Pelican

How many otherwise perfectly respectable metal acts have been rendered utterly useless by piss-poor vocals and dirt-dumb, by-the-numbers lyrics about angst, death or Norse mythology? There's nary a vapid vocal to be found on Chicago quartet Pelican's latest album, The Fire in Our Throats Will Beckon the Thaw. The band's sophomore outing is a lumbering, chugging, messy affair that melds the patient, crash-building flare of Godspeed You Black Emperor, the pensive noodling of Tortoise and the ass-kicking power-riffs of the Fucking Champs. The group's blistering anthems received a rabid reception at last month's indie-centric Intonation Festival, so expect a strange mix of folks at this show -- hardcore Napalm Death aficionados alongside curious hipsters sporting Belle and Sebastian T-shirts.