Underground rock spread and fragmented as it spread across the United States in the mid-’90s, the alternative boom giving rise to microcosmic regional scenes singularly focused on savage super violence or screamo songs about breakfast. In Boston, Karate emerged as a force that could have taken the lead of a national youth movement, whose disparate tastes were still blending in the ink-stained pages of fanzines overflowing with florid prose and concert dates at DIY venues run by volunteers. In this world, Karate’s music was an enigma, appealing equally to disdainful punks and vain indie-rock aficionados. Their self-titled debut album, released in 1996 by Southern Records, set the standard. Combining terrible post-hardcore tension, well-targeted slowcore serenity, and resplendent jazz complexity, Karate avoided settling into any single definable style. However, they undeniably used the language of punk to get their message across; from time to time, guitarist Geoff Farina abandons his warm, muted cadences for a hoarse cry that sounds torn apart, intensifying an aggression that bursts forth with every indented guitar riff or drum hit that lands like a cannon shot. Few followed their path, but who could have? Karate could make pensive moods blossom into feverish rolls (“What Is Sleep?”), gracefully tiptoe around aggressive punk explosions without losing shape (“Bodies”), and stretch slowcore’s quietest reveries until their reflective notes seemed drawn from a jazz improvisation session (“Caffeine or Me?”). The Karate album officially introduced the trio as an essential element of an independent American punk scene that stubbornly flourished in the face of the rise of the majors in the ’90s.