Though obviously feted every year, this February 14th is particularly special as Arizona celebrates 100 years of statehood. (Happy b-day to you too, Oregon!) Lined up for local festivities are Heartless Bastards, Talkdemonic, and Andrew Belle! Emboss M&Ms with your message now!

Heartless Bastards‘ first two albums portended force: Erika Wennerstrom’s howling voice strained and growled over churning indie blues-rock rhythms. There was a sense of imminence, that something could explode at any moment. It would have been a difficult pace to sustain, and one the trio ultimately decided against. The new Arrow (Partisan) offers urgency, but in a Neil Young minus Crazy Horse way. The dusty title track (“The Arrow Killed The Beast”) withers in the sun with a hellish thirst, and Wennerstrom’s wounded performance makes the song actually feel like it’s about death (not love). When they arrive at the oasis for some a-rockin’, the band would rather roll out lighter influences (T. Rex in “Got To Have Rock And Roll,” Beatles for “Simple Feeling,” and Skynyrd with “Late In The Night”) than roll you with the steam-engine approach of yore. They’re kinder, gentler Bastards. (Tuesday@Lincoln Hall with Hacienda and Precious Blood.)

Similar to Valentine’s Day, it’s Arizona statehood-day tradition to eat a meal while being serenaded by a cellist, drummer, and their laptop. Demand is so great, however, that Talkdemonic decided to shun dinner arrangements and invite lovers to a concert. On last fall’s Ruins (Glacial Pace), the duo spread out, and Lisa Molinaro’s viola and cello took a less lyrical approach. Adding swaths of texture, she mimics guitar solos on “Violet” and hits moaning lines on “Midnight Pass” that burn up in feedback. The tempos range from ethereal (“Time Draws On”) to borderline jungle (“Midcentury Motion”) . . . what better way to say I Love You? (Tuesday@Schubas with Cate LeBon and Bone & Bell.)

But perhaps most indicative of the festivities surrounding the 48th — and last of those carved from the contiguous — state, hometowner Andrew Belle brings his vitriolic, nationalistic right-wing screeds to bear. Actually, fewer artists are as inoffensive as Belle, whose pillowy voice and leather-armchair arrangements strive for the realm of early John Mayer or Coldplay — so much as “strive” is an applicable term. He’ll soon be celebrating the release of concert-staple “The Daylight” as a three-song single; it arrives on the 28th, a.k.a. the second-most important date in Arizona history. (Tuesday@Space with Peter Groenwald.)

– Steve Forstneger

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Few people these days can boast of a unique kink — that moment when only you know the joke, and can savor it by repeating the words to clueless friends and colleagues. That’s what we get from Stew & The Negro Problem, the Warm, Safe & Sound benefit, Crystal Stilts, and The Knux.

History would like us to forget it, but Tony Danza was America’s Dad beginning the mid-’80s. As a star of the gender-bending sitcom “Who’s The Boss?” he injected Barbie’s-playhouse sweetness into a Brooklyn façade. It took Danza years to dig out of the role — perhaps prolonged by starring in She’s Out Of Control (hello, Matthew Perry!), which basically subbed Amy Dolenz for Alyssa Milano on its way to giving Danza “Mama mia!” moments. During a particularly poignant sequence, a parade of bell-ringing Dolenz suitors are rebuffed by a slammed front door, each with a personality matched to their appearance. The best of these is Stew, an overweight fratboy — roughly equivalent to Francis in Pee Wee parlance — who frumps, “Hi. My name’s Stew.” Bam! Door closed.

And Bam! Stage Buzz!

