Delivering a kind of brutalist and industrial-damaged post-punk, this outfit put out this album, the latest as of this writing, in 2020. And it's a bruiser. Made up of members of Teenage Panzerkorps and Diat, these guys weirdly flew under just about everyone's radar aside from Fuck Yoga, surprising since this kind of sledgehammer post-punk has seen a real revival in the past few years, bands invoking the muscular crud of early Swans, Brainbombs, Birthday Party, and Flipper all over the place. At least, it seems rthat way to me. The point is, if that general field of racket is your thibng, The Walking Korpses blast it out at a high level of aggression and apocalypticim. An eruption of driving, booming bass guitar lines that sound like Peter Hook on stims is paired with shearing guitar noise, frenetic drumming, and maddened yowling batjhed in echo. Pretty rippin', and "Mental Equipment" sets the mood for the following six songs that blare violently off the grooves, "Perpetual Lent", _____ all tearing it up whil;e the guitars are shredded and molested, the drummer gluing it all together with a neck-snapping , quickstep backbeat, and those layered vocals ragel and echo and shimmer in the polluted air, vicious screams and an intense and soulful, almost bluesy howl smashing into a vaguely Peter Muphy-esque groan all happening at once.

Other songs like "Let's Trade Dogs" and "Coast;and" slow it down to a barbaric trudge, here evoking that Flipper / Kilslug / Birthday Party-esque dirge-punk ruckus that I'm totally hooked on. Again the songs plow forward with that bone-rattling bass guitar driving the band to higher and hiogher heights of anxiety. As far as the guitars go, it's a goddamn cacophony; high-end skree and scraped strings No Wave-y screech melting into weird insectile drones and blown-out leads. It's noisy as fuck, but also catchy as fuck, this hammering, anguished aggression being folded together in everuy song to become some kind of panic-attack anthem. It's a lot more minimal and compact songwriting-wise than I realized at first, as well. It starts to become apparent that each song is primarily made up of a single three or four chord riff at the foundation, surrounded by all that vocal and noisy abrasion, the crazed energy making it all feel much more complex and textured. The lumbering glue-huffing stomp of the last song "Ghost Trees" ends up whipping all of this around into the heaviest and hookiest song on the album, a near-perfect five minute storm of mutated and borderline psychedelic punk lurch and what feels like a kind of stream-of-consciousness emotional disintegration. So good.
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Proto-noise rock junkies and anyone hooked on that abrasive hardcore/pigfuck combo that a lot of the bands on Iron Lung Records emanate, take note. These guys shred.

Limited pressing of 300 copies.