t’s a shame, really. So many talented musicians waste away their formative years in fraternity basements, laying down the soundtrack for beer-fueled collegiate escapism, sending their guitars through bass rigs in a quest for the ultimate “jazz tone,” foolishly thinking that a non-stop slap solo will channel Bootsy Collins, somehow taking funk and stripping it of all soul and intensity, subverting an excellent genre and pouring the musical equivalent of Miller Light (and calling it Guinness) down the throats of the uninformed in the name of “art.”

With the myriad “jam bands” that infect New England (and, I fear, the rest of the US), any true fan of improvisational transcendence quickly learns to avoid any would-be Jerry Garcia who lists Phish as a primary influence. The result is that, sadly, bands who don’t wear their idols on their tie-dyed sleeves -- bands who owe more to Coltrane than Anastasio -- are left to rot in the same circles as those who do, and moments of true genius go unnoticed, while “funkified” covers of “Thriller” wrench cries of delight from the lungs of the inebriated audience. While there may be moments of brilliance hidden in the mire, they are few and far between, and I tend to avoid the “jam band” scene entirely. Fortunately, true art has a tendency to make itself known, genre compartmentalization becomes meaningless, and bands like Mori Stylez find me, seduce me, despite their unwarranted classification.

By all definitions, Mori Stylez is a “jam band.” On paper, their focus on improvisation, their music-double-major credentials, and their impressive list of supposed influences conjures images of a technically skilled, but wholly unmemorable ensemble. However, when they explode from my speakers, the portrait is entirely different. The band’s interaction is more prog-rock than jazz, their technical skills are used more to explore tonality than to demonstrate intimate knowledge of western scales. Their wide range of influences becomes blurred as they swing from clarinet-and-oboe-driven funk to guitar fireworks from the Yngwie Malmsteen songbook and back again within the course of a single song.

Rules for Rotation, their first and thus-far-only album starts with an oboe riff, followed by a clarinet line that somehow recalls dixieland jazz and James Brown in the same breath. “The Jackroller” alternates between this odd combination and a textbook funk section filled with slap bass and standard jazz guitar comping. The “funk” sections are the album’s only real flaw -- while they are certainly technically good, there is nothing new or exciting about another heisted Parliament groove. These sections, though rare, are rendered unnecessary by the excellence and innovation heard elsewhere on the record.

“Cheeba” starts with tapped guitar and bass drum, before erupting into a “flight of the bumblebee”-esque guitar and bass harmony section, followed by an ambient respite which quickly gives way to a guitar part somewhere between flamenco and hair-metal. Mori Stylez has no vocals, but they’re never missed, as there’s always something melodic and interesting happening somewhere in the mix.

“Adventures of Dionysus” is the album’s centerpiece. In the song’s 12 minute length the band swerves from classical to jazz to rock before dissolving into a wave of dissonance and emerging with a slow soundscape filled with echoed guitar tones, a sparse repeated bass figure, and occasional drums or left-panned atonal guitar noise. From this, they build up to an intense classical guitar solo, and with the flip of a switch turn into Black Sabbath, quickly followed by a drum-n-bass section so tight it sounds programmed. This is all followed by a repeat of the first theme and the inevitable end. Despite the twists and turns, the song never sounds fragmented, and no transition seems forced.

“Freako Suave”’s unfortunate title belies its quality. Oboe and clarinet dominate this song, and its eastern-European feel is a welcome change of pace after “Dionysus.” This is followed by “Darcopus,” a guitar workout that manages to evoke Giant Steps era Coltrane and Discipline era King Crimson simultaneously (all over a near-jungle beat, surprisingly). The song ends with a guitar solo that accelerates with the drums layered over a dissonant riff that repeats endlessly at one slow tempo. The solo would sound lame and contrived in any other context, but here its sharp contrast with the rhythm section in both note choice and tempo provides a wonderful tug-of-war.

“Reincarnation of a Lovebird” is the only non-original song on the album, a Charles Mingus tune. Mori Stylez can’t be faulted for paying homage to the craziest genius to ever touch a bass, but their soulless funk does nothing to enhance this great song. On the upside, it’s nowhere near as bad as Joni Mitchell’s take on “Goodbye Pork Pie Hat.”

When Rules for Rotation hits, it hits hard. When it misses, it never falls completely flat, and always redeems itself within seconds. Mori Stylez has delivered proof that “jam bands” can, in fact, be good, and anyone in search of quality music would do well to leave their genre biases at home.