You see, Stew had a Danza problem. Unfortunately, his three-second cameo went unresolved. Stew & The Negro Problem pick up the pieces for shmoes denied access everywhere, and have done so for 15 years. During the past few, Stew & Co. have ascended from anonymous genre-flipping Los Angelinos to Spike Lee-friendly SERIOUS MUSICIANS. Stew wrote the semi-autobiographical stage musical Passing Strange, which Lee adapted for TV.) Thankfully, Making It, due at the end of January via Tight Natural, doesn’t have to worry about a drop in quality now that the Stews have won. Though the band’s story has even more distracting plot points — he’s on the faculty at the University Of Wisconsin in Madison, base of the socialist plot against Governor Scott Walker — the big tale behind the album is Heidi Rodewald’s maturation as a vocalist and bandmate. No longer confined to the background and then paraded like a sideshow when uncaged, she lends an emotional heft to Stew’s creative but sometimes distracting political ends. (Thursday@Space in Evanston.)

The Steepwater Band, Blane Fonda, The Bright White, The Kickback, and Hawley Shoffner headline the Warm, Safe & Sound, which encourages attendees to bring a donatable coat, sweater, or other winterwear. Everything will be collected by will be collected by Cornerstone Community Outreach, who will then distribute items to local homeless. Otherwise, tickets are only a fiver. (Thursday@Lincoln Hall.)

There’s a ton of static in the air — not just because it’s cold and dry — with worldwide debt crises looming (and China on the brink?), the holiday blues (or Crippling Depression, as Ed Helms called them), and Crystal Stilts in town. The New Yorkers have a Radiant Door EP to promote and, while it trims some of the fuzz off the In Love With Oblivion full-length, which itself seemed a dapper-dan makeover from their shadowy debut. Everything’s relative, however, and the shimmering, lo-fi memory of Jesus & Mary Chain persists . . . but maybe not for long. (Friday@Empty Bottle with Soft Speaker and Hollows.)

An article in the Guardian posited that the reason French acts like Phoenix, Justice, and Daft Punk so seamlessly and fearlessly mesh with soft ’70s and ’80s pop because they weren’t burdened by Anglo/American standards of cool. The Knux — a black hip-hop duo based in L.A. — are breaching many divides on this fall’s Eraser (Interscope). Equal parts N.E.R.D., LMFAO, and Toto, it’s difficult not to interpret the album as a joke. (On the cover, Krispy and Joey Lindsey pose like a pair of skinny-jeansed Lenny Kravitzes.) The injection of glossy, faux-rock guitars on opener “The Road” repel advances from jittery beats and electro laserbeams to last through the end, though vocally — aside from girlie backup vocals — they still spit on the seamy side of Spank Rock. It’s a brave, hedonistic endeavor that doesn’t always succeed, but something tells you they’re not about to apologize for party rockin’. (Saturday@Reggies with Jordy Towers, Vanity Theft, and JTX.)

– Steve Forstneger

“I talk so much shit I forget who I’m talking to,” Lydia Loveless spits out in the defiant “Can’t Change Me.” She’s pugnacious all right — through just about every track on her Bloodshot Records bow Indestructible Machine. The barely hootch-legal small-town Ohioan steps out with her chin jutting and her grudges clearly on display. There’s a raucous spirit in most of the songs here, and on some tracks the music and sentiment work invitingly well, but I frankly don’t buy much of what she’s offering. There’s a clichéd self-mythologizing going on here that is corny as hell. Youth + identity issues + booze = confusion and anger? Really? Only this time with an alluring twang . . .

“Bad Way To Go” pulls you in with mucky rhythm guitar and an urgent combo of frenetic banjo picking and a pressing, palpitating rhythm section. Loveless’ aggressively matter-of-fact delivery establishes her attitude for the next 38 minutes with lines like “Write me a love letter in the gravel with your piss/I will read it with an open mind.” “Can’t Change Me” introduces the more hackneyed elements: “I swear every hangover’s going to be my last”; “That’s gonna change how you feel about me Jesus but it won’t change me.” Yeah, yeah, yeah — I drink and don’t fuck with me. Jesus. We get it. But unfortunately Loveless relies too often on similarly stale conceits. “Can’t go anywhere without being three sheets/I guess I’ll always be this god damn unhappy,” she sings on the Byrds-like “Learn To Say No,” one of the more melodic tracks that features some graceful harmonies and one of Loveless’ most warm and dynamic vocal performances. Maybe the “Cocaine Blues”-inspired “Do Right” best captures the promise and passé of Indestructible Me. Out the gate at an amped-up chug that never relents, the wiry lead guitar of Todd May and sweet-pickin’ banjo of Rob Woodruff keeps “Do Right” galloping behind Loveless’ adroit and passionate delivery . . . of lines like “I grew up on whiskey and God/So I’m a little bit confused” and “I just can’t find a good reason to do right.”

