Dragonslayer: The Movie
Do you remember all of those crazy punk rock skateboarding videos of the 1980s and ’90s? Fucked up flipboards and crunching bones to a soundtrack of Unsane and Big Boys.
Well, skateboarding documentary Dragonslayer essentially brings a youth in revolt narrative to all of these videos, told through the eyes (and heart) of Californian skater Josh “Skreech” Sandoval.
"I love all of those youth in revolt movies and I felt they weren’t being made anymore," said director Tristan Patterson.
The doc tells the story of Sandoval and pals as he travels round the country (and world) finding disused swimming pools to skate. In addition to the skate mayhem, the film tells the burgeoning love story between Sandoval and his punk paramour Leslie as well as his developing relationship with his new born child Sid Rocket.
Patterson says the story shows a strange poetry of the times “as Josh skateboards through the wastelands”.
Patterson is an LA-based screenwriter who has worked a number of Hollywood studios and Dragonslayer is his first feature. The movie, which was produced by Killer Films and former HBO exec John Baker, was released by record label Drag City, best known for releasing records by bands likes Smog and Royal Trux, and is the label’s sophomore film following the release of Harmony Korineʼs Trash Humpers.
However, despite the similarities with all things Unsane, the team, which includes cinematographer Eric Koretz, intended to film a long lens look at Sandoval rather than producing (another) skate movie. “We didn’t want it to look like a skateboarding film,” he says. “The movie should be like a punk demo tape that you find in a garbagecan.”
Gnaw: What’s the (new) best hamburger joint in London?
Is there anywhere in London that rivals burger palace The Meatwagon?
Lucky Chip, a van in London Fields, has constructed a hamburger that is as juicy and tasty as Yianni’s patty. It is the latest step in the capital’s burger revolution.
What makes a great hamburger? The meat, this time from hipster butcher The Ginger Pig, is obvious as is the cheap but solid cheese, but just as important is the bun, strong enough to hold it together and sweet enough to make a difference.
There has been a huge surge of bog-standard burger chains on the high street, but the likes of Fine Burger Company and Gourmet Burger Kitchen are worthless salthuts, mediocre meat caves punching above their glorified pub grub weight. The next step is awarding burger wizards like Ben, who runs Lucky Chip and Meatwagon’s Yianni their own spaces (see the soon to launch Meat Liquor in November) to continue this renaissance.
If I was Steve Lamacq, I would haul my investment from FBC and start setting up shop with hip young meatslingers like Lucky Chip.
Gnaw: Is The Meatwagon opening a bar?
It appears that team behind amazing burger joint The Meatwagon (aka #meateasy) is opening a bar. There are scant details although it appears that they will be announcing the new venture on November 11 (11/11/11).
However, disgusting and vile you thought The Human Centipede was, the worst thing about the sequel The Human Centipede II (Full Sequence) is that it looks terribly hackneyed.
Sandpaper masturbation, barbed wire rape and people being stitched together via nailgun etc.
However, Dutch director Tom Six said: “I hate animal cruelty so I would never do anything with that in any of my films. You know what, the horror filmmakers are usually very friendly. It’s the romantic comedy makers who you have to watch out for. They hurt animals at home, secretly.”
Good to know.
American Horror Story is a brutal and horrifying terror franchise that is airing on FX. The premiere episode includes ghost gimp sex scenes and the gruesome slaying on a pair of Shining-esque twins. It’s part The Exorcist, part Rosemary’s Baby.
The scariest thing, however, is that it was created by Glee creator Ryan Murphy (and his colleague Brad Falchuk). Murphy, who also worked on Nip/Tuck and high school series Popular, brings a fresh and fucked up view to the horror world.
Next step? Persuading Aaron Sorkin or Greg Daniels to create a horror movie.
What If Kurt Cobain Didn’t Die?
January 20, 1997: A Page Six item in the New York Post claims that Cobain in romantically linked to PJ Harvey.
Dear Kurt: Nevermind The Last Twenty Years
Hope you are well.
Today (Saturday 24th September 2011) marks the 20th anniversary of the release of Nevermind. Congratulations.
It’s difficult to write anything new, prosaic or interesting about your record, which has been dissected and deliced so intensely that it sometimes feels that over-analysis has sapped the soul from my many battered copies.
Then, I put it on the stereo really loud and stop caring.
What’s special about the twentieth anniversary of the record? Nothing. Does it matter? No.
Despite, this, I’ve spent the last few weeks listening to nothing but your throat scratching sophomore effort and its various variances. I’ve mauled the original version of the record so much that Teen Spirit’s four chord opening and drum bashing (that drummer’s a keeper) are well worn and Territorial Pissing’s primal paranoia is almost pollyannaish.
Have you seen the four disc and LP box set that Universal Music is releasing on Monday? It’s a pretty monstrous effort with the requisite sepia-toned photo-montage as well as a smash hits poster pullout (I’m not kidding) and copies of your tour accounts (presumably submitted by Monty L. Wilkes) and the invoice for all the recording (well done for keeping it under $70k).
However, I’ve been trying to work out why the fuck anyone other than Pen Cap Chew obsessives and the sonically anal retentive would buy, listen to or pay attention to the mountain of moderately different recordings that make up such a collection, especially given that it retails for over $100.
The bootleg of Live from the Paramount Theatre has been knocking around online for the best part of 15 years. Sure, it seemed like a good show and I enjoyed that Vaselines cover but you still fuck up the guitar intro to Smells Like Teen Spirit and it doesn’t have Flea playing a trumpet solo (like that time in Brazil).
The vaults have been dry for years and I don’t believe Courtney even if she claims there’s thousands of hours of unreleased songs hidden somewhere in her batshit crazy lair.
The Devonshire Mixes - the version of the album that Garbage-man Butch Vig recorded and mixed before Slayer goat boy Andy Wallace took a turn - are indistinguishable from the released record. Did you really notice any difference apart from the fact that someone has lowered the volume to give it that ‘raw’ punk rock feel?
The Smart Studio Sessions, meanwhile, are demos, man. Demos. Don’t get me wrong, I spent my youth collecting your band’s demos like most Ocean Pacific-wearing, gum chewing American brats collected baseball cards, but this is just taking the piss. Sidenote: Have you spoken to Chad Channing recently? Maybe worth a phone call.
In spite of all of this, you don’t deserve some of the shit that they’re currently dredging up. That In Bloom: The Nirvana Exhibition at London’s Loading Bay Gallery (sponsored by Spotify) is empty and unnecessary, a small collection of photos we’ve all seen a million times and a drum kit that looks like it had been shipped in straight from John Henry’s. It looks like the ransacked vacuum-packed bedroom of a teenage fan if he’s locked up and stored away all the valuable and interesting shit.
There has also been some turgid pieces of writing about you and the record; Paul Connolly really went to town in the Daily Mail, harping on about Oh, The Guilt, and other shit that he doesn’t really understand, while your old mate Everett True is taking credit for everything you do. Have a word.
Regardless, I’ve had Nevermind on repeat for the last few weeks, reminding me of a distant past when I gave up hairspray metal for a grubby Nirvana tape and subsequently spent the next ten years chasing bootlegs, Seattle dreams and rare vinyl (has anyone ever seen the Costa Rican promo of In Blomm (sic)?).
What would you make of all this hyperbole and mutated memories? Would you care? I fucking doubt it; you’d probably be living in a cabin deep in the woods making Bon Iver look like Kanye West. Either that or drumming for The Melvins, right?
You, Fudge Packin, Crack Smokin, Satan Worshippin, Mother Fucker.