Fans of sex-mad super-sleuth The Falcon will no doubt remember the scene in A Date With The Falcon, where our hero has been captured by mobsters and about to meet his doom. Upon being told that he’s having weights tied to his legs before being dropped through a trapdoor into the sea, The Falcon folds his arms, turns up his nose and states flatly, “How very trite.” That was his opinion of gangsters sixty years ago, and it’s exactly what I think about gangstas today. Very trite.
As soon as piss-streak rapper Knockturnal wakes up, the girls by the pool suddenly launch into a self-conscious lesbian session. Knockers watches for a minute or two, mumbling “Oh yeah, yeah, yeah-yeah” under his breath before wandering aimlessly around his LA mansion (no doubt rented for the day; he probably lives in a Netto cardboard box on a trailer-park somewhere), popping his head around doors giving us, the lucky viewers, the confidential Karl Howman treatment (‘Ere, lads, this ‘ere Flash don’t ‘alf get ridda spunk-stains – and it smells nice too!) And that’s pretty much it. The film crew – talented enough to film their own arrival and indeed all that’s gone on before it – turn up and begin making out with the girls, Knockers’ mates do the business too although Knockers himself refrains, content to just sit and watch. Roughly ten minutes from the end, the actual “party” starts – the guys and gals stumbling into one another like Care Home Zombies whilst Knockturnal knocks-out hit after hit after hit (in the short time allowed.)
This is truly, truly terrible, there’s really nothing else to say. The soft-core porn is abysmal (quick on the draw with the pause-button if you wanna see anything) but that’s no big deal as the girls aren’t anything special – Harley reminds me a little of Myra Hindley, but whatever turns you on I guess. They’re what you might euphemistically call “simple” girls, conspicuously having to look to the director to receive sex-directions – even then they’re none too convincing. Aggressive (worryingly so) rappess Misty Mason puts in an unwelcome appearance too, thankfully more subdued than usual and minus her ridiculous afro-wig – no, no, she doesn’t do anything, she’s just here, stumbling around with all the other losers.
Knockturnal himself is a real disappointment – that’s some achievement, considering the pathetic nature of this flick, a totally nondescript stoner rapper; unlike his psycho-dusthead mates in Liquid City, this jerk ain’t even funny. He can’t rap either – what you can just about make out of the music is fucking awful too. The muffled, poorly-produced tunes evoke fond memories of hanging around outside various deadbeat night-clubs trying to buy drugs and the MC-ing itself is nothing but ragga-style I’ve-got-nothing-to-say-but-if-I-just-growl-it-out-like-this-then-hopefully-no-one-will-notice crap. And Knockers old buddy – you owe it to yourself to get yourself a fucking new DJ!!! One who doesn’t sound like he’s trying to claw a hole through a fucking blackboard!
I wish there was more to say about this, I really do. I had to actually sit through this bastard – it wasn’t much fun, I can tell you! And I’ve asked myself time and time again: Who the fuck would actually BUY this shit? Page 3 in the Star would give you a better grumble, rummaging through the bargain-bin in any second hand record shop would turn up better music. I have to conclude that the only people who actually would fork out their hard-stolen pennies to buy such a piss-poor item would be Knockturnal and his mates themselves. It’s pretty sad. Look, Knockers mate, I really feel for you – because one day you’ll think of this and just fucking cry yourself to sleep. The Way I Am… well, you said it – you’re SHIT!!!