The opening tom hits and fuzzbox riffs that start Indigo Meadow give the indication that this is yet another turn on the Black Angels‘ merry-go-round of stoner rock and neo-psychedelia. However, the third song, “Don’t Play with Guns,” takes a decided turn with its big pop single hook, and the follow-ups “Holland” and “The Day” follow suit, as songs that are more carefully structured than the usual two-chord repetition that we’ve grown to expect. Not that there’s anything wrong with the sound of bands like Spacemen 3 and Black Rebel Motorcycle Club, but after several albums based on repetition, this is a pleasant, unexpected change for the Austinites. Part of the inspiration for change is probably due to the paring down of the band into a four-piece. Song changes are easier when there are less cooks in the kitchen, and Bland, Maas, and Hunt take more chances in their songwriting, alternating who plays bass, guitar, or organ, and even spreading out their duties to include odd instruments like flutes, bass Moog, harmonium, Manetron, and a tibetan singing bowl. These bright touches give the album more of a thickly produced ’60s feel than prior albums. Producer John Congleton adds just the right amount of engineering tricks like reverse tape delay to make songs like “I Hear Colors” and “Twisted Light” true to the Nuggets era. Meanwhile, as always, Stephanie Bailey holds down the show with her rock-steady but exciting style of drumming. The Angels are masters at sounding simultaneously cool as a block of ice and hot as hellfire, but the cunning pop melodies are the real key to this album’s success.

Although based in Seattle, Ivan & Alyosha create a sound that’s distinctly Californian, with acoustic instrumentation and bright vocal harmonies that evoke the West Coast’s summery, Southern locales. The band formed in 2007, when solo songwriter Tim Wilson met Ryan Carbary. Taking their name from Dostoevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov, the two began playing together, eventually traveling to Los Angeles to record a folk-pop EP with producer Eli Thompson. The Verse, The Chorus was released in early 2009, paving the way for a healthy tour and a decent amount of national buzz, including a nod from NPR’s “All Songs Considered.” Things picked up again in early 2011, when the band — now a four-piece featuring Wilson’s brother, Pete Wilson, as well as Tim Kin — released the sophomore EP Fathers Be Kind and launched another tour. An impressive full-length album, All the Times We Had, appeared from Dualtone Records early in 2013.

Upon leaving the Smiths in 1987, Johnny Marr embarked on a musical walkabout, choosing to collaborate rather than build a career. He began playing studio sessions, appearing on records by Talking Heads, Pretenders, Kirsty MacColl, Pet Shop Boys, and Billy Bragg, embarked on an extended collaboration with Matt Johnson of The The, and formed Electronic with Bernard Sumner, effectively sitting out the great Brit-pop explosion of the ’90s. By the turn of the millennium, he finally tried his hand at fronting a band, turning in the underwhelming Boomslang with the Healers in 2003, before once again sliding into a supporting role, joining Modest Mouse in 2006 and then decamping for the Cribs a few years later. Marr‘s time in two bands kick-started something within him, as after he departed the Cribs in 2011, he relocated to his hometown of Manchester and set about recording The Messenger, his first full-fledged solo album. The Messenger is an unapologetic return to his roots, sounding for all the world as if it could have been released in 1990, just a few years after Strangeways, Here We Come, which isn’t to say it’s a collection of demos awaiting finished vocals by Morrissey. Marr has long demonstrated an affection for electronics and dance rhythms, evolutions Moz considers as anathema, so it’s hard to picture the album’s title track, pulsating along to a slick disco beat, or the angular, echoing syncopation of “Word Starts Attack” coming out under the Smiths rubric. Nevertheless, considerable portions of The Messenger are filled with riffs and guitar textures Marr could conceivably have used during the band’s brief life, and the effect isn’t a desperate attempt at recapturing the past but rather an embrace of his core strengths as both a guitarist and songwriter. The latter is as crucial as the former, perhaps more so, as Marr‘s painterly skills as a guitarist have never been in question while his steadfast avoidance of releasing new songs under his name has obscured how he was the sonic architect of the Smiths. One quick listen to The Messenger brings all his signatures rushing back — the intricate, intertwining arrangements, the insistent riffs finding a counterpoint in the elastic yet precise melodies, a romance with the past that doesn’t negate the present. Marr has avoided these traits, so hearing each in full bloom on The Messenger is rather thrilling; he’s no longer wandering, he’s found his way back home

Local Natives‘ sophomore effort, 2013′s Hummingbird, is a more atmospheric and introspective collection of songs in contrast to the band’s effusive 2009 breakthrough debut Gorilla Manor. Perhaps it has something to do with the parting of bassist Andy Hamm, who left the band in 2011. More likely, it is the influence of producer and the National guitarist Aaron Dessner, who also co-wrote some of the songs on Hummingbird. Whatever the reason, gone is the tribal, post-punk influence of their first album’s popular songs like “Sun Hands” and “Camera Talk,” replaced here by the lyrical, dreamy, and long-form majesty of cuts like the piano-driven “Breakers,” and the sparkling, late-afternooon melancholy of “Ceilings.” Which isn’t to say the band sounds completely different, or that these songs are any less infectious. On the contrary, Local Natives still showcase a knack for frenetic, percussive segments and layered vocal harmonies that feature lead singer Taylor Rice‘s evocative croon. There is just a hint of a break-up or unrequited love threaded through the lyrics on Hummingbird that rubs against some of the sweeter melodies here and gives the album a shadowy vibe. On “Ceilings,” Rice opines, “Hold the Summer in your hands, ’till the Summer turns to sand. We were staring at our ceilings thinking of what we’d give to have one more day of sun.” Similarly, tracks like the yearning “Black Balloons” and the angular “Wooly Mammoth” are ruminative, poignant, and moody epics that, while more progressive in feel, still bring to mind Gorilla Manor standouts like “Wide Eyes.” Elsewhere, songs like “Breakers,” and “Mt. Washington” seem to take aesthetic cues from such varied sources as the Beach Boys and Echo and the Bunnymen, proving that the band has no shortage of inspirational material to draw on, hopefully for many albums to come.