Loveless’ vulnerable and oddly aged voice is one of the album’s finest features, and it may shine best on two disparate tracks. The jaunty and warped humor of the stalker song “Steve Earle” allows Loveless room to play as a singer, and when she belts out a great line like “He says the greatest country duos all start out like this/And I better call him back if I got his messages,” we hear her wit shine through unhampered by proclamations of how drunk and nasty she can be. “How Many Women,” the most traditionally country song on the album, is a showcase for Loveless’ sweet, ragged voice and her genuine questioning — “How many women does a man need?” — that reveal far more complexity than the piss and vinegar — sorry, whiskey, that defines too much of this album. (Appearing: Wednesday@Schubas with Tim Larson & The Owner/Operators.)

 – Michael C. Harris

Thanksgiving eve is annually as wet as Mardi Gras — musically, it’s also drier than a microwaved turkey dinner. This weekend is your last chance before Midwestern winter sucks your music choices away. Witness Hey Rosetta, Yellow Ostrich, Girl In A Coma, Thinker Thought’s 10th anniversary, and XD Records’ first-annual showcase.

This time next year, Hey Rosetta might not be awaiting their first-ever Grammy nominations. Mostly, that will be because they won’t have an album out. But ATO Records — Dave Matthews’ RCA subsidiary — just picked up the band and might have them squeeze something out for 2013. Whatever happens, it’s doubtless anything the band do will be as heart-wrenchingly sincere as last year’s Seeds, which takes The Frames’ model ups the stakes, and then demands a bigger pitcher with which it can pour out its heart. Drenched chords and emotions rarely get rendered more powerfully than this. (Friday@Lincoln Hall with The Jezabels.)

If you want rock bands who enjoy the looping — Andrew Bird, Tune-Yards — you could do worse than Yellow Ostrich (though probably not as far as the name). Alex Schaaf, who’s since recruited some band members, differentiates himself on The Mistress (Barsuk) by liberally sprinkling doses of the highly personal. Normally, you’d think a singer/songwriter would accomplish this with a cutting lyric or wrenching confession, but Schaaf’s the kinda guy who kicks things off with his voice a little close to the mic, and, this being looped sounds, makes sure he’s right next to your ear for the next 3:30. That his record hints he can keep up with Bird and Tune-Yards justifies this decision. (Friday@Metro with Ra Ra Riot and Delicate Steve.)

With everyone talking about Teri Gender Bender and Le Butcherettes, the prospect of another female-fronted rawk band from near the Texas/Mexico border brings exciting prospects. Girl In A Coma and Nina Diaz can bring chaos on Exits & All The Rest (Blackheart), particularly on fraying cuts like “Hope,” but have more in their repertoire than animalism. At the album’s onset, she prowls like Alison Mossheart in “Adjust,” but before long she’s bopping bubblegummy “ba-da-bas” in “Smart.” Equal parts Mossheart, Emily Haines, and Chrissie Hynde, she’s most engaging while cooing the sweet “Control,” which shows her heart systematically destroying her tough exterior. (Saturday@Double Door with The Coathangers.)

