Rock is a Zombie

There's something about economies of scale and lost definition at high volumes here.

Rock is a zombie. It is upright and moving about, albeit slowly and with a shuffling, aimless gait. It stinks dreadfully, and hangs about with its mates. The zombie's sound is a desperate grunt, a moan of pure need, barely articulated. It's been dead for a few weeks now, and is looking very ugly. ("Oh, they're lookin' ugly to me now" as Lambchop sang).

Rock is a Vampire. It can look momentarily like a handsome devil in a certain light, but up close the reek of panstick and lipstick and facepaint leaves an emetic yeasty miasma up the nose. It lives on and on, unable to bring itself to hibernate such that it might be able to revitalise itself with a period of underexposure. But no, it's a hammy, preening, self-regarding old hack. It's been technically, medically, culturally dead for a very long time.

Rock is a ghost. Insubstantial, invisible in the light. Chilly and clammy. Leaving only Kirilian images, strange smudges on negatives, a drop in temperature.

Rock is the Dead and the Undead.

The Drones are a fierce group, unpredictable and wiry-of-sound. There's a slightly dashing desperado-ism about their widescreen dustbowl songs. But there's no mistaking them for anything but ghosts of metal-prospectors, Walkers-about, refugees from the now-abandoned City of Rock.