ASTRONAUTALIS
It’s easy to compare Minneapolis’ Astronautalis to Beck — after all, our favorite “Loser” was just a PR decision away from hip-hop radio rather than alt-rock. Yet the conversation only starts there: this is no Dust Brothers project. Astronautalis’ production mixes Kid A-style sterile synth lines with G-Side-style shoeblaze and mid-’00s college radio structures. And some tracks even lean toward a marriage of sensitive indie and hip-hop, reminiscent of Danger Mouse/Shins collab Broken Bells — yet far less weepy, far more engaging, and featuring asymmetrical production and electronica-style drum fills. Yet Astronautalis’ fascinating hybrid style is only the tip of the iceberg, with his label, Fake Four, inc, positively overflowing with essential evolutions in indie rock-leaning hip-hop. With Flobots, and Southside Punx. $13-$15. Oct. 15, 8 p.m. Tremont Music Hall, 400 W. Tremont Ave. 704-343-9494.

JOHN HIATT
John Hiatt, a songwriting virtuoso in the vein of Randy Newman or Warren Zevon, has been behind such classics as “Have a Little Faith in Me.” With more than 20 studio albums to his name, you’d expect him to have run out of ideas by now. But his latest album of rootsy rock, country and blues, Mystic Pinball, is full of the edgy, unhurried thrill of a master in the fourth decade of his career, totally in control of his craft. Where recent releases like his 2010 release The Open Road explored loss and loneliness, Mystic Pinball finds Hiatt in high spirits. His confidence is palpable and winning, making Hiatt a pleasure whether you’re an old fan or a new convert. $32. Oct. 14, 8 p.m. Neighborhood Theatre, 511 E. 36th St. 704-358-9298.

SPOTTISWOODE & HIS ENEMIES
Cross the mordant wit of Kevin Ayers with the neurotic music hall of Preservation-era Kinks, and it still wouldn’t be as divinely and organically weird as Jonathan Spottiswoode & His Enemies. Singing in a gravelly baritone pitched midway between Leonard Cohen and the Psychedelic Furs’ Richard Butler, Spottiswoode careens from cabaret rock and jazz-on-crack to askew but heartfelt ballads. His inspired and professional Enemies follow his every move, delivering everything from the dark carnival Nick Cave-style theatrics of “That’s What I Like” to the soaring, anthemic pop of “Beautiful Monday.” Even Spottiswoode’s sunniest songs eddy with whorls of darkness, but the wordplay is witty and the sarcasm is tempered with sincerity. Like fellow British eccentrics Robyn Hitchcock and The Jazz Butcher’s Pat Fish, Spottiswoode seems to mean every word he sings. The combination of emotional honesty and off-kilter vision that blocks Spottiswoode’s access to the mainstream also makes him catnip for cult aficionados. Laced with an air of goofy menace, this astringent cocktail is melodic, inventive, funny, scary and utterly brilliant. $12-$15. Oct. 13, 10:30 p.m. The Evening Muse, 3227 N. Davidson St. 704-376-3737.

DOC MARTIN
Imagine going out every night and the dance floor becomes a vibrant, energetic family reunion. Hugs, laughter and kisses fill the space and all the freakin’ euphoria and serotonin released is enough to suffocate a small rodent. That was the scene last October — the last time Doc Martin was at Dharma Lounge. Martin represents the fundamentals of house music history. From the early emergence of the four-to-the-floor movement in the mid-’80s, he has been defining what we know now as house music. For more than 20 years, Martin has immersed himself in every facet of the dance-music industry — as a producing DJ, promoter, record label owner and record store man. Known for his extended live sets, Martin can seamlessly blend a multitude of dance sub-genres in one night. His crates, which are heavily influenced by cosmic disco, funk, acid and garage, are like no others’ collections, consisting of many records you have never heard of, and likely will never have the chance to own (sorry, deal with it). While bands and DJs peddle the same set around the world, Martin soars above the rest because he reads his crowd perfectly. Expect to dance. Expect to laugh. Expect to be inspired. $10. Oct. 13. Dharma Lounge, 1440 S. Tryon St. 704-334-8336.

