This Houston gypsy-punk outfit sounds just like a southern-fried Gogol Bordello, but without all that pungent Eastern Bloc business. The band's name stands in stark contrast to its jammy and quaintly morose neo-folk, leading you to believe it would be a gang of blood-swilling metalheads on crank. There are no crazy stories behind their moniker, and as Mike Mejia clarified to us, "To tell you the honest truth, we thought of it and couldn't find any one person who thought it would be a good idea to name a band like ours Come See My Dead Person." Can't say we aren't miffed that there was no actual dead person to take a gander at.

With a revolving lineup of local noise luminaries like Rusted Shut's Don Walsh and a healthy dose of leather, the ear-melting Homopolice have been the best and weirdest show for the money this past year. Any appearance by bassist Beau Beasley's brainchild brings out a curious cast of voyeurs and sickos waiting to watch the band bludgeon themselves or each other. During the band's set at Mango's during this spring's Westheimer Block Party, singer Josh made quick work of a cheap guitar and his face, leaving a mess of blood on the floor and the axe in splinters all over the venue.

Sometimes a music scene doesn't even know it's been missing a band until that band shows up. That was the case back in January, when Roky Moon & BOLT appeared fully formed one chilly evening at Walter's on Washington. Within about five minutes of going onstage, Moon and friends — cobbled together from American Sharks, Black Black Gold and a couple of other local bands in various stages of activity – made us realize how much Houston needed a vintage glam-rock band that sounded like they just fell to Earth à la David Bowie/Ziggy Stardust and his Spiders from Mars. BOLT only played a few songs, but immediately afterward people began arguing whether the band's Houston-size hooks were closer to T. Rex or the New York Dolls. We stick with what we said back then: For local glam fans, BOLT is a moonage daydream come true.

It gets frustrating, growing to love a local band and then watching it move on to greener pastures. In Houston, as we all know, that happens to more bands than it doesn't (though, thankfully, somewhat less so lately). At least indie-twang duo Papermoons had a better reason for decamping for Austin and Ohio than simply wanting to be in a better scene; namely, a family illness and longtime girlfriend. Had they stuck around, Papermoons would have been one of the leading lights of Houston's new-school Americana scene (Buxton, News on the March, Grandfather Child), and the gorgeously sad songs of 2008 LP New Tales might have even landed them an opening spot for Ryan Adams & the Cardinals on their next trip through town. But unlike some of Houston's other musical expatriates, Papermoons bear the Bayou City no ill will, and return often enough that it almost seems like they're still a local band. "We aren't good friends with any bands here in town, and we hardly ever play in Austin," says Papermoons' Daniel Hawkins. "It'll take a while for us to get anywhere close to what we have in Houston. Houston will always be where we feel that we are from."

While a never-ending parade of Houston's best indie-rockers, punks and DJs, plus out-of-town acts of all shapes and sizes (many on their first-ever tour, or playing Houston for the first time), shuffle through The Mink's aptly-named adjacent Backroom, up front is one of the city's coziest, least assuming saloons. The dim lights and comfy seating (especially the couches up front) make The Mink an ideal date spot; we suspect many a spark has been kindled over a $10 bottle of wine on Tuesday nights. The drinks are cheap and plentiful, and the friendly bartenders keep the atmosphere buzzing with a bottomless iTunes playlist that breezes from AC/DC to Arcade Fire to Merle Haggard. (Also on Tuesdays, the preponderance of vintage country music makes The Mink the Inner Loop's unlikeliest honky-tonk.) Whether you're just killing time between bands out back or bellied up for a quiet evening of Lone Star and conversation, The Mink won't steer you wrong.

This clapboard East End beer joint might not look like much from the outside, but a surprise awaits those who venture in. A golden Buddha squats in one corner, while paintings of Frida Kahlo and Marilyn Monroe take pride of place on two walls, where they compete with several specimens of the fine art of taxidermy. On the bar, there's a golden iron candelabra, and looking down from above the bar is a silver robot man fashioned by a regular out of tin cans. A mix of Tejano, classic rock and country billows from the jukebox as neighbors, workers at the nearby Maxwell House coffee plant and homicide detectives and DAs relax over Lone Star and Bud Light. The D&D is a blue-collar bar, make no mistake about that, but a blue-collar bar with panache and grace. Even the smoking porch is all done up in potted plants and colored lights.

What we love about the bathrooms at the Backroom at The Mink is that upon our last count, there were about four of them. One for men, one for women, one for "whatever" and another mystery head with no designation. It's fun because when you encounter these signs, depending on your level of inebriation, you may have an existential meltdown. In the meantime, be careful not to end up pissing your poor self and become the laughingstock of the indie-rock kids.

For freedom-loving Americans, the day the fascists on Houston's City Council passed the smoking ban in bars was a shot to the heart. Sure, sometimes stale nicotine-filled air can be a bummer, but what's even more of a bummer is when you have a crappy day and just want to go knock back some liquid poison and chase it with smoky poison. Or when you and your friends get into a deep philosophical conversation about why John Bonham was vastly superior to Neil Peart – you don't want to have to interrupt a key point by stepping outside to smoke. It's a real big pain in the ass. Fortunately, the Marquis resides in West University, outside of the totalitarian regime's reach, so you can sit there in the orange 1970s garage-sale chairs and drink and smoke to your heart's content, while listening to tunes on the stellar jukebox. We're pretty sure this is what heaven's like.

No static CD could ever match the intensity of one of Little Joe Washington's live shows, which are one part gospel revival and one part juke-joint boogaloo breakdown, but Texas Fire Line sure comes close. Recorded live in the studio (that sure helps), Fire Line is a frenzied tour de force from one of Houston's biggest musical treasures and free-spirited local icons. Full of Washington's Gulf Coast guitar-slinging and suffused with Memphis soul (trumpeter Al Gomez and saxman Mark Kazanoff shine on every song), Fire Line climaxes on the blustery, bitter blues of "Ike," which proves even a mighty hurricane is no match for Little Joe's singular guitar alchemy.

Eli Sebastian Brumbaugh seems like the go-to guy for illustrating Houston's burgeoning "H-pop" scene. The twentysomething artist and graphic designer, who has also done posters for News on the March and Free Press Houston's Summerfest, puts the same sort of vivid, vibrant oddness in his artwork as bands like Young Mammals and Wild Moccasins do in their music. His cover for the Moccasins' Microscopic Metronomes EP is as contrast-heavy and color-saturated as the band's eclectic, effervescent songs, and the cute but bizarre animals adorning the Young Mammals' Carrots effectively capture the almost childlike whimsy of the music contained within. Whenever Houston's rising crop of talented young bands needs an album cover, flyer or any other artwork, it's nice to know Brumbaugh has them in capable, creative hands.