Your pre- and post-turkey billet includes a former Chicago Cubs general manager — not to mention City And Colour, Tinariwen, a Henhouse Prowlers benefit, Atlas Moth, Yukon Blonde, Corey Taylor, and Waters.

Dallas Green joined the Cubs’ front office after guiding the Phillies to . . . ooops, wrong Dallas Green. You can see why the former Alexisonfire frontman elected against his birth name when crafting a solo project, even if that meant the Anglified spelling of COLOR instead. Green’s success as City And Colour has unquestionably surpassed any gains made when he was a pop-punk, much of which can be attributed to retaining the sincerity but discarding the bald interchangeability of bands. Little Hell (Dine Alone/Vagrant), released this past summer, fit its release schedule like a glove while invoking the grey area between summer dusk and dawn. (Wednesday@Vic Theatre with Hacienda.)

Though woozy, classic-rock inspired psychedelia underpins the black-metal flavors on The Atlas Moth’s staggering An Ache For The Distance (Profound Lore), a meager pair of the tracks supply a key route into the band’s otherwise clearly rooted sound. “Courage” and “Gemini” feel like leftovers from Thurston Moore solo albums, or at least lucid ruminations in the running for Alice In Chains b-sides. That’s not to detract from AM’s bulldozing, swirling epics — and those guitar harmonies do reach for rafters far and wide — but it’s always nice to have some uncertainty obstructing the view. (Wednesday@Subterranean with Yakuza, Batillus, and The Swan King.)

North-African Tinariwen have long been the sort of guitar band you wish lifer rockists would listen to and come away from with a slightly less obsessive take than Marty Friedman did when he fell in love with Japan. They also have a lyrical depth that casts sci-fi prog fantasies in a childish light, and on Tassili (Anti) lament the separations they’ve come to feel from their nomadic origins. What keeps Tinariwen from becoming a joyless black hole are not just that members of TV On The Radio make cameos, but the in-born joy the band can’t suppress when performing. (Friday@Metro with Sophie Hunger.)

Here’s why so many bands don’t stick their necks out: it’s not the executioner’s blade, but the avalanche they fear. The opening track on Yukon Blonde’s Fire/Water EP hints not only at so much Coldplay but modern Coldplay it’s jarring. What the? followed by a quick recoil as if picking up something unexpectedly wet. They eventually retreat into the upfront vocal harmonies that have led to My Morning Jacket and Blitzen Trapper allusions, though that willingness to get a little crazy (and stupid) has created some space for the next outing. (Friday@Ultra Lounge with The Fling and Secret Science.)

Henhouse Prowlers will benefit the Greater Chicago Food Depository through the “Bluegrass Pitch-In.” Verses, Chapters, Rhymes may have been collected in a Colorado setting far from the gritty reality of urban homelessness, though the band’s timeless music certainly knows indigence is universal. (Friday@Mayne Stage with Chicago Farmer.)

A solo, “Storytellers”-type program might or might not be what Slipknot fans are looking for in an intimate encounter with frontman Corey Taylor. Stone Sour fans, maybe. The timing couldn’t be more beneficial to tout Roadrunner’s reissue of Iowa, which, separated from the comical mess that was early nu-metal, acquits itself well. The 15-minute title track might ape Tool to within an inch of their life, but its relentlessness and prominence in the tracklisting — a bold number two — showed that the band were willing to make you work just as hard as they would for you. (The re-release includes the Disasterpiece DVD and audio.) (Saturday@Double Door.)

Having raised his anchor and sailed from Port O’Brien, Van Pierszalowski made it incumbent to justify his direction and Waters‘ Out In The Light (TBD) mostly does. While he’ll never be mistaken for Will.I.Am or Bon Jovi, Light bears a melodic insistence that buries the “now you hear a melody, now you don’t” coy gamesmanship of his old outfit. Waters still has its hangups — like the all-caps typography and static cuts like “Mickey Mantle” and “San Francisco” — but clearly he’s inspired. (Tuesday and Wednesday@Lincoln Hall with Clap Your Hands Say Yeah.)

– Steve Forstneger

Tinariwen are exactly the sort of guitar band who you feel could break Joe America’s skittishness toward “world” music, yet stand in their own way. The title of their fourth album translates to “companions,” which suggests an unfortunate, one-world Benetton pretense. If people only stayed to find out what’s meant by “one world.”

Heck, mentioning that Robert Plant and Bono are big fans is as much of a diss as a boon, just something for those fans to abide while begging for “Where The Streets Have No Name” a gazillionth time. But Tinariwen are slowly beginning to make headway — thanks somewhat to the rise of West African guitar playing in modern rock — by being insularly aggressive and sounding completely original. Granted, their desert rock (the members are former nomads; Tinariwen is the Tuareg/Tamashek word for “the deserts”) bears the hallmarks of Muslim chant though the dirty tones of their amplifiers picks up every gritty snap and pop, with elliptical, otherworldly licks enveloping your ears like a suffocating sandstorm.

And that’s not all.

Formed in the late ’70s, Tinariwen never set out to achieve fame but consolidate scattered, nomadic folk songs and incorporate their politics. Tribalism is still very real in West Saharan Africa, and Tinariwen’s people aren’t high on the list of priorities for those who govern Mali, Algeria, and Libya. So there’s an agitated resistance underlying Imidiwan, which begins by asking if the end of oppression and the onset of revolution are near. “Where there is a coward, find him among the men/With your eyes, let him know how little you respect him,” commands “Tenhert,” while “Tamodjerazt Assis” reads like something a Taureg Ian MacKaye would have penned for a bizarro Minor Threat. “Tahult In” is performed like an Arab Strap song, without any allusions to drunken, Glasgow weekends, and “Tenalle Chegret” gets to the heart without embellishment: “I’m ready to die, my rifle and I.”

– Steve Forstneger

Tinariwen are exactly the sort of guitar band who you feel could break Joe America’s skittishness toward “world” music, yet stand in their own way. The title of their fourth album translates to “companions,” which suggests an unfortunate, one-world Benetton pretense. If people only stayed to find out what’s meant by “one world.”

Heck, mentioning that Robert Plant and Bono are big fans is as much of a diss as a boon, just something for those fans to abide while begging for “Where The Streets Have No Name” a gazillionth time. But Tinariwen are slowly beginning to make headway — thanks somewhat to the rise of West African guitar playing in modern rock — by being insularly aggressive and sounding completely original. Granted, their desert rock (the members are former nomads; Tinariwen is the Tuareg/Tamashek word for “the deserts”) bears the hallmarks of Muslim chant though the dirty tones of their amplifiers picks up every gritty snap and pop, with elliptical, otherworldly licks enveloping your ears like a suffocating sandstorm.

And that’s not all.

Formed in the late ’70s, Tinariwen never set out to achieve fame but consolidate scattered, nomadic folk songs and incorporate their politics. Tribalism is still very real in West Saharan Africa, and Tinariwen’s people aren’t high on the list of priorities for those who govern Mali, Algeria, and Libya. So there’s an agitated resistance underlying Imidiwan, which begins by asking if the end of oppression and the onset of revolution are near. “Where there is a coward, find him among the men/With your eyes, let him know how little you respect him,” commands “Tenhert,” while “Tamodjerazt Assis” reads like something a Taureg Ian MacKaye would have penned for a bizarro Minor Threat. “Tahult In” is performed like an Arab Strap song, without any allusions to drunken, Glasgow weekends, and “Tenalle Chegret” gets to the heart without embellishment: “I’m ready to die, my rifle and I.”

– Steve Forstneger