Record labels like to party, too, and it just so happens that this weekend is crowded with their doings. XD Records takes over Reggie’s Joint on the 19th with its roster, including Bloody Knives, Music For Headphones, Her Vanished Grace, 2060 Chiron, and a trio of local acts: Bliss.city.east, Panda Riot, and Lightfoils. Over at Panchos (following the previous night’s festivities in Peoria) on Sunday the 20th, Thinker Thought celebrates a decade of sitting for Rodin and has Dripping Slits, Downers Of The World Unite, Tina Sparkle, Empty Orchestra, Werepire Day, Jared Grabb, and Bill Tucker And Friends out to celebrate.

– Steve Forstneger

A critic’s darling and commercial juggernaut. Classic and forward-thinking. A virgin and a whore. We crave these combinations; The Barr Brothers and Garland Jeffreys try to provide them.

It didn’t start this way, but nowadays if you’re going to include the word “brother” in your moniker you pretty much need to sound rootsy. The Barr Brothers — knowing that being rootsy is far preferable to the fates of non-”Brother” qualified brother acts like Oasis — have decided to toy with the notion of blood-on-blood harmony. Their self-titled, Secret City debut can hush, ramble, pick-n-grin, and load up on all sorts of elements like pump organ, dulcimer, and vibes. But it can also be a cantankerous sumunabich, one that finds the guitar solo on “Deacon’s Son” damned unsure if following the cloth means it can’t speak out every now and again. Not that they don’t know when to shut up when the time comes. (Wednesday@Schubas with Priory; Thursday@Apple Store on North Ave.)

Garland Jeffreys dovetails nicely into our theme with an album called The King Of In Between (Luna Park), which conveniently sports a cover shot of the intersections of some Martin Luther King Jr. and Malcolm X boulevards (the location is unspecified though does recur throughout the U.S.). The juxtapositions therein aren’t quite so dichotomous, which might partly be attributable to the veteran Jeffreys winding down over the years and blending his styles. There’s an unmistakable ode to Otis Redding in how his buckets of grit refine themselves into hopeful nuggets, but the duality of Jeffreys is how he takes things that are so old and puts their truths in front of you today. (Friday@FitzGerald’s with Nicholas Tremulis Orchestra.)

– Steve Forstneger

Not much overlap in the competition for your dollaz on the 14th. You’re either gonna focus all your energy on breaking something (Wu Lyf), dancing with somebody who loves you (Body Language), or geeking the eff out (Emperor X).

Only one of them is named in a way that makes a lick of sense, which is why we’ll start with Body Language. The Brooklynites finesse sexy, demure electro pop that takes Junior Boys out of the late-night chat rooms (are there still chat rooms?) and into that sultry club that only exists in music videos. Social Studies (Lavish Habits/Om) betrays the tendencies and dynamics of a rock band, but keeps those edges mostly covered in sleek synth lines and thumping, pillowy beats. Coed vocals have had some fans lustily comparing the quartet to a porno, but pornos don’t keep your attention for this long. (Monday@Lincoln Hall with Keep Shelly In Athens.)

We’re still not quite sure what the standard is on Wu Lyf — it’s typed frequently in all caps and the label is LYF records (standing for World Unite Lucifer Youth Foundation, but you don’t say double-u ewe ell why eff, do you? — but this much is clear: Wu-Tang is not part of the equation. In fact, the Mancunian upstarts recall more than a little about Glaswegian bands like Mogwai and Arab Strap, particularly how Go Tell Fire To The Mountain builds and releases with unsettling interludes, some born of post-rock and some a needed intermission to reassemble the drum kit and prop up the amps. The album’s a wild, cathartic listen whose sincerity will either grip you or leave you snickering in the beer line. The volume isolates you and forces a decision in that regard. The challenge then becomes a game of chicken: who will blink first? (Monday@Empty Bottle with Crystal Antlers.)

