O, Canada Why are you lookin’ so darned good?

Our neighbor to the north has borne the brunt of many a wry put-down – for its blandness, its self-effacing modesty, its climate, its… niceness. Everyone knows that the true Cajuns among us originally migrated from Acadia. What with warming temperatures, rising oil-filled Gulf waters, impending hurricanes and economic paralysis, we might well consider a reverse-diaspora.

Canada has given us many pop culture stars, most notably in comedy (Mike Myers, Martin Short, Seth Rogen, John Candy, etc.). Canadian music has been a little less fecund, with Rush, Neil Young and, uh, Celine Dion among the well-known.

The indie rock scene has been active, especially lately. Here are three new releases to consider – two by so-called supergroups, and one by an essentially one-man band.

THE NEW PORNOGRAPHERS have just released their fifth record, TOGETHER. The “super” in its supergroup designation comes from its frontline of A.C. Newman (Zumpano), Dan Bejar (Destroyer) and Neko Case (the red-headed siren with the clarion-clear voice). Their stock in trade is whip-smart power pop. The music is anything but conventional. It confounds expectations but is chock full of its own internally-logical hooks.

Together sounds altogether cohesive. It marks a return to the mostly uptempo style of their first three records after their fairly sedate last CD, Challengers. Newman was quoted as saying they were after a “Led Zeppelin-meets-5th Dimension” vibe. Sounds crazy, but it’s as accurate as any such referential attempt could be.

ELO is another touchstone, as hard-sawed strings are prominent throughout. Don’t look for much swinging, as these guys stay bright and ‘on the one’ – Great White North soul, if you will.

“Moves” starts off with charging cellos banging out a ramped-up “Kashmir” riff, followed quickly with call-and-response vocal acrobatics from the leaders weaving in and out of a metronomic piano figure – dramatic and spine-charging.

“Crash Years” follows, a mind-bending pop masterpiece, with only a whistled bridge as a slight blemish. “Your Hands (Together)” is an all threatening guitar bombast, with no true release or resolution. “Silver Jenny Dollar” features Bejar on lead vocals, sounding like a slightly more masculine Al Stewart.

“Sweet Talk, Sweet Talk” is as bright a pop confection as can be imagined, tarted up only with some gritty guitar in spots. “My Shepard” is Case’s star-turn, and she knocks it out of the park. Other notable tracks are “Up in the Dark” and “Valkyrie in the Roller Disco,” as close to a ballad as they get, beautiful and strange. “A Bite Out of My Bed” and the closer, “We End Up Together” are also rousing blasts of pop perfection.

Guests include Annie Clark (St. Vincent), Will Sheff (Okervill River) and The Dap Kings horn section; but all are in service to the whole, an artifact from its own alternate universe.

BROKEN SOCIAL SCENE are an altogether different species of supergroup. Younger, messier, hippier, they too have been around since the turn of the century. Where TNP is a tick-tight pop juggernaut, The Scene is raggedy and riskier. They favor keyboards and guitars in about equal doses, and are not afraid to experiment with sounds, textures and themes. Plus, they swing some. I won’t bother name-dropping their leaders (except Leslie Feist), but if any out there already know them or would recognize them if I did – well, congratulations, and get your own column.

Their fifth, FORGIVENESS ROCK RECORD, is being hailed as their best. It’s hit-or-miss affair that sprawls over 14 songs – but heavy on the hits, doubles and triples mostly, with the occasional dinger.

“World Sick” is a rousing anthemic opener, building off a quirky guitar line to spiraling exultation, with a danceable beat. “Forced to Love” could be described in the same terms, but with enough melodic difference to avoid accusations of formula. “Chase Scene” precisely captures the feel of the song in its title, and leaves one breathless after three-and-a-half minutes of building tension.

“Texico Bitches” (not about the differently-spelled oil company) features a full-on disco beat and a kitchen-sink approach to noises, vocal fills and general weirdness. “All to All” is minimalist girl-disco cool, sounding like a looser Bird and the Bee. The rocking starts in earnest with “Art House Director,” with stacked horns taking the tune to the stratosphere. “Highway Slipper Jam” is loosey-goosey bliss where their freak flags get unfurled

Things get gnarlier after that.

“Ungrateful Little Father” (its title is wholly cleaned-up from what’s actually sung) is a nasty piece of irresistible venom, with great lead vocals and off-kilter add-ons (bleeps and sirens) that work, although the three minutes of pointless noodling could have been edited out with no loss. “Meet Me in the Basement” is an orchestral rocker where the expected vocals never arrive, but tension, release and exultation are plenty present. “Sentimental X’s” is a girl-group gem, wistful and toe-tapping in equal measure, with BSS’s females harmonizing with artful lethality.

“The Sweetest Kind” masks its mixture of melancholy and loss with a gently rolling beat and a killer melody. What should have been the closer, “There’s Water in Hell,” is a singalong replete with “woo-hoo-hoos” in its chorus and an electrified bluegrass break before the big dumb rock finish – exhilarating. Instead the album closes with the love song, “Me and My Hand,” which (yeah, you’re thinking correctly) is a piece of indulgence, which should have been left on the cutting room floor.

At times exasperating, but always interesting, this record stands up to and grows with repetition; its grace notes overcome its flaws.

CARIBOU is Dan Snaith. He started his career as “Manitoba,” but apparently that was too Canadian. He sits at his laptop and cranks out albums of startlingly excellent electronica. He’s been at it for about 10 years, too. Previous efforts were chilled-out, and his last was psychedelicized. His new record, SWIM, takes him to the dance floor this time, albeit the one in your own living room.

OK, right off: If you’ve got open ears or already have a predilection for this kind of stuff, keep reading. If not, see you next month.

Snaith’s got a girly falssetto, which might scare off a few. He’s also got a painter’s sense of filling space. Swim’s songs groove hypnotically but not robotically. He mixes in real organics in with the bleeps and blorps. The overall effect is brainy grooviness, getting-down without having to turn off the cerebrum. (Although the music would support doing that if you did.)

“Odessa” is a first-person account of domestic abuse (that you can dance to!), that’s got hope mixed in with the woe.

“Sun” is pure zoned-out sonics. “Kaili” lurches along with a spastic Beach Boys vibe. “Found Out” is a minor-key bummer (that you can…OK, I’ll stop, since the same could be said about everything here).

“Leave House” is another catchy tune about getting the hell out of there. “Hannibal” threatens to bust loose, with layers of artifice augmented with real horns, but Snaith keeps the lid on with his wimpy vocals. “Jamelia” closes things with his most realized melody sung over his least danceable (but still grooving!) beat, and it feels like a sobering up after all the lasciviousness that preceded it.

O, Canada. Keep sending us your artists and keep your doors open, just in case.