Double Mute’s Corporate Culture (Final v2) is one of the year’s strangest, most chaotic, and unexpectedly ambitious experimental releases—a mangled corporate-parody concept piece where glitch pop, industrial noise, techno maximalism, metal riffing, and tragic cinematic swells crash into each other like a malfunctioning office printer possessed by a rave demon. It’s abrasive, funny, confusing, emotionally jarring, and ultimately far more thoughtful than it first appears.

The album immediately frames its world with “Time Cop,” opening on a warped iPhone ringtone that buckles into crushed 80s synths and muffled, lopsided percussion. The entire mix feels damaged on purpose—fuzzy, smeared, half-corrupted—yet the melodic thread underneath is surprisingly sticky. It sets up the record’s core identity: glitch art that still tries to write hooks. That tension becomes even more chaotic on “CEO,” a whiplash-inducing blender of futuristic techno pulses, industrial screams, a sudden mid-song rap sequence, twangy soulful vocals, and even a slow-metal riff outro. The song shouldn’t work, but somehow its absurdity becomes part of the charm. The female backing vocals in particular show how strong Double Mute’s melodic instincts are when they let a line actually shine.

The album’s ambition spikes early with “Sell! Sell! Cell!” (ft. Fire-Toolz)—a neon-lit, anxiety-drenched sprint through a digital dystopia. Distorted house synths, haunted vocal warbles, and Fire-Toolz’s volcanic screams all swirl inside a constantly collapsing structure. It’s manic and overwhelming, but also thrilling in its willingness to push everything into the red. The only frustration is imagining how transcendent it might feel with slightly clearer production—but maybe that frayed-edge chaos is part of the point.

Double Mute then uses “(Another) Time Cop” to show their bizarre sense of humor: a cleanly sung, tongue-in-cheek piano jingle that disrupts the chaos with something earnest and playful. It’s a clever reset point before the record dives into its darker emotional territory. “Five Minutes Back” starts as a gloomy piano ballad before erupting into heavy bass throbs, ghostlike female harmonies, metal-adjacent guitar strikes, and mournful horn lines. The screamed vocals don’t always land, but the atmosphere is engulfing, and the ending carries more emotional weight than expected.

The album’s emotional apex arrives with “Have to Drop (The Only One There),” a stunning shift into cinematic melancholy. It begins in scrambled-radio static and slowly unfolds into soft keys, washed-out singing, and subtle strings before detonating into a massive, heartbreaking crescendo that feels like the emotional thesis of the entire project. When the sound collapses into silence, it hits with surprising force—a moment of vulnerability in a record built on chaos.

The Appendix tracks reveal a sudden leap in production quality—cleaner, punchier, and more confident. “Time Cop_v2 (Diego Tejeida Remix)” is a standout, trading the original’s damaged synth-pop for 90s techno swagger, icy robotic vocals, and a hypnotic, dark-synthwave pulse. It’s sleek, addictive, and arguably one of the strongest songs in the entire package. “Please Hold” leans further into the album’s corporate satire, layering automated phone-queue voices over a stylish electronic build that sounds like Daft Punk trapped in customer service limbo. The tension is incredible even if the ending releases it a bit too quietly.

“Virtual Participation” keeps the dystopian-office theme alive through achievement-notification samples floating above anxious ambient textures and unsettling industrial clatter. It’s eerie, elegant, and unexpectedly immersive. The closing track, “Meeting Minutes (A Flying Fish Remix),” begins with delicate guitars and layered vocals before mutating into a spasmodic, glitchy dance experiment. The ideas are solid, even if the male-vocal-led moments lack the clarity and emotional punch of the female-fronted tracks. Still, it’s an admirable attempt at bridging guitar-driven songwriting with warped electronica.

Corporate Culture (Final v2) is messy, brilliant, frustrating, hilarious, haunting, and entirely its own creature. When Double Mute leans into the anti-corporate satire and maximalist distortion, the record feels like performance art as much as music. Its middle stretch and Appendix tracks show genuine growth, while its rougher edges remain interesting even when they misfire. It’s not built for mass appeal—but for fans of glitch pop, industrial noise, experimental electronica, and conceptual weirdness, it’s a bold, unforgettable experience that rewards anyone willing to enter its corrupted corporate hellscape.