Emperor X, a.k.a. Chad Matheny, might pick up all those tapes he buried while on tour. The former high-school teacher has loosely grounded his music in noisy, impetuous indie rock a la Pavement and Sebadoh, and literally grounded other bits of his music as part of a scavenger hunt. Matheny supplies GPS coordinates to his fans, who can find sunken treasures and unlock b-sides and other content — activity days in his classrooms must have been mind-blowing. On his latest album and first for Bar None, Matheny manages to be psychedelic without sounding druggy, gets arcane without sounding pretentious, and rocks squarely while still truly rocking. Western Teleport might be one of the most straightforward items in his trail of artifacts, most of which will surely stymy archaeologists a thousand years from now. (Monday@Double Door with Jeffrey Lewis.)

– Steve Forstneger

Six years ago, Maria Taylor made a solo album. We’ll give you one guess which night the author of 11:11 plays Chicago. Also in town this weekend: John Scofield, Ron Pope, The Dirt Drifters, Nikki Lane, and Premonition13.

Ten years ago, Azure Ray became one of the first non-Omaha-based bands to gain membership on Conor Oberst’s Saddle Creek roster. Half of the duo, Maria Taylor, was a precocious 25-year-old crafting delicate, lovelorn dream-pop with her delightfully named partner, Orenda Fink. Five years later she made her solo debut and, after a one-off with Nettwerk Records, returned to Saddle Creek for this summer’s Overlook. If that seems like an abundance of history, that’s because the weight of experience guides the album. The tone is partially informed by frequent Southern and Americana accents, but Taylor’s vocal confidence is a string that ties its more urbane, sexual instincts to the rustic provincialism of her distant past. (Friday@Subterranean with Dead Fingers and The Grenadines.)

In the shadow of gold’s almost unsustainable price rise as a commodity, the dollar has made a good showing in late 2011 (thanks, Euro-zone crisis!) as has dirt. On the heels of The Dirt Daubers’ summer performance, The Dirt Drifters campaign their major-label debut in town. This Is My Blood (Warner Bros.) makes muscular, melodic minced meat of Nashville pop-rock twang. Heavily preoccupied with a working-class living, opening track “Something Better” laments the lifestyle but the band’s tour schedule — stopping in Effingham and Pontiac on their way through Chicago to Chattanooga — shows they’re ready to put in the hours. A bit heavy-handed in their approach, the Drifters leave clear lyrical opportunities — like the drinking problem lurking beneath “Always A Reason,” or the dead-end tribalism crowding “Sun Goes Down” — behind to paint in the lines. (Friday@Joe’s On Weed with Easton Corbin.)

Dance music’s unexpected revival in America has compelled thousands of Internet users to dismiss the style’s perpetrators as talentless, a dismissal that rock fans have waged against hip-hop since its inception. It’s also something classic rockers brandished against punk, hair-metal against grunge, etc., with a blind eye to rock’s treatment from jazz and folk aficionados in the ’50s and ’60s. The mantra obviously goes back a bit further, when jazz was denounced as lower-class perversion of the standard musical form, a grimy lurch born of bordellos and all manner of addicts. If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em, however, which is how we arrive at John Scofield’s gig this weekend. On his latest album, A Moment’s Peace (Decca), the veteran guitarist makes like Wes Montgomery to Larry Goldings’ Jimmy Smith, a low-key saunter through dark alleys. His usual lite-funk has been swapped for a candlelit lounge atmosphere, one perfect for his slowly congealing take on “I Loves You Porgy.” (Friday@Symphony Center with Ravi Coltrane.)

You expect someone with the last name Pope to have a certain conviction in his views, an unwavering belief that there’s indeed only one way to rock. For Ron Pope, that doesn’t mean an AC/DC-like adherence to power chords and a midtempo beat, but rather an unflinching sincerity that can turn the most lighthearted rocker into a personal statement. Whatever It Takes does exactly that to make sure you understand he means every note, lyric, pause, and bead of sweat — and, admittedly, Pope could use a little levity. He’s backed himself into a corner where he relax on so much as a beat, which is where his fans win. (Friday@Uncommon Ground on Devon; Saturday@Penny Road Pub.)

