be so embraced by the Pitchfork generation. Her aborted, earlier attempt at pop stardom (as Lizzy Grant) was “exposed” as if some contemptible hypocrisy; January’s “Saturday Night Live” performance was deemed unmerited and hastily savaged in a way that would make Simon Cowell proud. Never mind that other television appearances went well (“Later With Jools Holland,” for instance), or that last year’s singles “Blue Jeans” and “Video Games” completely merited attention, or that Lady Gaga’s and Odd Future’s contrivances hold firm: thou shalt not trifle with sanctimonious indie hegemony.

Would that Born To Die completed the fairytale, and Del Rey repaid the faith of her courtiers. But the actress, it turns out, doesn’t show any range. Like Michael Cera or Vin Diesel, she applies the same approach to almost every syllable, and when she doesn’t (her alluring squeaks on “Off To The Races”) the exceptions prove the rule. And it’s a shame. Not because the uniform, noir production deserves more – to the contrary, it’s an accomplice – or the screenplay is Mamet-sharp (“Take a walk on the wild side”! Really?), but because of those squeaks, because of that scene in “Born To Die.”

Either Del Rey’s having a laugh at the chaos she’s created, or her inability to deliver on her campaign is a mortal flaw. It beggars belief that Born To Die not only fails to build on “Video Games” and “Blue Jeans,” but relies on them. As flashes in the pan go, this sets some kind of record. That her hype died a sudden death on January 31st is probably little consolation to her foes, same with the fact she’s set herself up for a nice little career in acting.

4/10

Steve Forstneger

Firing some early February shows across your bow before we launch the new issue: the next CHIRP “First Time” recital, Swearwords’ record release, Stolen Silver’s residency, and Ladysmith Black Mambazo.

Chicago Independent Radio Project (CHIRP) have a fresh “First Time” reading series lined up, this one called “First Record.” Miles Raymer (Chicago Reader), Whet Moser (Chicago Magazine), Shawn Campbell (CHIRP), Chuck Sudo (Chicagoist), and Sabrina Harper (Second City) will dig into their memories about the music they were first exposed to, hopefully to comedic effect. Then, a live band consisting of former Frisbie members Steve Frisbie, Liam Davis, and Gerald Dowd perform related songs in an acoustic setting without rehearsal. (Wednesday@Beat Kitchen.)

The birthplace of modern architecture. Twenty miles of sweeping lakefront vistas. Gritty, urban decay. Chicago has all these things, but what do local bands most incorporate into their imagery and press photos? The bridges that traverse the Chicago River downtown. Swearwords add their website to the scrolls, giving their peppy, modern-rock a handicap from the outset. The three, free tracks on their Ration The Joy EP are hard to resist however, pumping unself-conscious fun into the scraggy, headachey world of The Strokes and Longwave. (Thursday@Empty Bottle with Minor Characters.)

Appearances by the South African choir generally sell out, but this arrival comes on the heels of Ladysmith Black Mambazo’s collaboration compilation: Ladysmith Black Mambazo And Friends (Listen2). Including cuts from the album that introduced them to mainstream America (Paul Simon’s Graceland), the album spans a jawdropping variety from Bob Dylan covers with Dolly Parton, a gospel medley with Emmylou Harris, combinations with contemporaries like The SABC Choir, western institutions like The English Chamber Orchestra, and pure pop on a cover of Sam Cooke’s “Chain Gang” featuring Lou Rawls. (Friday@Old Town School Of Folk Music — two shows.)

Last year’s debut album opened with a deceptive opener for Stolen Silver. As anyone who ventured past the opening track will attest, the indie R&B of “Anticipation” leads not into a TV On The Radio headspace, but oaken harmonies to fit somewhere between Fleet Foxes and Seryn. Occupying the monthly “Practice Space,” the former Down The Line kleptocrats – singer Dan Myers also used to play with Gary Sinise’s Lt. Dan Band – will be working over new material as well as the 10 songs on their debut. You can call them the local chapter of Bon Iver-induced soft-rock revival. (Mondays@Schubas in February.)

– Steve Forstneger

Ronald McDonald House is hosting a youth-choir benefit this weekend, in order to raise funds for a new facility in Streeterville. The charity’s Chicagoland & Northwest Indiana chapter has organized the event at Harris Theater.

Voices Of The Future assembles a number of kids’ ensembles: Walt Whitman & The Soul Children Of Chicago, All City High School Choir, The Kenwood Academy Concert Choir, the Loyola Academy Honors Chamber Singers, Midwest Young Artists, Kelly High School Cantantes, Franklin Fine Arts Academy Choir, and, new this year, the Lincoln Park High School Chamber Singers. In honor of The Beatles’ 50th anniversary, each group will sing a Fab tune.

Proceeds from donations will go toward the construction — already underway — of a new Ronald McDonald House next to the new Lurie’s Children Hospital (formerly named Children’s Memorial) at 225 W. Chicago Ave. The concert begins at 2 p.m. (Sunday@Harris Theater in Millennium Park.)

When Cass McCombs lived in Chicago, he made himself difficult to find; his former publicist once meekly offered an e-mail interview to IE if McCombs could be tracked down before deadline. His first of two albums last year, Wit’s End (Domino) doesn’t behave as the work of a recluse. In fact, it has everything in common with Harry Nilsson’s non-Lennon trials except for where to stick the coconut. Combine your electric piano with terms like lonely, buried alive, stain, cave, shadow . . . a beautiful bummer. It often teeters on the brink of sadsack moaning, which can’t be side of the followup. Humor Risk is more inline with the eclectic, roaming indie songcrafter of yore. We say -crafter not -writer, because McCombs has always been as involved in sonics, which made the confessional tones of Wit’s End the catalog anomaly. (Sunday@Lincoln Hall with Frank Fairfield.)

It’s hard to imagine there being another Bruce Springsteen. Like Jason Anderson, Adam Acuragi’s going to try. Like a fire that consumes all before it (Thirty Tigers) wants your feet on your seat, or at least imagining Acuragi in a setting that has rows and rows of seats. It’s a rousing, anthemic affair with a backdrop of “let’s celebrate how life can suck.” (Monday@Empty Bottle with The Pear Traps and Will Phalen.)

