FRIDAY
Songwriters, at Chicago Theatre, 175 N. State St. Sold out. 312-462-6300. John Hiatt, Joe Ely, Lyle Lovett and Guy Clark–artists whose craftsman reputations outstrip their commercial successes and who don’t have much new to promote–will have a blast selecting which of their umpteen roots, country-rock and blues narratives to perform at this co-headlining gig. Group collaboration seems inevitable, as three of the four combine forces on Los Super Seven’s forthcoming “Heard It On the X” (Telarc). (Safe Bet)
SATURDAY
Tres Chicas, at Schubas, 3159 N. Southport Ave. $10. 773-525-2508. Born out of a common love for aching country music, Tres Chicas qualifies as an indie supergroup on name recognition alone. Caitlin Cary was a member of Whiskeytown, Tonya Lamm founded the Southwestern combo Hazeldine and Lynn Blakey sang backup for Alejandro Escovedo. Diving headfirst into sin and salvation, the trio applies criss-crossing vocal harmonies, burnished acoustics and horse-trot tempos to originals and covers on its easy-on-the-ears “Sweetwater” (Yep Roc). Here, Sara Bell will substitute for Lamm, but shouldn’t detract from the sisterhood’s chemistry. (Safe Bet)
James McMurtry, at Martyrs, 3855 N. Lincoln Ave. $15. 773-404-9494. Before they became generic stopgaps, live albums were serious releases that could make or break an artist. James McMurtry’s “Live In Aught-Three” (Compadre) is that kind of record, full of the verve, vigor and electricity that McMurtry’s listless studio output lacks. It’s enough to make one yearn to witness first-hand the singer’s squawking Texas tangos and badlands-oriented storytelling. (Safe Bet)
SUNDAY
Suffocation, at House of Blues, 329 N. Dearborn St. $17.50. 312-923-2000. The surplus of repugnantly named bands playing unwaveringly hard, friction-based noise has turned most death-metal into a laughable cliche. Suffocation had previously erased the trite formula by introducing intricate textures, shape-shifting percussion, alternate timings and somewhat-intelligible growled-from-the-bowels vocals. But that was in the early ’90s, long before the New York quintet took an extended hiatus. The underground legends recently returned with their first full-length album in nine years, “Souls to Deny” (Relapse), a whirling dervish that will have moshers lining up for prime spots on the venue’s floor. (Safe Bet)
MONDAY
WGCI Big Slow Jam 2, at Allstate Arena, 6920 N. Mannheim Rd., Rosemont. $20-$75. 847-635-6601. No matter the sponsor, radio-station package shows tend to accentuate dead time and shameless promotion over actual performances. Expect the same at this Valentine’s-themed R&B bash where Avant, Teena Marie and New Edition will be hard-pressed to foster any sense of intimacy inside Allstate’s cinder block confines. (Think Twice)
TUESDAY
Ray LaMontagne, at Double Door, 1572 N. Milwaukee Ave. Sold out. 773-489-3160. If not for the catastrophic streaks lurking on his debut “Trouble” (RCA), Ray LaMontagne would just be another forgettable, sensitive singer-songwriter. Akin to Ryan Adams without the attitudinal baggage, LaMontagne needs to learn to temper the bitter with the sweet. (Think Twice)
WEDNESDAY
Sage Francis, at Metro, 3730 N. Clark St. $18. 773-549-0203. When he isn’t freestyling or quick-draw rapping, Sage Francis must spend his off-days at poetry slams and dreaming up academic metaphors. While his new “A Healthy Distrust” (Epitaph) is schooled in the rhetoric of agitation and control, what makes Francis deadly is his all-American background. Raised as part of a conventional Rhode Island family, the journalism grad is emblematic of an increasingly disillusioned generation. Francis doesn’t pretend to have all the answers, but hearing him grapple with contemporary issues is more provocative than any politician’s speechwriter-penned discourse. (Don’t Miss It)
THURSDAY
William Elliott Whitmore, at Empty Bottle, 1035 N. Western Ave. $8. 773-276-3600. William Elliott Whitmore originates from southeastern Iowa, a patch most experience from the expressway or see depicted in films. This is a release party for the musician’s “Ashes To Dust” (Southern), which takes musical travelers past the region’s picturesque cornfields and onto its dirt back roads. With a sour-mash voice as weather-beaten as an old wooden barn and a banjo that scrapes like a gravedigging spade, Whitmore surveys the lay of America’s heartland and its duplicitous tides–the growing-season-killing droughts and floods, the tavern’s Saturday-night beckoning call and the preacher’s Sunday-morning services. (Don’t Miss It)
