Much fat is chewed about the nooks and crannies of Los Angeles, as a concept or location. To borrow a tired adage, for Nicholas Krgovich’s The Hills the influence of Hollywood feels like a character. Brash strings and horns flutter in and out, adding mystery behind every bright smile and lit cigarette. Even among the placid RnB of “Sunset Hills” and the upbeat mall-pop of “The Place Goes Quiet” there are lush Hermann-by-way-of-Mayfield exercises that keep the mood as uneasy as a yacht with a hole in the heart of its bellows. Everything’s sinking and everyone’s smiling.