If you want to know what Nikki Lane looks like, we emphatically recommend you turn your SafeSearch settings to “Moderate” before you use Google images. Even when you do, however, it’ll take you a second to reconcile the granola hipster her in press photos with the nasally twang of her dustbowl Americana. Even her debut album’s title, Walk Of Shame (Iamsound), seems better suited for Lydia Loveless or Kesha than the narrator of “Hard Livin’,” who’s watching someone drink themselves into oblivion. Less sonorous than Neko Case but sticking to a lo-fi aesthetic, Shame steps off of dirt paths often enough to invoke elements of surf (the title track) and country gospel (“Save You”), and still varies her downhome approach from countrypolitan to the nod to “Lonesome, On’ry And Mean” of “I Can’t Be Satisfied.” (Friday and Saturday@Lincoln Hall with Noah & The Whale.)

Wino Weinrich probably doesn’t mean to trample on his own work, but news of St. Vitus‘ first new album since 1995 will surely take some of the steam out of his push behind Premonition13’s debut, 13 (Volcom). Of course, whether it’s The Obsessed, Vitus, Shrinebuilder, Spirit Caravan, or any of his myriad other projects, you know what you’re getting. One of the supposed beauties of stoner metal is if you can only give 70 or so percent, hey man, all right! But 13 breathes a respectable fire, with miles of solos wrapping around an endless supply of riffs. If Vitus can match this, we welcome them back. (Sunday@Cobra Lounge with Gates Of Slumber.)

– Steve Forstneger

Though our review of The Beach Boys’ The Smile Sessions (Capitol) won’t appear ’til December, since we’ve been listening to it so much we thought we’d use it to filter our previews of Pat Jordache, Joe Lally, and Skrillex.

In the shadow of the world’s greatest unfinished album, Pat Jordache sure don’t sound done neither. That’s part of Future Songs (Constellation) point, though. Jordache ambitiously aims to glean inspiration from his subconscious, which gives his kaleidoscopic lyrics a fuzzy lens. Musically, forms slip in and out with flippant regard for convention. His croon can waver from stony authority to lounge-act camp, while he taps his feet to whatever his iPod’s playing while he slumbers: TV On The Radio, Animal Collective, The Natural History, Orange Juice. Waiting pays off in lucid strikes like “Song For Arthur,” which you need to catch before slumber befalls him again. (Wednesday@Lincoln Hall with Tune-Yards.)

Brian Wilson wanted Smile to be distinctly American, something Joe Lally can appreciate. The former Fugazi bassist returns to the U.S. for a rare tour, and he still appreciates the basics of rock ‘n’ roll: voice, guitar, bass, drums. While his lifestyle doesn’t care for wasting gas on a destination-less automobile ride or leering at girls, Why Should I Get Used To It (Dischord) still has pent-up emotions waiting to jump out, ready to pounce in “Nothing To Lose” and explosive “Last Of The Civilized.” (Thursday@Schubas with I Kong Kult and Helen Money.)

Every time a politician refers to the U.S. and U.K.’s “special relationship,” you can practically hear the eyeballs rolling across the Atlantic. For as much as many Britons admire us, an outspoken segment does so only with the steepest of condescension. Consider Skrillex. The boy wonder of American dubstep gets ridiculed at every turn, some for his emo past and looks, but mostly for turning England’s first genuinely redeemable adaptation of hip-hop (via drumandbass) into a colossal blockbuster. Dubstep? No, that’s the aggressive, electronic mutant that sprang out of U.K. garage’s head. Skrillex’s rave-worthy, wobble-bass concoctions have earned the dumbed-down pejorative “bro-step.” Someone’s a little jealous that Burial and Pinch couldn’t fill an ice-cube tray on tour of the States. (Friday&Saturday@Congress on the MotherShip Tour.)

– Steve Forstneger

Reversals of fortune work fine in books and movies, but in music — where the protagonists and narrators tend to be one in same with their authors — they’re not always so appreciated. In town next week, Rachael Yamagata, AA Bondy, and Jesse Sykes & The Sweet Hereafter know. White Denim might yet learn.