– Steve Forstneger

When an artist stages a farewell tour, it’s generally just a bluff to sell more tickets and they wind up coming through town for an endless parade of victory laps. (Cher and the Eagles come to mind.) But in the case of Glen Campbell, this really is his last hurrah, due to a recent diagnosis with Alzheimer’s disease that will force him to retire from the road and recording studio.

Even with the bittersweet premise behind his first of two nights at the Rialto Square Theatre in Joliet (where he returns on Friday), Campbell went out with a bang thanks to a slew of country to pop crossovers and tunes from the new Ghost On The Canvas (Surfdog). Much like Johnny Cash in his golden years, the collection takes on a decidedly introspective nature, but as the 75-year-old assured the near-capacity crowd, he’s maintaining a positive attitude.

Despite admitting mild memory loss in recent interviews and having a teleprompter by his feet in case of emergencies, Campbell was coherent and personable throughout 75 short but sweet minutes, sounding particularly spry on the familiar opener “Gentle On My Mind” and his subsequent mining through 50-plus years of material. No matter how many times they’re told, Jimmy Webb narratives like “Galveston” (which he almost started a second time before quickly steering back on course) and “By The Time I Get To Phoenix” and are still relatable tales of romantic yearning, though Campbell just as quickly turned the tides towards his cowboy side come “True Grit.”

The evening also unveiled glimpses of the veteran as a family man with his daughter Ashley backing him on banjo and keys, alongside his sons Shannon on guitar and Cal on drums (all of whom also served in the stellar opening act Instant People, a harmony-heavy, Southern-tinted indie-pop outfit). Aside from their obvious chemistry, a banjo/guitar duel between Ashley and her pop was most impressive, especially considering no teleprompter could ever deliver the fiery licks the elder Campbell effortlessly commanded. The communal feeling also paved the way for the gospel-infused current cuts like “It’s Your Amazing Grace” and “Ghost On The Canvas,” two primary examples of Campbell’s vitality and refusal to go down without swinging.

A home stretch of his most celebrated cuts (“Wichita Lineman,” “Rhinestone Cowboy,” “Southern Nights”) hinted at the musical legacy he’ll leave behind, while the new “A Better Place” suggested Campbell’s more concerned about the mark he’ll make as a human being. If this swansong show was any indication, he has nothing to worry about in either category thanks to a cherished catalog and the ability to courageously thrive in the face of adversity.

– Andy Argyrakis

Would, say, Lollapalooza be more enjoyable if it were scattered over a couple weekends? Obviously, tearing down and rebuilding the stages/leaving Grant Park blocked would be bad. But we like how Chicago Bluegrass & Blues takes a break and restarts.

This weekend comes the finale, or part two, or a completely separate event in this winter’s CBB12, and hoes down at an entirely different venue than last week’s Auditorium Theatre, and we still don’t quite understand why “blues” is in the fest title. Maybe Chicago Bluegrass & Americana sounds too narrow or whitebread. Headliners Drive-By Truckers play self-aware Southern rock, though their latest album (Go-Go Boots on ATO) finds them celebrating their inner session musicians and taking it easy on the body count. Reliable, local folk rockers Joe Pug, Bailiff, Van Ghost, Jaik Willis, The Shams Band, Jon Drake & The Shakes, Ben Ripani Music Co., The Future Laureates, Band Called Catch, Michele McGuire, and Paper Thick Walls round out the bill. Maybe Jon Spencer consulted on the lineup (go to 2:13). What’s in a festival name anyway? It’s not like Pitchfork books rural bands.(Saturday@Congress.)

If, two days after CBB, you still can’t shake the feeling, Charlie Parr might show you salvation. Parr’s latest album, Keep Your Hands On The Plow, collects a number of gospel standards and renders them on a drought-plagued prairie at dusk. The Minnesotan’s interpretations aim for grim, fire-and-brimstone tones, but with a distance that suggests Parr doesn’t subscribe to the content. Even the hallowing capabilities of Low guests Mimi Parker and Alan Sparhawk create a gray area where Parr’s detachment is either totally compelling or a dry turnoff. The battle for the soul should be filled with such ambivalence. (Monday@Reggies with Kent Rose and Me & The Devil.)

– Steve Forstneger

There’s a benefit/memorial show for Curtis “2C” Canino on the 28th at Bottom lounge. Canino was in Lygate and Death By Design, and had worked at Exit and other chicago venues.

– IE

Sometimes a subtle shift is all a band needs to find rejuvenation. Los Campesinos haven’t pulled a Kid A or even an OK Computer, but they’ve pulled enough to get out of a rut. They’re in town, as are Cheyenne Marie Mize and David Nail.

On 2010’s Romance Is Boring, the Welsh septet missed the target in an attempt to fire their bratty indie-punk into the heart of their more sincere expressions. Hello Sadness (Arts & Crafts) takes more or less the same approach, but with less haste and more of a clear sense of who they want to be. Almost unrecognizable from the coattail-Art Brut’ers who spun “You! Me! Dancing!”, Sadness feels genuine, as if the personal and creative struggles that emerged in Romance’s aftermath were the genesis for some actual examination. “You! Me! Dancing!” fans needn’t be totally worried, as the Campesinos can still work up an over-caffeinated fervor, but they’re a better veteran band than they were an album ago. (Friday@Metro with Parenthetical Girls.)

Some day, Cheyenne Marie Mize is going to look at her album titles and wonder what-if. The We Don’t Need (Yep Roc) EP follows the similarly truncated Before Lately, both suggesting a convoluted or self-serious singer/songwriter. Mize’s determination in her craft, shouldn’t be questioned either way. For a short set, We Don’t Need prismatically combines and refracts the colors that constitute her work. “Wishing Well” is the disco ball, combining her earthy energy, ad hoc percussion, and organic thrust that gets scattered through the haunted, less accessible “Call Me Beautiful” and the buoyant piano-pop of “Going Under.” If only the words that bound them weren’t so inscrutable. (Wednesday@Schubas with Secret Colours.)

