Unlike so many Americana bands, Ha Ha Tonka actually hails from the Midwest — Springfield, MO, to be exact, which sits just a hair south of this country’s dead-center heartland. The band’s roots are exemplified well on sophomore album Novel Sounds Of The Nouveau South, which alternates between sounding like early-career Kings Of Leon and similar heartland indie rock groups like These United States. But Ha Ha Tonka easily transcends those surface associations for several reasons: Novel Sounds rocks harder than the band’s debut album, Buckle In The Bible Belt; drummer Lennon Bone drops his eclectic yet stomping signature all over tracks like “Hold My Feet To The Fire” and “The Horse In Motion”; and the entire ordeal is based on 1907 Ozark Mountain novel The Shepherd Of The Hills, written by Harold Bell Wright.

That dark source of material is clearly spelled out on haunting folk number “What Shepherds Of These Hills,” before rollicking barnburner “The Horse In Motion” gallops Ha Ha Tonka away from any easy pigeonholes. Yes, “Walking On The Devil’s Backbone,” “Pendergast Machine,” and “So Quiet, They’re Loud” do sound exactly like Kings Of Leon, but as the second half of Novel Sounds Of The Nouveau South kicks in with tracks like “Close Every Valve Of Your Bleeding Heart” and the uplifting “Word Climbing,” the band takes on its own undeniable identity. Joyous piano adds a deft touch to “Giant Strides,” while “Surrounded” echoes the reverb-heavy sound of My Morning Jacket, yet for all the obvious touchstones, Ha Ha Tonka continues on their path towards singular creativity. A little tweak of the vocals here and a few more diverse instruments there, and they could be one of the best roots rock bands in the country. By Nick McGregor

Dirty Projectors often get lumped in with other experimental lo-fi bands, but in truth this collective, fronted by honey-voiced Yale graduate David Longstreth, simply deconstructs straightforward rock to rebuild an off-kilter yet immensely listenable niche of indie music all its own. Dirty Projectors’ seventh album, Bitte Orca, is easily the most accessible of the band’s career, kicking off with jangly guitars, Longstreth’s sweet croon, and chirpy backing yelps by female band members Amber Coffman and Angel Deradoorian. Handclaps and sparse snare taps anchor "Cannibal Resource," while also providing the bare-bones foundation that allows Longstreth’s songwriting chops to shine (he composes nearly all of the band’s music).

“Temecula Sunrise” is even more beautiful, with fingerpicked guitar and stuttering time signatures building on a wistful sense of nostalgia to produce one of 2009’s quirkiest hits. “The Bride” melds pastoral folk with soaring melodies, before lead single “Stillness Is The Move” flips any sort of Dirty Projectors script with glitchy R&B beats and Mariah Carey-worthy flights of soprano fancy. Fans of countercultural chanteuse Nico will appreciate “These Days” sound-alike “Two Doves,” while “Useful Chamber” relies on buzzing noise, Dirty Projectors’ ever-present tender guitar, and old-school boombox beats to reach its dizzying climax. The album’s last three tracks — “No Intention,” The Beach Boys-like “Remade Horizon,” and “Fluorescent Half Dome” — are equally deserving of an in-depth probe, but suffice it to say that nearly every minute of Bitte Orca is worth repeated listens. Craft-wise, Dirty Projectors might just be the tightest indie rock band around. By Nick McGregor

Willie Isz is something of an enigma. Comprised of Goodie Mob co-founder Khujo and genre-bending producer Jneiro Jarel, the duo’s debut album Georgiavania is a psychedelic mish-mash of Southern crunk, Bay Area hyphy, drugged-up soul-rock, and something altogether unreal — hence the album’s title, a combination of Khujo and Jarel’s home states. Most admirably, the record was entirely composed using live instruments, without resorting to contemporary hip-hop’s only universal crutch: sampling.

But what can’t be easily explained will catapult right out of your speakers on the cosmic Hendrix-meets-Outkast opener “Blast Off,” or the tongue-twisting, piano-laden title track. “Loner’s” murky synth beats cloak an underlying sense of intense paranoia, while “Gawn Jet” wraps Khujo’s dense wordplay in a steely electro cage. TV On The Radio lead singer Tunde Adebimpe lends backing vocals to the menacing “I Didn’t Mean To...”, before Willie Isz adds newly ironic meaning to the word “swagger” on the poppy “U Want Some?” But “The Grussle” is where the duo really spreads its wings, marrying an Appalachian fiddle loop to Khujo’s Southern-fried hustle. Let the Gnarls Barkley comparisons fly, as fellow Goodie Mob co-founder Cee-Lo’s mildly experimental outfit is the only thing even comparable to Willie Isz. Yet for all the genre’s stagnation, Georgiavania has pushed hip-hop in directions not yet witnessed. In that sense, it’s hard to measure the album’s success — but an appealing listen is an appealing listen, no matter the precedent (or lack thereof). By Nick McGregor

Revivalism often resembles nothing more than old hat, but when bands execute 21st-century blends of reggae, ska, punk, and soul as well as Los Angeles-based The Aggrolites, the results can sound downright revelatory. Making up for their lack of a horn section with roiling organ-driven grooviness, The Aggrolites return with their fourth album, conspicuously titled IV, of spot-on Jamaican gumbo on longtime compatriot and Rancid frontman Tim Armstrong’s offshoot record label Hellcat.

IV kicks off with a War-like funk-heavy opener “Firecracker,” before launching into late-night ‘70s punky reggae party territory on “Wild Time.” The Aggrolites’ self-described “dirty reggae” sound is epitomized by the skuzzy “It’s Time To Go,” which also spotlights lead singer Jesse Wagner’s soul-drenched vocals, while newfound land is covered on ballads “By Her Side,” “Ever Want To Try,” and “Tear That Falls.” New Orleans-inspired piano spices up the group-sung “Brother Jacob,” while “Reggae Summertime” finds Wagner sounding eerily like Rastafarian prophet Peter Tosh — not bad for a white SoCal guy. Although IV clocks in at a whopping 72 minutes and 21 songs, the album’s scratchy splendor just begs to be blasted at your next summertime get-together. By Nick McGregor