The estimable Dave Grohl of the Foo Fighters has bafflingly decided to try everyone’s patience with this insufferable vanity project: a violent gonzo grossout that sadly conforms to the horror-comedy tendency of being neither properly scary nor properly funny. And it’s founded on the assumption that these real-life badass rock musicians are also pretty hilarious and adorable.
In this alternative universe, the Foo Fighters are creatively blocked: we see them sitting around the boardroom table in their record company offices, listlessly bickering. So the irascible corporate suit (Jeff Garlin, phoning it in) sends them to a notorious semi-derelict house with all sort of freaky associations with rock legends of the past, there to work on their new album. It was apparently last used by a troubled band called Dreamwidow, who were tipped to be “the next Jane’s Addiction”. Grohl becomes haunted by the place’s devilish spirits, increasingly obsessed with his own freaky otherworldly vision for the record, as more and more violent and demonic things keep happening.