If you had David Nail’s studio band, you’d play forever, too. With the power to turn even Nail’s slightest, pop-rock material into modern-country gold, it’s no wonder the average track on his sophomore label outing, The Sound Of A Million Dreams (MCA Nashville), runs about 90 seconds too long. A discordant, yet gritty moan greets opener “Grandpa’s Farm,” while “I Thought You Knew” harkens subconsciously to Def Leppard’s Hysteria without losing the plot. Nail, who nails the sweeping melody to “Let It Rain,” workmanly digs through country boilerplate, but never really has anything to say. Even the potentially devastating “Half Mile Hill” – about a boy watching daddy walk away – reads like it could have been written by anyone with a mild understanding of child psychology. You’d let the band play, too. (Thursday@Joe’s On Weed.)

– Steve Forstneger

Converse has been canvassing the land for its new music series, “Rubber Meets The Road,” which follows independent bands on tour. The first episode features local fellows Yawn, who trek to Brooklyn for the shoe manufacturer’s Rubber Tracks recording studio. Click on!

Part one was posted earlier, and the second of three is online now!

If it seems like “Mamma Mia!” tours through Chicago almost every year, that’s because it usually does, if only for Abba’s ongoing popularity and its single-stacked soundtrack. At this stage of its shelf-life, the musical created by original band members Benny Andersson and Björn Ulvaeus was witnessed by more than 50-million people around the world and continues running on both Broadway and London’s West End.

Besides its 1999 debut, the show’s seen several surges, especially following 2008’s film adaptation (starring Meryl Streep, Colin Firth, Pierce Brosnan, Amanda Seyfried, Christine Baranski, and Julie Walters) and in 2010 after Abba was inducted into the Rock And Roll Hall Of Fame. Though there’s a story to be told (a girl who’s trying to find her father in advance of getting married), the real reason fans keep flocking are the songs themselves.

After all, who can resist singing along to “Lay All Your Love On Me,” “Gimme! Gimme! Gimme!,” “S.O.S.,” and “Take A Chance On Me,” which are all weaved seamlessly into the humorous and sometimes touching tale. And here’s a tip for first time theatergoers: Don’t leave after the first curtain call because an encore segment ensures a mini tribute concert featuring a few reprises and favorites that didn’t fit in the storyline. “Dancing Queen” anyone? (Tuesday, January 24-Sunday, January 29@Oriental Theatre www.broadwayinchicago.com)

– Andy Argyrakis

CBGB in New York is a tourist attraction now. Never mind that it became a punk club. Chicago Bluegrass & Blues Festival might not be a haven for fundamentalists and zealots, but the first night, this Saturday, makes a case for the styles’ futures.

With a lineup featuring The Del McCoury Band with David Grisman, The Bluegrass Ball featuring The Travelin’ McCourys, Bill Nershi of String Cheese Incident with Jeff Austin of Yonder Mountain String Band, Joe Purdy, The Giving Tree Band, Henhouse Prowlers, and Majors Junction, you’re out of your element if you expect something akin to Joe’s On Weed or the North Halsted blues venues. The Auditorium Theatre’s pristine acoustics might be an odd match for music that rose up from the dirt, but it’s all the better to hear a madcap innovator like Grisman plying his trade.

Next Saturday, the 28th, the party moves to Congress Theatre with a 5 p.m. start. Drive-By Truckers headline, with Dawes and Joe Pug in tow.

– Steve Forstneger

Golden Globes: over. Mitt Romney: inevitable. Packers: safely packed away (though surely God won’t give Eli a second title, right?). Lana Del Rey: crashed and burned. Guess it’s Man Is Man, Martin Sexton, or Machine Head.

Husband-and-wife-duo Puerto Muerto existed on the margins of Chicago rock for a decade (which is why we didn’t have a problem adding them Shelby Lynne-like to our 10 local artists to watch for 2010), but despite continually keeping the Bottle and Hideout in their thrall never quite established themselves in the larger conversation. For whatever reason, Christa Meyer’s transformation into Man Is Man seems poised to change that. Without retreating from PM’s haunting aesthetic or showing any deviation from her musical evolution, Those Birds Will Eat Us feels more direct and personal. At first, that seems a foolish declaration, because PM’s lyrics always had a fly-on-the-wall element for the married couple producing them. Meyer’s gaze is eerily fixed as she moans “I love you” again and again, while cabernet-swilling Nick Cave runs through “Love Leaves Us.” There’s a titular fixation with animals — doves, horses, starlings, bears — but it’s Meyers soul that’s restive through a string of torch songs; her primal urges have been shown death’s door. (Thursday@Hideout with Angela James.)

The general ineffectiveness of music journalism and critics glares most when some apocalypse-harbinging sham scales the charts in defiance of the ink spilled against them. But there’s also a quieter, more dispiriting quandary posed by the likes of Martin Sexton. The Boston-based singer/songwriter tours consistently and fills midsize venues, but when you Google him, the most common hits are the varying pages of his own site. Nothing recent from Rolling Stone, Spin, Pitchfork, the L.A. Times, Boston Herald, New Yorker, Time Out . . . just a Pop Matters review and a smattering of praise from individual, aspiring bloggers. His soulful, acoustic pop is nothing new, for one, and though there’s the occasional political foray his sentimentality (the new Fall Like Rain EP includes both a cover of “For What It’s Worth” and a happy-sixth-anniversary ode to his wife) rules the day. So what gives? People just like him. Occasionally, the press is on the outside looking in. (Friday@Park West with Bhi Bhiman.)

Grunge rock absorbs a lot of blame for what happened to metal’s popularity in the ’90s, though honestly nu-metal did more internal damage. Gliding through trends and crashes, Machine Head come to town celebrating their 20th anniversary this year. Overshadowed in the beginning commercially by Pantera, Sepultura, and Korn, and in the underground by black metal’s swift, menacing rise, Machine Head dropped an album roughly every 30 months and only lost the plot once, in 1999. Their failure to issue an unimpeachable masterpiece will always blot the Oaklanders’ record, but without fanfare, last year’s Unto The Locust (Roadrunner) built another brick layer around their formidable reputation. (Sunday@House Of Blues with Suicide Silence and Darkest Hour.)

