Pyrrhon is music for you to work on- by which I mean you have to listen to it properly, rather than just letting it tinkle in the background. Do the latter and it comes across as little more than formless scratchy cacophony. Pay attention, and it’s still scratchy cacophony, but definitely not formless. They have defined their own niche within the much wider tech-death landscape; to my ears at least, connected less with bands like Origin or Nile or Cryptopsy, and more with the freakier edges of fusion or some kind of highly-strung free jazz freakout. Not that it’s improvised- the songwriting always appears meticulously planned- but just the screaming release of energy embodied in the album. Mother of Virtues is their second record, and its approach picks up quite nicely where 2011’s excellent debut- An Excellent Servant but a Terrible Master- left off. Still, it’s taken me a while to actually get into it, for reasons explained in the first couple of sentences of the review.

One thing I really latched onto in my review of the debut was the lead guitars, and they deserve a prominent mention here, also. The scratchy (I am using this adjective a lot here), translucent tone of the lead is as much a defining characteristic of Pyrrhon’s music as Doug Moore’s ranting vocals, and the solos that are strewn throughout the album are wondrously deranged. They are high-pitched and hysterical- part of me wants to throw a bucket of cold water on them and give them a slap to see if they would suddenly snap into something John Petrucci would play. Even when not placed centre stage they still impart this nervous, trembling feel to the sound, as on the squirming and neurotic-sounding The Parasite in Winter.

And the songwriting is, like on the first record, always teetering on the edge of something. It swirls about, at times completely disorientating the listener. This is the case despite the various ‘moods’ that disperse across the record. There is the wonderful quasi-grind chaos of sub-two minute opener The Oracle of Nassau; the violently twisting riffs on Sleeper Agent which, a little like Meshuggah, sounds like it could snap into a groove at any minute but keep slipping away from a regular pulse; or there is the reverberating ten minute void that is White Flag, with abstract treble chords and a lunatic solo being layered over a fuzzing, lethargic bass line. Honestly, Pyrrhon is becoming such a good band; a genuinely original voice in an overcrowded field.