Out of his many projects and ensembles, his experimental trios exhibit the most dynamism and interest. Opposite of what the titles might suggest, Knoblock spares the heavy laser activity and space invasive techniques in songs "Scifi One" and "Scifi Two." Instead, he tactfully wanders from background to foreground with his ms2000 noise, stitching a very complex sonic weave of acoustic and electronic textures. Knoblock anchors the improvisation by propelling and contrasting the mercurial gestures of the sax and drums, keeping a fluid dialogue open. Knoblock is extremely responsive to the offerings of his ensemble members. At times he creates an ambling bed of notes to stage the the feral patter of the drums and the scampering ranter of the sax. At other moments he applies more drama and sustains ambient chords to support the melancholic explorations of the sax, as seen on song "Two." Knoblock also takes a few solos, shaping intricate paths and rhythmic cycles of spasmodic aggressiveness. Gliding over the upper register of the Rhodes with his right hand, he begins to dement his original motif by imposing angry jabs with the left, as if disputing himself. Knoblock's convulsions and self-contradictory envelopments show great character and poignancy in his playing. The listener can sense the human in him and appreciate his solo's introspectiveness.

The excitement and virility of Knoblock's improvisatory work is not as present in his compositions. His songs "Jaunted Memory" and "Grand Union" are flat in comparison, impatient and sloppily played. They rob the group of its inherent fluidity and sensitivity. Knoblock presents a confusing assortment of material. While some pieces are swaths of sonorous elaborateness and emotive depth, other compositions rival the lameness of Bob Ross' easy-paint landscapes. Ultimately, Knoblock needs to get out of the elevator and stay on the bandstand.

Eric John Eigner’s music is an aural circus, rambling and self-satisfied, working magic as an audience drifts in and out, catching little bits and pieces of moods and scenery. The songs feature various instruments, usually with Eigner on drums, but there must be others where he provides whistle, or some strange atmospheric sound effect. These songs have a real natural flow to them, full of the tonal, rhythmic, and harmonic conflict equivalent to an emotional breakdown and following recovery.

“Solo Drums” is percussive ramblings formed into frenetic, short vignettes that realize vivid moods. The lazy bike horn on “Cockatoo” rides through the aviary of flute, trombone, and some stringed instrument, while the whole thing shuffles along like a loping drunken clown. A fog of emotions is born, something like actors on a misty stage portraying trembling insincerity and a feisty sense of sorrowful goofery. 

“Tousled Heads” swings into motion with a trombone and shiny drum interaction, the screeching coherency of a smattering of car accidents. Improvised phrasing unites the two instruments and separates them as they jabber across their lines and end quizzically. It seems that these musicians could continue on for days or their entire lives; the composition is in the approach, and not in the forethought. 

Eigner’s is not a world of drumbeats and songforms, melodies and choruses, or solos or consistency, although all of these may certainly be found. He deals more with vague scenes, like the listener has stumbled in late to some foreign play and is left to find out what the hell is going on, or to enjoy the nonsense of it. 

A native of Southern California, Ian Rapien's promise as a saxophonist is heard when he digs deeper and finds other possibilities within the melody. An example of this can be heard in his cover of late saxophonist Joe Henderson’s tune "Inner Urge.”  Rapien's circular flourishes are playful, bringing new life to the classic track. However, he lacks a certain confidence on two classic pieces by jazz pioneer Thelonious Monk. Although I applaud Rapien's ambition, it takes quite a bit of time (and frankly, skill) to tackle the complexities of Monk's melodic compositions "'Round Midnight" and "Blue Monk." Rapien does, however, possess the passion for the music.

For a different take on Rapien, check out his nu-jazz fusion group Spectral Awakenings or his latest project, sax duo Secret Forest.

The Nathan Parker Smith Ensemble assembles eleven wonderful jazz musicians to tear through reverb-heavy, syncopated arrangements, capable of spiraling into dense multitudes of swaying dynamics, each provided with a swing that makes fast tempos seem slower, and slow tempos solemn (as on the swaying, forlorn “Almost”). The strong melodies clear a way for beauty and intriguing development, and the listener is confounded by materializing counterpoints, countermelodies, and counterrhythm. 