– Steve Forstneger

The John Lennon canon is now at the tipping point: with the release of the new 38-song Working Class Hero (Capitol) collection, there are now more posthumous album releases by the ex-Beatle than there are actual solo albums he recorded while still alive. So do we need another repackaged collection of the same old Lennon music that’s been repackaged nearly a dozen times before?

The answer, simply, is no. Lennon’s estate and Capitol Records may need the virtually overhead-free income, but what does this new two-disc set do for us fans? Not much. If you’re a big Lennon fan, you already own all of this – probably in recent vintage where the masters have been tidied up. If you’re a casual Lennon fan, any of the three earlier “best ofs” (one’s even called The VERY Best Of) cover most of the same ground. Of course, if you don’t own any John Lennon solo material and are looking for somewhere to start, this is a pretty good bet. While we can argue whether this lives up to its subtitle – The Definitive Lennon – as a fan I can attest to the fact that it’s got all the hits, a nice selection of second-tier classics, and a few pleasant surprises.

If you listen to two-and-a-half hours of Lennon’s music uninterrupted, you’re struck by an undeniable fact: this is a very simplistic songwriter. A great many of his most emotionally powerful songs (“Imagine,” “Woman,” “Mind Games”) are nearly nursery rhymes musically, and even some of his looser, more straight-up rock cuts (“Instant Karma,” “Power To The People,” “Cold Turkey”) succeed more on the basis of his passionate delivery and a smattering of mild discordance than anything you could call musically masterful. But that simplicity is also precisely why so many people find meaning in Lennon’s music: for all his genuine wit and egotistical bluster, Lennon wrote very heartfelt, sometimes naïvely innocent songs that spoke directly to the heart of the human condition. If it seems childish to “Imagine” or want to “Give Peace A Chance,” or if it’s hokey for a dad to revel in the joy of his “Beautiful Boy (Darling Boy),” or if we’re all saps for wanting to find “Real Love,” then shit: shame on us for forgetting our better natures.

Two nice treats included on this collection come from the 1984 album Milk And Honey, which Lennon was recording when he was murdered in 1980. “Grow Old With Me,” based on a Robert Browning poem, is a disarmingly genuine and vulnerable supplication, and “Borrowed Time” finds Lennon musing on the “dramas” of youth. It’s a buoyant affair, set to something of a Calypso groove, and it shines a light on the whimsical and silly side of Lennon that is too often overlooked.

– Michael C. Harris

Reprinted from December 2005.

You may have noticed that we skip coverage of some pretty big-time releases each month. Sometimes, that’s because the artists hold on to music until the last second, at which point we’ve already planned the next issue. But not this time, boyo! Common, Pistol Annies, and Elvis himself merit mention.

Common has always been at the vanguard of conscious rap and, being on the edge he’s made some iffy decisions like Electric Circus. Universal Mind Control? His club-rat bid was downright lobotomous. While history has shown that the Chicago-bred rapper often over-corrects a folly like a hydroplaning, fishtailing motorist, The Dreamer/The Believer isn’t a full-throated call to his more reflective self. True, it reunites him with producer No ID, and the opening track’s coda features a spoken-word piece by none other than Maya Angelou. But the true reveal is the guest on the ensuing cut, “Ghetto Dreams,” which features the equally mercurial Nas. More tellingly, the song’s first verse — which directly follows Angelou’s call to consciousness — jerks itself to a girl who looks as good as she cooks. As a collection, Dreamer/Believer rivals Be for side-for-side bangers, and No ID takes a star turn with a masterful mesh of his ’90s and ’00s selves. Common still shows bald spots that tempted Maxim-owned Blender into naming him one of the worst lyricists of all time (with his acting career on the side, “The Bitch In Yoo” is always on the margins of his “toughest” rhymes), but better he be himself than something he’s not.

When former editor Michael C. Harris undressed Lydia Loveless‘ debut LP, we found ourselves nodding in agreement. So how could Pistol Annies possibly stand up? For one — like Danzig vs. all those Satanic metal types — the Annies seem to be in on the joke. Hell On Heels, despite its awful cover image, zips through 10 tracks while using country as an idiom and a setup, and actually turns its attempts at authenticity to elucidate failures (not toughness). Miranda Lambert, Ashley Monroe, and Angaleena Presley preen and pose, but with a sympathy for their archetypes. “Takin’ Pills” doesn’t toast to oblivion the same way the title track sees through its own posturing. Lambert, as Arsenio Orteza writes in our January issue, shows less inhibition in this context, which either helps or is helped by her colleagues.

Elvis Presley’s 75th birthday — two years ago — unleashed an unfocused bleeding of his catalog, but few people could argue the sense behind reissuing Elvis Country. With a rollicking rendition of “I’m 10,000 Years Old” segueing the cuts like a chopped commercial, it drags post-comeback King back to his roots, and not without fanfare. “Country” in the ’70s sure as hell meant something different in the ’50s, but few could have predicted that opener “Snowbird” would have its melody doubled on sitar. (Let that sink in, for a moment.) The big single, “Funny How Time Slips Away,” still marks as one of his great unheralded vocal performances, while gospel tries like “I Washed My Hands In The Muddy Water” and the stitched “10,000″ version find his religious attempts at their zenith. Filling space, the accompanying Love Letters From Elvis is a slight letdown — a campy reminder that ’60s Elvis was just a couple years away — but, in a chronological sense, he would never be this good again.

– Steve Forstneger

Like Slider’s johnson, the list of bands awaiting an “Around Hear” review is long and distinguished. So we’ll do a solid for some pretty fantastic local bills.

Because there are no holidays – i.e., Christmas, Easter – tied to those unchronicled years in Christ’s life, local outfit Young Jesus will arbitrarily play Lincoln Hall on the 4th. Maybe that’s about when the Three Kings came, but they probably don’t mean infant-young. The Home LP will be feted, awash in appropriately angsty, teenage confusion. Canasta, Brontosaurus, and Hemmingbirds open.

