i don't understand

The unabated acquisition of ephemeral goods worked as a buffer; the more one accumulated, the less the rot reeked. “To buy” meant to “not biodegrade;” putrefaction, while widespread, smelled as so much perfume—rosewater for the decaying horde. Savini added an especially juicy touch: Fresh back from Vietnam, where he had served as a combat photographer, the young photag was given full rein to unleash the wealth of disturbing images he held tightly in his head. The realism of the “effect” was jarring; Savini knew what gunshots looked like; he knew how blood freely flowed; he’d seen limbs loosed from their bodies; he’d seen corporal perforations yawn in all their unadulterated gore.

Dawn of the Dead, of course, had to be updated, remade, re-released, tattooed with an entirely new UPC. It’s impotence was remarkable; after being able to download an MPEG of Nicholas Berg having his head slowly sawed off, or being able to see screen captures of people leaping to their deaths from the Trade Towers, horror films have as much bang as a handful of wet Snap-N-Pops. The aforementioned atrocities are what Lipynsky draws from, the bricks and mortar of his structure of dissent. “Black Sun Resistance is my statement of an American fed up with America,” said Lipynsky, “the lyrics are focused on occult tactics for increasingly dangerous and warped social chasms.”

It remains to be seen whether those tactics prove potent. If so, those able to refrain from chattering about Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes might suddenly realize that we are living within our own horror film. Is it any surprise that the dark art could no longer be kept within the confines of its frame? The prescripted pestilence has pushed out of its rectilinear playing field; when demarcation melts away, the groupthink of collective gray matter lends itself to the porousness of a loofah, where mind isn’t the arena of idea, but rather a condition connoting the state of irrevocable absorption, an affliction exacerbated by the endless spools of image unwound from our myriad media outlets.

Predictably, one is compelled to wax nostalgic about signifiers devoid of the signified: There is no exercise as empty as freeing “Freedom” from its Currier & Ives sarcophagi. Thralldom, true to their moniker’s meaning, refuse to make music as vapid postulate. Black Sun Resistance is a tone poem for the tone deaf: Those that refuse to wake in Resistance’s alarm have already resigned their selves to the living grave, a pit noted for its plastic impermanence, populated with rhetoric that maintains its relevancy only via repetition.