AMBROSE AKINMUSIRE
For a new-school trumpet hotshot tipped to claim the mantle of Miles Davis, Ambrose Akinmusire sure doesn’t act like an enfante terrible. Though Akinmusire can blow as fierce as Freddie Hubbard, or as fluid as Clifford Brown, his focus is on team-playing. He’s just as likely to share the spotlight with his band as he is to improvise with slashing jabs and smoky tones. With influences ranging from Robert Johnson to Joni Mitchell, Akinmusire’s compositions value emotion over virtuosity. Indeed, many tracks on his breakout LP, When the Heart Emerges Glistening, began as written narratives, complete with dialogue. Once the message and the atmosphere was set in Akinmusire’s head, the scripts were thrown away and the instrumentals recorded. With his mix of musical invention and blunt emotionalism, Akinmusire proves that all the technique in the world goes for nought if “it don’t mean a thing.” $24. Oct. 12-13, 9 p.m. Casbah Durham, 1007 W. Main St., Durham. 919-687-6969.

JIM WHITE
At the height of the alt-country craze, Jim White’s strange and enchanting 1997 debut, Wrong-Eyed Jesus! (The Mysterious Tale of How I Shouted), provided welcome relief to all the earnest young men clutching whiskey bottles and dancing with the girls at the bar. Where a lot of young country rockers desperately sought authenticity by drinking hard and behaving poorly, here was a mature performer with loads of actual mileage on him — he’d driven a N.Y.C. cab, been a professional surfer, a fashion model, drifter, religious fanatic, apostate, drug addict — seeking the keys back to something resembling childhood innocence. His four full lengths since then have included deeply melancholic country fare; bucolic Appalachia folk that drifts past on banjos and strings like overheated summer days; gospel-flavored hymnals full of gothic imagery and found-sounds conjuring with equal fervor the secular and spiritual; and junkyard swamp blues-rumblers you imagine blasting forth from the muscle car White drove through the deep South in the 2004 documentary Searching for Wrong-Eyed Jesus. The real people in that film are the same marginalized ones in White’s songs — preacher’s wayward sons, meth-heads, jailbirds, Greyhound bus riders, trailer-dwellers and the like — whose battles lie with inner demons far more than historical Southern baggage. White’s one of them, too, and because of that his between-song banter seems a mere extension of his captivating songs. In an authenticity obsessed genre choked with tropes and musical deadwood lying around since the Skynyrdian age, White upholds the best legacy of Southern eccentricity, and writes a damn fine song to boot. $15/$17. Oct. 11, 8 p.m. Evening Muse, 3227 N. Davidson St. 704-376-3737.

BONNIE RAITT
Thank goodness for Bonnie Raitt. She mixes sharp, punchy rock, R&B and blues with sublime folk ballads, plays a mean slide guitar and has long been the antidote to all those low-talent female stars more into shaking their booties in gimmicky outfits than making potent music. Though she didn’t get mainstream kudos until Nick of Time, in 1989, Raitt’s been around since 1971, doing the festival circuit early on with likeminded rockers such as Little Feat. She’s a groundbreaker among female guitarists, her licks every bit as scorching as Lowell George’s, David Lindley’s or Ry Cooder’s. After a seven-year hiatus, Raitt returns this year with Slipstream, produced by Joe Henry and released on her own label. Typically Raitt, it channels reggae, soul, folk and blues, with a mix of great songs both mellow and rocking. $49.50-$59.50. Oct. 11, 8 p.m. Ovens Auditorium, 2700 E. Independence Blvd. 704-372-3600.

NICK LOWE
Never mind the Sex Pistols, punk really started with Nick Lowe. Founding seminal pub-rock band Brinsley Schwarz, Lowe’s back-to-basics blues-and-country-rock set the stage for punk, and his rough-and-ready production style established punk’s DIY aesthetic. Nicknamed “the Basher” for his knock-it-out-and-move-on style, Lowe produced and launched the careers of The Damned and Elvis Costello. For all that, Lowe was never really a punk, embracing the irreverent attitude of the genre but not it’s increasingly lock-step riff-o-rama. Indeed, his first single, “Marie Provost” is a cheerfully black-hearted ditty about a faded film star devoured by her dog. By the early ’80s, Lowe ditched his pop-star career for his first and abiding love, carefully crafted roots rock and country. Nowadays, Lowe has abandoned his smart-assed dark humor. Still, he retains his charming hand-made production style in the service of old-fashioned groovers that combine country, soul and Tin Pan Alley pop. In his 60s, and still not doing what’s expected of him, Lowe crafts perfect pop that sounds like standards from an alternate universe. With Chuck Prophet and The Mission Express. $25-$27.50. Oct. 9, 7:30 p.m. McGlohon Theater, 345 N. College St. 704-372-1000. www.blumenthalarts.org.