At Metro on the 6th, Pet Lions headline with The Hudson Branch and Tiger Bones in support. All three dropped an album or EP in late 2011, which, if you’re lucky, you’ll read about in “Around Hear” when school starts up in the fall.

– Steve Forstneger

All the seasoned holiday performers are home with loved ones, frantically tearing through a hundred, identical Amazon.com boxes cuz the damned USB cable for Bobby’s gift has to be somewhere! Instead we have a plate of hard rock including Czar, Fires, and Steel Panther.

When you look at the quality field racing for the Republican nomination, the question arises: is government work so bad that no quality person wants it? Federal, state, and metropolitan department heads, after all, get to be dubbed “czar” by the press — President Obama’s education czar; Illinois’ agriculture czar; Moscow, Idaho’s czar czar. Mayor Emanuel probably has several of his own, though one such local lies out of reach. Czar, whose debut EP for Cracknation was a beauty, command an office whose responsibilities are molten metal riffs, blasts of industrial noise, and reckless, wiry guitar lines. Had the real Russian czars lived to exploit more than 30 years of Industrial Revolution, they would have enjoyed Vertical Mass Grave. (Think we’re kidding? Russian president Dmitry Medvedev is a big Sabbath and Deep Purple fan.) Wreckages are rarely enjoyable, but listening to the band collide and attempt to untangle on “Burnt” has its joys. (Friday@Cobra Lounge with Of Wolves; ManBQue will be cooking and raising donations for the Greater Chicago Food Depository.)

People who bought tix as soon as they heard about the Braid reunion last summer probably thought the band would have their pick of luminous, post-punk openers. That one of them was little-known, Nashville-based Fires probably earned a few second glances. A surprising familiarity probably filled the Metro, however, as both the then-available Angels In The Dark EP and new Echo Sounds reveal a pleasurable taste of Local H. Tracks like “Run,” “Dress Up,” and “Execute” snarl while chasing you with a cigarette lighter, but there’s also a fair amount of strut and pop-sense to “Sent.” (Friday@Empty Bottle with The Tears Of Music And Love (an In Tall Buildings side-project) and The Visitor.)

Pop metal has been low-hanging fruit for comedians since This Is Spinal Tap, flowing through Wayne’s World and Airheads. Even Anthrax lumped the weepy “N.F.B.” onto Attack Of The Killer B’s, weary of having that kind of rock ‘n’ roll stylistically next door. Steel Panther have taken the jokes off screen and recreated Stonehenge to reasonable proportions — and out of giant dildos. Balls Out (Universal Republic), their second album, is another used condom full of spent jokes. But Steel Panther, unlike The Darkness, have two things in their corner: 1) they’re all ringers from many of the same bands they’re sending up, and 2) they know the jokes aren’t funny, but they hit you over the head with them relentlessly until you change your mind. True, the priapic pomp might be relished by a majority of their not so irony-inclined fans, but tracks including “17 Girls In A Row” or “Weenie Ride” push and push until you’re proclaiming their brilliance. (Thursday (29th)@House Of Blues.)

– Steve Forstneger

“C’est la vie, adios/Good riddance, fuh –” oh, my. Coming up, you may find yourself getting some inexact language lessons from Five Finger Death Punch, or maybe just working on the ones you know with either Great Society Mind Destroyers or Ximena Sariñana.

Actually, what Five Finger Death Punch are teaching isn’t how to deal with pesky, mumbojumbo-speaking immigrants, but the flaws in the system. American Capitalist (Prospect Park) mocks, threatens, scolds, and stabs its way through the scourge of inequity, with a tightly coiled metalcore punch. The band aren’t interested in too much nuance, so once things start to boil a breathtaking, fist-raising chorus pulls everything together. It’s a tricky plan to conjoin personal outrage with the sort of band-of-brothers anthems that fill the sequence, but with all this we’re-the-99-percent protesting, it’s damned timely. (Sunday@Riviera with All That Remains, Hatebreed, and Rains.)

Locals Great Society Mind Destroyers won’t have much trouble distinguishing them from the ’60s band who wore half their name — those folks became Jefferson Airplane — though their paranoid, psychedelic blues-rock spurts from the same vein. Spirit Smoke (the first offering by city-based Slow Knife), however, won’t have you flashing back to fringed suede jackets: it howls and billows smoke like a torch that’s collected fingerprints from Iron Butterfly, Trouble, Kyuss, and Sleep. (Tuesday@Empty Bottle with Rodeo, Velocicopter, and T-Bone.)

The letter “X” is the coolest thing to say in rock ‘n’ roll, especially if you’re Scott McCloud. If you’re Catalonian or Basque, the letter becomes the equivalent of “ch” or “ssch,” and makes you seem cosmopolitan when you tell people how to pronounce Xavi. Ximena Sariñana (hi-MEN-a sa-rin-YAH-na) exploits neither, but there are plenty of people who pronounce it without care. The singer/songwriter — a famous actress in Mexico — enlisted the help of TV On The Radio’s Dave Sitek and The Mars Volta’s Oscar Rodriguez-Lopez for her self-titled Warner Bros. debut. A cast like that doesn’t imply sonic consistency, and Sariñana flits between genres — some sweet, some not so — with impunity, but never without an edge nor the quality the company she keeps would imply. (Thursday@Schubas with Graffiti 6.)

– Steve Forstneger

This is the last weekend to shop for Christmas gifts. Wouldn’t you rather spend it at a concert? Try Foreign Exchange/ex-Little Brother rhymer Phonte, The Sea And Cake, or localboys I Fight Dragons!

Consider Phonte a realist on the mic. As part of the Grammy-nominated soul group The Foreign Exchange and formally of the down-to-earth hip-hop act Little Brother, this North Carolina native hasn’t been known to present life in a grandiose way. Weaving between reflections on relationships, the music industry, and everyday life in modern America, Phonte a.k.a. Phontigallo is an artist that expertly calls it just as it is.