At album number 13, Yo La Tengo are an institution unto themselves, having perfected their craft of slow-burning, unassumingly insular indie rock in incremental baby steps since their formation in 1984. Almost three decades of building a language of wistfully melodic guitar rock without becoming redundant is no small feat, and Fade rises to the unique challenge by striking a middle ground between new territory and recalling YLT‘s finest hours. Fade is the first album for the band not recorded with producer Roger Moutenot, who had worked with the group on everything they put to tape since their 1993 breakthrough, Painful. The ten songs here were recorded instead with Chicago scene veteran John McEntire (Tortoise, Sea and Cake, Gastr del Sol, etc.) at his Soma studios, and while his influence on the album isn’t overwhelming, there are touches of his affinity for orchestration, such as the gleaming strings and horn arrangements on album closer “Before We Run” and the distant trombone on “Cornelia and Jane.” Mostly, regardless of production, Fade comes across as almost self-referential before it recalls other reference points, coming closest to the sound and overall feel of their 1997 masterpiece, I Can Hear the Heart Beating as One. The whispery vocals and bed of guitar textures on “Stupid Things” and the extended percussive jamming of “Ohm” definitely seem informed by territory the band was exploring around that era, though the album on a whole lacks any of the spiky rockers that broke up the lush softness on ICHTHBAO. The gentle and romantic wash of sounds that characterizes much of Fade is more in keeping with the band’s chilled-out 2003 album Summer Sun, with graceful exploration of different sounds all reined in before they spin into distortion or clamor. Even the slinky groove and weird wah-wah tones of “Well You Better” are subdued, offering a relatively mellow peak in energy. The album’s lazy, sunshiny demeanor borders on sleepy at times, but those listening closely will pick up on the subtle shifts in instrumentation and colorful production shifts that the band has grown to excel at over the years. The fingerpicked acoustic guitar and harmonium drones of “I’ll Be Around” fade into the spaced-out drum machine pulse of “Two Trains” without spectacle, and the entire album blends in a similar, pleasant way. This fluidity and cohesion is what drives the songs on Fade to stand stronger as a unified mood, and one that grows more satisfying with repeat listens. By this point, Yo La Tengo have developed not just a style, but a voice of their own so distinct that the deeper the details go determines how strong the album can be. Fade is rich with details and grows richer the closer one looks.

Although he’s a bit young to already have a definitive collection, it would seem, West Coast singer and songwriter Brett Dennen has already proved himself to be a songwriter and performer to reckon with, and from his self-released, self-titled debut in 2004, through three albums with Dualtone Records, 2006′s So Much More, 2008′s Hope for the Hopeless, and 2011′s Loverboy, he’s explored themes of love, death, and pain with a high-pitched, frail vocal style that somehow turns fragility into a sunny, mellow vibe that exudes hope even as he tackles some pretty heavy subjects. Add in his frequent use of subtle African-like pop rhythms and one gets an artist who sounds like Neil Young or Nick Drake fronting the Dave Matthews Band, or maybe Jimmy Scott working with a smooth jazz jam band. This set collects key tracks from all of his albums, with three new songs added in, making it the perfect introduction to this odd, fascinating, and definitely singular talent.

Arcade Fire are back with “The Suburbs” on Merge Records. This is a huge album for this band. With only two previous releases under its belt the band has built an enormous following based on their albums and live shows. This album seems a little subdued upon first listen. But, the more you listen the more you hear both musically and lyrically. They seem pretty happy in their skin and it shows. I have not been the biggest fan of this band. They just didn’t draw me in. I will say this one has sparked my interest and I assume super fans will drink it up with no problem. They just sold out two nights at Madison Square Garden so I expect we will be hearing more and more from this Canadian band on a mission. -Tony@Thinkindie

• Album $9.99 • Wishlis

An album review by Calev Ben Zion

“There’s no going back to the place we started from” (“All Secrets Known”). The inevitability of time stopped perplexing long ago. Now we focus on the toll. “Tears that filled my bong…Years expended gone” (“Check My Brain”). Where once we spent time, we look back in judgment, call it wasting time. Where we once might have been confused, we now recognize ambivalence when we see it. And where we once might have been full of righteousness and confidence, we acknowledge the collusion of foolishness. Everything that happens is change. Nothing remains the same.

When Layne Staley self-destructed into an ignominious and unsurprising death, the remaining members of Alice in Chains and their fans were finally, completely devastated. Jerry Cantrell put out a notable solo effort dedicated to the former lead singer, but with the advent of Staind, Godsmack, and others, as well as the general demise of “grunge” as a musical moment, there seemed no way back for AIC from the black-hole pull of the loss. Yeah, right.
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