ENGLAND IN 1819 Named after the sonnet by romantic poet Percy Bysshe Shelley, England in 1918 is the collaborative project of brothers Andrew and Dan Callaway and their father Liam. The latter honed his musical talents in the burgeoning Athens, Ga. New Wave scene of the late ’70s, and his father, William Callaway, toured the South as a musician during the post-WWII era. So, yeah, a deep musical gene pool, those Callaways — but, back to the present generation. The brothers Callaway grew up in the English countryside, playing in weekend rock bands with their old man, who taught overseas Air Force bands, and that experience clearly tagged along with them back to the U.S. Now based in Baton Rouge, La., the Callaway’s first full length was a home-spun effort whose music and title — Three Cheers for Bertie — betrayed their UK-philia. The new one, Alma, is a step forward sonically, a blend of proggy drama and twee introspection often unfurling in surges of orchestral crescendos. But too often, the mood tilts overdramatic, with Andrew’s Chris Martin-esque vocals and a reliance on atmosphere over hooks and melody as the main culprits. You wind up wishing the Callaways really would sound like England circa 1819, instead of Coldplay in 2005 and Genesis in 1976. With Ocean vs. Daughter, Meet the Sky and Charlotte Parrott. $6-$9. 9 p.m. Milestone.

AVA LUNA On a wave of angular R&B, fidgety percussion and cooing but slip-sliding harmonies come nervous soulsters Ava Luna, poster kids for “ADD is the new normal.” If you don’t like the way an Ava Luna song is going, just sit tight, because that shit is gonna change — and fast. The N.Y.C. quintet defies hookiness, pushing frontman Carlos Hernandez’s Prince-like falsetto to the front of dense, genre-bending compositions that owe as much to the late ’70s No Wave mutant disco of James White, Lizzy Mercier Descloux and Material as the pop smarts of Destiny’s Child. Ava Luna loves to twist and turn, but they avoid the whiplash jerkiness of neo-prog avant-gardists like Deerhoof by bracketing song segments with inventively arranged female harmonies that are as soothing as old-school soul and as willfully weird as anything by Dirty Projectors. At times, this sounds like a great big steaming pile of art, a glorious mess with nothing to hang onto. But give it a moment and it all starts to click. The sound you hear is your synapses popping. With Bo White. $5. 9 p.m. Snug Harbor.

LUCIANO Righteous, revered and insanely prolific, roots superstar Luciano has released more than 40 LPs in less than 20 years while miraculously escaping overexposure. Maybe miracles come naturally to a man nicknamed “The Messenger.” Tipped to receive the outsized mantle of Bob Marley, Luciano sounds little like the reggae legend, charting his own course through dancehall, roots and soul. A prime mover of the mid-’90s Rasta renaissance, Luciano spurned the glorification of sex, drugs and slackness which then dominated dancehall. Instead, he used his rich and soothing baritone as an instrument of Jah’s will. Today, Luciano continues to sing of spiritual salvation, personal growth and political activism over R&B-infused old school rhythms that recall the glory days of Jamaica’s Studio One. Eschewing the self-righteousness (and gay bashing) of contemporaries like Sizzla, Luciano has shown increasing interest in social justice and a return to Africa. Despite his ongoing evolution, The Messenger stays on message — an epistle about humanity, dignity and spirit. $29.50-$45. 11 p.m. Neighborhood Theatre.

CROWFIELD Shiny and radio-ready, Crowfield’s recent sophomore album, The Diamond Sessions, finds the group moving from its roots-rock debut toward a more contemporary sound. Founded in 2007, the five-piece has been gaining momentum over the last few years in their hometown of Charleston, S.C., and on the road. And it seems that momentum is just what this band was looking for. Shooting squarely for the middle of the road, Crowfield makes the kind of “epic” radio rock mastered by bands like Coldplay, but with a country flair. Lead singer Tyler Mechum pens the grandiose balladry and earnest rock-outs that make up high schoolers’ playlists everywhere, and he pulls it off without making the listener feel pandered to. With lyrics like “And if you have a change of heart, I left the keys running in the car,” it’s clear Mechum studied the playbooks of successful country/alt-rock artists. High art this is not, but there’s something to be said for Crowfield’s brand of heart-on-your-sleeve accessibility. After all, they can’t all be Radiohead. Opening for Will Hoge. $13-$16. 8 p.m. Visulite Theatre.

ALLMAN BROTHERS BAND/LYNYRD SKYNYRD The Allman Brothers Band and Lynyrd Skynyrd share a bluesy twin guitar attack that once dominated the rock landscape, and a mythic past defined by sudden death. If the Allmans were jazzier, swinging with an authority beyond British blues contemporaries like Jeff Beck, Skynyrd simply didn’t give a fuck, relying on a rockin’ Dixie swagger. But while the Allmans contain a core of their original membership — percussionists Butch Trucks and Jaimoe Johanson and singer Gregg Allman — the Skynyrd crew only has axeman Gary Rossington. The reconstituted quality is crippling to Skynyrd, because the instrumental dynamic is virtually gone, and singer Johnny Van Zant could never measure up to his late brother Ronnie. Lacking the founding frontman’s heart and lurking sense of self-doubt, the younger Van Zant skirts the Tea Party cartoonishness of Ted Nugent. Membership attrition proves less damaging to the still inventive Allmans. But while they’ve avoided becoming a tribute band, the Allmans are still shades of their former selves. Nowadays they hold the fort like the current Rolling Stones: quality musicians carrying on a rich legacy — but lacking the danger and fire of yore. $50-$145. 7 p.m. Verizon Wireless Amphitheatre.

STATIC-X Long-running industrial headbangers Static-X, led by growling frontman Wayne Static, spews out plenty of chainsaw guitars and pounding percussion, which ought to keep the fists pumping. This is decent stuff if you dig a combination of pissed-off nu metal and industrial sound effects, with bits of ambient moodiness sprinkled into the mix. There are moments of brilliance, with tracks like “Trance is the Motion,” but dry repetition and guttural thrash are the lingua franca here. Static had been focused on his solo work since 2009, but he decided to return to the road under the Static-X monicker earlier this year. He’s the only original member on the current tour, which highlights material from the L.A. band’s first two albums. Also on the bill: Davey Suicide and 9Electric. $22. 6:30 p.m. The Fillmore.