In recent years listeners have become more accustomed to Phonte’s minimalist-styled singing heard on the Nicolay-produced Foreign Exchange albums, but in 2011, he’s returning his focus to hip-hop. With his overdue solo debut, Charity Starts At Home, Phonte’s raps using a concise, unhurried delivery about daily issues of maintaining work ethic (“Good Fight”) and monogamy (“Sendin My Love”) — this is no big baller music. But it’s not necessarily revolutionary, riot-sparking rap either. Phonte’s best at reminding us about what matters in life using common sense. On “Everything is Falling Down,” he ponders, “why rage against the machine, when you can just unplug it?”

With the help of 9th Wonder, Khrysis, and a handful of his regular collaborators, Phonte’s solo debut is solid set of crisp, candid hip-hop. While the tone of Charity Starts At Home remains very real, when Phonte hits the stage, he’s known to sometimes let the comedy flow between songs. Whether roasting his bandmates or joking with the crowd, expect Phonte and 9th Wonder to prove that indie hip-hop can indeed have big personality. (Saturday@Abbey Pub with 9th Wonder, Median, and Proh Mic.)

– Max Herman

Kind of like the turkey industry in spring — What, are you kidding? Everybody eats turkey for Easter! — The Sea And Cake have a ways to go to convince Chicagoans they’re a holiday band. Breezy melodies, the visuals implied by their name — the only cake eaten this time of year is fruitcake, and that’s theoretical — what’s a veteran post-pop band to do? Act as if nothing’s strange. Moonlight Butterfly (Thrill Jockey) — summery, titular imagery aside — is like a holiday gathering: making time for old friends and familiar faces, while keeping an eye on the calendar with thoughts about making changes. Those come in the 10-minute “Inn Keeping,” an unhurried, spacious room where the band outright experiment with their sound — mostly through a mix of organic/electronic sister instruments — and consider what’s ahead. (Saturday@Empty Bottle with Luke Roberts and Brokeback.)

Chiptune, however, with gaming systems a staple of gift-giving for 20 years now: there’s your symbol of the holidays. Peppy geek-rockers I Fight Dragons come home this weekend in support of their late-October Atlantic release, Kaboom! While 8-bit sounds are a staple of the Dragon ethic, the songs hold them up and not the other way around. (Saturday@Metro with The Protomen and The Kickback.)

– Steve Forstneger

For the first half hour, Jeff Tweedy hardly spoke to the audience. For a homecoming gig, that’s an interesting choice, one that didn’t hinder Wilco’s kick-off of their five-night Chicago residency a bit.

Check our photo site for a full gallery from Tuesday’s show at the Riviera (it was a better photo pit!).

During the initial sequence, the band were nothing short of rampant. Instead of rolling out the welcome mat, they opened with their new album’s 12-minute, elliptical, acoustic closer, “One Sunday Morning” and continued to pile on tension. Wilco immediately followed it with the rumbling “Poor Places,” which now infamously erupts into the “Yankee . . . hotel . . . foxtrot” electrical storm, with guitarist Nels Cline replacing the opener’s curlicued licks with a frenzied assault. From it emerged The Whole Love opener “Art Of Almost,” which fought through a stuttering beat and Krautrock iciness only to race off on a suicidal course. The pattern became relentless: gentle Being There staple “Misunderstood” thrashed and flailed through its defiant chorus; “I Am Trying To Break Your Heart” built and dissolved in Sisyphusian fashion.

But the intent wasn’t to disperse the dad-rock fog that had enveloped Wilco’s previous few records. True, there was no “The Late Greats” or “Wilco (The Song),” but there was no plunge into the darkness of “She’s A Jar” or “Via Chicago” either. “What A Light,” “Outtasite (Outta Mind),” and “Heavy Metal Drummer” hit all the sweet pop notes, leavened by “Jesus Etc” and “Born Alone.” The band wanted to showcase the full breadth of their powers, and it’s arguable that they’ve become more fluid and undeniable than the esteemed Kicking Television tour.

Cline, in particular, was imperious. A jazz guitarist who reportedly scoffed at the idea of joining a rock band, his soloing was a mercurial mix of legato virtuosity and riotous recklessness in nearly every phrase he uttered, whether “One Sunday Morning,” “Dawned On Me,” or a transfixing “Impossible Germany.” His performance was equaled only by the stunning visuals: a thousand strung-up cloths (like the ghosts hung from trees on Halloween) that alternately lit like fireflies or staged an unusually compelling light show. (And strangely arranged in the shape of the continental U.S.)

Once Tweedy opened his mouth and separated the songs with witty — if sometimes flat — rejoinders, the ensuing looseness was palpable. This made the dramatic effects of “Pot Kettle Black” and “A Shot In The Arm” feel all the more urgent, which may have served the band’s desire to maintain a mood, or at least maintain composure until it came time to kick back. Opener Nick Lowe joined the second encore to blast his biggest hit, “Cruel To Be Kind,” and rejoined the group with Mavis Staples (duetting with Tweedy on “You’re Not Alone”) for an arm-in-arm stab at The Band’s “The Weight.”

For the night, they could have gotten away with “More Than Words.”

– Steve Forstneger

Next month’s issue will focus on the genesis of music labels, and how Chicago reflects current trends. There’s nothing binding the artists in this concert preview. Josh Caterer, Himalayan Bear, and Futurebirds have little in common. Unless we tie them. Ladies and germs: hodgepodge rock!

People know Josh Caterer, of course, as the frontman for Smoking Popes and later Duvall. Unlikely suburban pop-punk heroes who landed on the Clueless soundtrack, the Popes eventually dismantled when Caterer ensconced himself in his faith. It’s perhaps been an eventuality, then, that he would come to record some holiday tunes. No Chreaster, Caterer pushes a theological edge on The Heart Of Christmas, with the title track and “The Baby From Bethlehem” leading the charge. It’s not a humorless affair, however. The affable “Austin Bound” puts to song the thought of millions of Chicagoans who wonder why we put up with winter torture. (Wednesday@Schubas with Scott Lucas and Rainbow Rhythms.)