Eight years ago, Rachael Yamagata had strayed from Bumpus and begun playing solo sets that led to her being one of the few artists to emerge from Mobfest with a record deal. A subsequent, weekly residency at Elbo Room built her growing legend, where she’d channel Carole King as if by torchlight. Her powerful, smoky voice portended her RCA debut to be an intensely intimate affair that would cut through the flashy garage-rock revival. But we should have known her debut EP and album, Happenstance, wouldn’t be cut in front of us, and soon she was whisked off to the Caribbean with producer John Alagia and emerged with something truer to her ’70s singer/songwriter influences than her own idiosyncrasies. An agonizing four-year gulf involving a label shift (to Warner Bros.) resulted in the dubious decision to release a double album (Elephants . . . Teeth Sinking Into Hearts) and she found herself an orphan on Alagia’s couch.

Chesapeake — a nod to the location of those cushions — shows that Yamagata and Alagia are pretty confident they can crack the VH1 quagmire, and in a year that’s seen Adele own the charts there could be something to that. Lyrically, she’s consumed with hesitation, indecision, desperation, dependency, and need, and the arrangements are there for her voice to rest, like a feather falling on a pillow in a detergent commercial. A darkness looms in “Starlight,” and “The Way It Seems To Go” tinkers with R&B and gospel flavors, but mostly they stick to what they know. The child of divorce, it’d be understandable if Yamagata just wants some stability. But the sky was the limit down in that Lincoln Ave. basement. (Tuesday@Logan Square Aud. with Mike Viola.)

In the late ’90s, Verbena had the attention of the right people (Dave Grohl, Kiefer Sutherland), but could never convince anyone else that their stylish, garage-rock looks were nothing more than a disguise for a Nirvana clone. Frontman Scott “AA” Bondy retreated to the Catskills to kickstart a solo career, and has since flourished by speaking in a native tongue. Reunited with producer Rob Schnapf, Believers (Fat Possum) can’t fully mask his rockist tendencies (“The Heart Is Willing” and “Skull & Bones” curiously recall early Clinic), and finds him stretching into an idiom like current My Morning Jacket or Phosphorescent. Bondy’s unforced vocals — granted, an easy choice given music this languid — uncover sleepless nights along the muggy Mississippi, and the knowledge that insomnia goes deeper than the weather. (Tuesday@Lincoln Hall with Gold Leaves.)

Don’t bother Jesse Sykes with any sympathetic, “where did it all go wrong” looks; it’s Phil Wandscher in her backing band, The Sweet Hereafter, who’s clawed his way back. The guitarist had the pleasure of dealing with Ryan Adams in Faithless Street-to-Strangers Almanac-era Whiskeytown, but has successfully scrubbed his alt-country skin clean. When he shares songwriting credits with Sykes on the band’s fifth album, Marble Son (Station Grey), the tracks carry a blues-enriched, psychedelic-rock feel that pins “Hushed By Devotion” and “Weight Of Cancer” to Grateful Dead influence with a baroque composure. By herself, Sykes shifts into a mystical-Americana, one that makes “Birds Of Passerine” sound like Mercury Rev outtakes from Deserter’s Songs. (Tuesday@Empty Bottle with Buffalo Killers.)

White Denim began as a record-what/when-we-want entity, primed to rock balls and take advantage of web distribution whenever possible. Today they’re not exactly a major-label drone — though they have complained about such a feeling — but anachronistically skew ever closer to ’70s prog than ever on the Takes Place In Your Work Space (Downtown) EP. While the full-length D, released earlier this year, still flashed their trademark ADD, Work Space feels more album-like than any of their albums. The four tracks smooth the edges without slowing the band down, leaving plenty of room to boogie and still leave you with enough breath to pull some tubes. (Monday@House Of Blues with PacTour: Manchester Orchestra and The Dear Hunter.)

– Steve Forstneger