"Perry’s Piece" starts with a lone, winding saxophone line, scalar ascents and descents, and then a condensed band enters, winding. The song splays repetitive themes, elegant melodies, rife with rhythmic surprises and joyous ascents, and just angular enough to be completely believable. The arrangements always turn unexpectedly, occasionally into high, sharp clusters that balance with lower horns, and constant cluttering of precise backgrounds, swelling, pulsing. The soloists are secondary but are essential.These songs need some interpretive release, a chance for individual energy.

Smith’s Ensemble is the modern bigband that doesn’t stray far from swinging territory. Nor does it really need to, since it has interesting content and interesting forms. The only explanation is “original music for 11-piece jazz ensemble,” which says nothing of the articulate musicians themselves, each turning like a cog in a machine, a society of voices which fall perfectly to form Smith’s spiky compositions. 

Representing Queens, H.E.C. (Hurtin Every Critik) holds his own as a street rapper, but falls victim to the same awkward trend as so many other underground MCs. The pressure of following successful formulas in commercial rap often forces up-and-comers to try to imitate what’s hot. This is when hip hop becomes dishonest and harder to enjoy. Luckily, H.E.C. only does this on a couple of tracks. When he’s keeping it real and sticking to beats and rhymes that are less polished, he proves to be a decent rapper with a tight delivery, even if his lyrics aren’t always very original in content. H.E.C. shines most in the tracks “Death Row” and the cleverly titled “Meet Ja Maica,” in which he speaks about dealing with the harsh realities of street life. His emphasis on violence might be a little much for some listeners, but honestly it’s when he’s coming from this angle that his lyrics are the most skillfully structured and seemingly sincere. When he goes in a more commercial, club music direction, as in the song “Black Berry,” that’s when he falls flat. Some of H.E.C.’s tracks from the Death Row mixtape are of homemade-recording quality, but fans of raw, underground hip hop aren’t likely to hold that against him. When they get to that “Black Berry” song, though, that might be a different story.

Old Time Relijun’s theatrical gasping and schizophrenic vocals are something of a demonic jamboree. “Daemon Meeting” is a satanic “Monster Mash,” shouting evily over nasal surf guitar “What does it mean to be human?!” Creepy, and insanely over the top. The swirling Indian guitar that introduces “Indestructible Life” unremorsefully breaks into some groove-drones, while tenor sax wails meet male vocal wails. Lyrics are spit out like a drunken, angry pirate, fading deep into the jungle of multi-vocals as “Indestructible Life” is chanted epically. 

They vary their specific instrumentation with every song, but the ferocity is always there, especially on the enchanting “Veleno Mortale,” with wavering Italian shouted among a fantastically creepy disco, with a murderous sax/bell melody that will make your hairs stand up. “Garden of Pomegranates” is an instrumental that sustains the same forlorn, embittered, tormented, driving feeling. Old Time Relijun’s songs are to the point, enough to give you a taste of blood, and like a shark we hunger for more.

As the self-proclaimed “self-centered piece of shit scumbag,” Long Island–based artist fOREVERMAN is a powerful voice for the underground disguised as an asshole. Forsaking all notions of mass appeal, he relies instead on brutal honesty and purposeful tastelessness. Those with delicate sensibilities, beware. Those with a sense of humor, enjoy. Responsible for all of his own beats and music as well as lyrics, fOREVERMAN is equally influenced by hip hop, punk and industrial. Experimental horrorcore, if not a redundancy, might be the best-fitting label. Doesn’t really matter — he wouldn’t accept it anyway. Whatever you call it, this is music for rebels, made by an obvious nonconformist. With songs like “Don’t Become Another Zombie” and a cover of GG Allin’s “Outskirts of Life,” it is made abundantly clear that fOREVERMAN isn’t interested in fitting in. His anti-everything attitude is refreshing until it becomes personal, like when he pleads “put me out my misery” in the song “Pretty Fucking Please.” Then it becomes kind of depressing. A balance is created, however, in his spoken-word material. In “A Joke Nobody Gets,” he intelligently rants about the oppression of society and the mediocrity that most people succumb to, using dark imagery to display an enlightened sense of perspective. These multiple dimensions all add up to fOREVERMAN: an artist oozing with confidence even as he alienates himself from the world.