There’s a certain charm and romance in singers with unconventional voices singing love songs. Himalayan Bear’s Ryan Beattie clearly doesn’t have life figured out on Hard Times (Absolutely Kosher), but even a desperate track like “How Could Death Contend” manages to be a little sweet. The myriad elements of his sonic stew — electric guitar solos, saxophones, electronics — all serve one master: Beattie’s voice. His bandmates in Frog Eyes better watch out. (Wednesday@Double Door with Kathryn Calder.)

Futurebirds sound like the past. But their ramshackle take on The Flying Burrito Brothers lands them more in the region of Beachwood Sparks and Felice Brothers, racing down the backroads to evade the encroaching storm. Hampton’s Lullaby (Autumn Tone) finds its center in a track like “Man With No Knees,” “a little too drunk to find a bar,” overcome with life’s shittiness and digging deep to find the power to escape. When the psychedelic swirls rise above a din, the band can get pushed off their chairs a little, unsure of the lines between delirium and euphoria. (Thursday@Schubas with Grass Giraffes and Flying Cars.)

– Steve Forstneger

For the length of her career, the saga of Tori Amos has, at its most basic, come down to the story of a woman and her piano. Certainly, there’s much more at play there, what with all the mystical lyrical imagery, fearless revelations, heady concept albums, and endless personas. But, at its core, the constant throughout all the characters and wardrobe changes has been Amos and her primary instrument. So when the veteran songstress incorporated a string quartet into her Chicago Theatre set this past Saturday, it not only changed the conversation, but it brought new energy to staples and strengthened more recent material.

Saturday’s event found Amos returning to the venue behind the recently released Night Of Hunters and its instrumental companion, Sin Palabras. On selections like “Lust,” off 1999’s To Venus And Back, and the title track to 2005’s The Beekeeper, as well as a cover of The Cure’s “Lovesong,” Amos performed solo, going back to the tried-and-true vocals-and-piano approach. Yet given the singer’s sprawling discography of 12 studio albums in under 20 years, even sonically distinct solo material blended together when given the scope of Saturday’s set and Amos’ library. Thankfully, a string section, including cello, violin, and viola, both enlivened the set’s selections and made for a more distinct delivery.

Perhaps most benefiting of the artist’s additional players was “Leather,” off 1992’s Little Earthquakes. As old as anything played during Saturday’s concert — and a track that originally featured subtle string work on its studio version — the additional players perfectly complemented Amos’ vocal stylings and the song’s simple and creeping melody. With regards to more modern material, the evening’s string musicians brought a warmth to Hunters production “Your Ghost,” while Amos and her instrument almost felt like support on that same album’s “Star Whisperer,” with the quartet bringing a rich grandeur to the selection. Soundtrack song “Siren,” meanwhile, received a more urgent, jerkier string treatment, with the 1997 deep cut a set treat in and of itself.

Over the years, as Amos’ sound has matured, so too has the tone of her material. Yet at the conclusion of a predominantly solemn and straight-faced evening of adult-alternative-all-grown-up, the artist closed with a jaunty rendition of “Big Wheel,” from 2007’s American Doll Posse. An unabashedly big and poppy production, the song made a showy declaration of the singer’s “M.I.L.F.” status. And, for just a moment, Amos wasn’t so much the grown songstress serenading a hushed theater with strings and piano, but the odd brash firecracker serving up strange and disarming alt-pop. It was a brief and welcome return to form among a night of successful new sound experiments.

– Jaime de’Medici

Maybe Chicago hip-hop’s always had this much talent, but is just now getting itself heard. YP is the latest to drop a stunning mixtape this year; also in town are Tribes, We Barbarians, and Lindi Ortega.

Paypa, Rockie Fresh, Bo Deal, LEP Bogus Boys . . . the list goes on. YP’s Still Awake mixtape (free download here) strongly follows up last year’s No Sleep, and features a wide range of local producers who manage to sound consistent. In the absence of a lot of cameos, the South Shore native’s left to bear the weight of most of the tracks, and adjusts well to different beats and tones, like the spooky “Light It Up.” On the single “Who I Be,” the hook credibly evokes Fiasco, while cuts like “Hood Rich” and “Holdin Me Back” breathe fire. (Tuesday@Empty Bottle with G-Side.)

Traditionally, a concert bill gets judged on the sonic consistency of the involved artists with little mind paid to how well the band names mesh. In this instance, lightning has struck twice for the Tribes/We Barbarians tour. It makes you wonder if Spoon and The Knife will ever ride together, or one day Men, Women, and Men Women & Children. That their respective sounds don’t deal in a whole lotta pretense is a bonus. Tribes call the U.K. home, a place where heart-on-sleeve rock can be rare. The We Were Children EP packs anthemic punches as if Bright Eyes were more closely allied with its Desaparecidos spinoff. We Barbarians — Californians — actually sound more British, if the Troubles-infused tones of early U2 can be interpreted that way. Their Headspace EP makes a puzzling choice for a cover song — Talking Heads’ “Strange Overtones” — but mostly affixes its eyes to the back of the room and imagines the rafters in the wall’s place. (Sunday@Schubas.)

Singer/songwriter Lindi Ortega is a bucket of seemingly incompatible characteristics, where somehow being a metropolitan Canadian with a hispanic surname and recording for the same label that distributes Metric makes one a potential country star. But here we are, watching stunned as CMT takes a liking to her, adding to its motley assemblage of Australians, Detroit rockers, and reformed/adult-contempo black men. (Shania Twain’s been absent for awhile; maybe they’ve decided to finally replace her.) This time, however, Nashville is recognizing someone who doesn’t willingly conform, a reputation that at first seems threatened by the appearance of her holiday EP, Tennessee Christmas (Last Gang). “All I Want For Christmas,” however, isn’t the precious Mariah Carey tune, but a bluegrass workout pining for a cowboy. When she does pay tribute to the Volunteer State, she bypasses Nashville and skips west to Memphis, kneeling before the King’s “Blue Christmas.” (Monday@Schubas with Diego Garcia.)

