Pyrrhon aren’t merely a great NYC metal band. Their sophomore LP, The Mother of Virtues, is one of the most innovative metal records of the year, from any city. The compositions are unpredictable and highly technical. Songs that first erupt with volcanic fury flow into creeping, molten passages with guitar solos overlaid like free jazz. The lyrics are poetry, powerfully introspective yet rich in observation of hard New York imagery. One gem, “Balkanized,” begins: “I’m standing on the platform/And there’s a pile of trash bags/Swollen with former objects of desire/Stripped of office, like corrupted priests/In black vestments/And cast out to vagrancy/So now they wait with me/Twitching with the palsy/Of the rats in their guts/That shriek as the train approaches/To take me home.” This is metal wrought in the city’s fringe, in a dark corner where genius furrows in secret.