Twelve Angry Months, the new CD by long-running Chicago alt-rock duo Local H, is a 12-song concept album for the jilted, bitter, and brokenhearted. Inspired by the real-life end of a relationship that singer-guitarist Scott Lucas was involved in, each track corresponds to a month of the year, and focuses on the intense feelings that might befall someone during the 365 days after a bad breakup. The problem is, when the Straight calls the frontman on his cellphone in Las Vegas, it sounds as if he’s still in the throes of despair; his stiff, one-word replies make it clear that he’s not in the mood for chitchat. When asked if making Twelve Angry Months was a cathartic experience, he dryly replies, “I don’t think I know you well enough to answer that question.”

Well, isn’t that just swell. The guy’s just put out a rockin’ new album that’s completely concerned with the repercussions of a soured relationship, but he doesn’t want to discuss it. Okay, fine; we’ll bypass the new music and delve into the history of Local H, which became fairly popular in the mid ’90s via sardonic alt-rock ditties like “Eddie Vedder” and “Bound for the Floor”. One interesting thing about the band is its unconventional approach to gigs. For example, in 2003 it sold a live show to the winner of an eBay auction. And before it played Chicago’s U.S. Cellular Field last year, fans were required to locate either Lucas or drummer Brian St. Clair in person, then repeat a phrase from Rush’s 2112 album—“Attention all planets of the solar federation! We have assumed control”—in order to secure tickets. I’m curious as to how many Local H followers actually tracked Lucas down and accurately quoted Neil Peart’s lines. Lucas mockingly replies, “A lot?”

After a few more minutes of pained discourse and awkward silences, I finally get a decent response out of the 38-year-old musician when I ask about the title of Local H’s previous studio album, 2004’s Whatever Happened to P. J. Soles? Did Lucas ever find out what happened to the cult actors? “Yeah, she’s living her life, and life goes on,” he says. “The point of the title is that these people have lives, and their lives extend; they’re not just characters in the film, so that when the credits roll their lives are over. Their lives continue. And I just find that kind of VH-1 culture of, like, ‘What is this person doing now?’, calling people like that has-beens, really offensive.”

After displaying a brief willingness to communicate, Lucas returns to his irritating habit of one-word replies until, apparently judging my query about what he’s been listening to lately as the final straw, he puts the tortured conversation out of its misery. “All right,” he announces, “I gotta go. This thing’s over. Thanks, bye.” Then he hangs up. I never get the chance to congratulate him for being the most charmless, insufferable interview subject I’ve encountered in 25 years of rock writing.

Local H plays Pat’s Pub today (June 12).