– Steve Forstneger

Let’s get this out of the way upfront. Yes, Kanye West and Jay-Z played “N***** In Paris” eight times this past Wednesday at the United Center, the first of the duo’s two-night run at the venue. Yes, it was a bit like one of those “Family Guy” gags that go on so long it stops being funny, only to have that become the joke. Yes, it was an exuberant and excessive move that only larger-than-life superstars like Ye and Jay could get away with. And yes, in fact, that shit was crazy.

While an endless encore of “Paris” may have been the feat that captured Twitter feeds as the night ended, the nearly three-hour shared set between two of hip-hop’s biggest names boasted far more than that epic closing note. In town behind the pair’s collaborative full length, Watch The Throne (Roc Nation), Mr. West and Mr. Carter moved through a set that featured practically every hit in both artists’ catalogs, both individually and collaboratively.

Performing separately, there were moments where the audience almost forgot about the shared nature of the bill, instead becoming transfixed by the presence and impact each performer’s strongest fare. For West, such moments included a ferocious performance of “All Of The Lights,” as well as a vulnerable and romantic rendition of “Runaway.” For Jay, it was the classic “Izzo (H.O.V.A.),” notable for being the first song West ever produced for The Blueprint, as well as “Empire State Of Mind,” despite serving as an anthem to New York performed here in Chicago. Together, Jay and Ye’s presence was often electric and intense, as was the case on the hard and heavy “Monster,” off West’s late 2010 effort, My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy. Similarly aggressive were many Throne cuts, including “Who Gon Stop Me” and “Welcome To The Jungle.” All of which made it that much affecting when the duo dropped their guards for the back-to-back Throne ballads “Made In America” and “New Day,” the latter of which seemed to especially impact the two otherwise hardened artists.

Such moments were the exceptions to the evening, however. If anything, Wednesday’s set was a celebratory affair between two giants with an expansive history of quality collaborations. It was the rare kind of night where the performers onstage were having as much fun, if not more, than the audience.

– Jaime de’Medici

When Def Leppard referenced all their favorite music in “Rocket,” they left out a pivotal band from the ’70s that few people ever heard. Rocket From The Tombs come to town this weeks, touting their debut album. Also around: Felix Culpa’s farewell show, Pterodactyl, Miguel, and Young Buffalo.

Nearly 10 years ago, Glitterhouse unearthed a collection of unreleased recordings called The Day The Earth Met The Rocket From The Tombs, a not-insignificant find as the microscope swung over to proto punk as The Strokes and Franz Ferdinand were taking off. But rather than some lost obscurity like Australia’s Radio Birdman, RFTT had some unusual cachet: its members split into a pair of pivotal punk bands Pere Ubu and The Dead Boys. While the disc didn’t provide the full breadth of the Cleveland-based band’s bootlegs, it did carry primitive versions of its spawns’ classics, like “Ain’t It Fun,” “Sonic Reducer,” and “30 Seconds Over Tokyo.” The stage was set for a reunion tour — which happened — and rekindled, Mission Of Burma-esque partnership between Dave Thomas and Cheetah Chrome — which didn’t really. Until now.

While The Day The Earth Met . . . has been re-released today by Fire, the real story was the October release of Barfly, comprising all new material. Recording standards have certainly improved over those old demos and live tracks, though RFTT still make you work for rewards. Opener “I Sell Soul” barges out of the gate, but from there it’s a rocky path as the band — now including Television’s Richard Lloyd, who replaces the late Peter Laughner — find their legs and each other. But hell, they’re still just a young band. (Wednesday@Empty Bottle with Plastic Crimewave Sound and Warm Ones.)

If the Felix Culpa were blue-collar workers, they’d carry utility belts. Up to this weekend’s farewell concert, the Chicagoans have consistently crafted a catalog full of lunchbox indie-rock, whether recalling the muscular movements of Slint, math-y instrumental post rock, sparse early emo, or the caustic measures of Jawbox. They go out with a bang, dropping the LP/EP combo Sever Your Roots/Bury Your Axe in our laps like a detective who solves the big case, and then walks out on his captain. The band might laugh to hear it called “going out on top,” but that’s what it feels like. (Friday@Metro with Monday’s Hero, Sainthood Reps, and El Oso.)

Pterodactyl drummer/vocalist Matt Marlin appears to be a man in press photos, but on “Nerds” he more closely resembles a drum-and-bass DJ’s deck going on the fritz. It’s a bag of fireworks going off unexpectedly, an orgy in the electron chamber. Spills Out (Brah) claims to have some late-’60s, classic-rock influences, but we hear more of the breakneck indie-rock that gave No Age their big ideas. And maybe a little of the Energizer Bunny. (Friday@Empty Bottle with American Royalty, Moritat, and Flux Bikes.)

We all know how much the record labels love the holidays, saving up their big releases to nab those big-box retailer and iTunes-giftcard dollaz. Last year, Jive/RCA dropped Miguel’s All I Want Is You . . . and forgot to promote it. It was a stunning error, because, unlike a lot of R&B-crossover pap, it was a viable foray into Justin Timberlake territory without a whiff of that chirpy Bieber kid. “Girls Like You” straddles the line between effete and irresistible, with a pulsating, subwoofer rhythm that won’t give the cars next to you any idea what’s happening. This past summer he opened for Jennifer Hudson at Ravinia, and now seems to have his own feet under him — and hopefully his label’s. (Thursday@The Shrine.)

There aren’t many ties between Andrew Bird and Young Buffalo’s sounds, though the latter’s erudite inclusion of “polyglot” in a chorus certainly puts them in league with each other. Most of the Young Von Prettylips EP (Fat Possum) spends its time building rushes of vocal harmony over a collision of Vampire Weekend and The Beach Boys, and the five-dollar words hit the backseat. It’s a feat to compose hyperactive psychedelia and not come off like 1) a mess or 2) another Animal Collective clone, but Young Buffalo burst with so many ideas and canny hooks that each indulgence feels oddly necessary. (Friday@Subterranean with Bailiff and Distractions.)

– Steve Forstneger