WK, Andrew : London Garage
The fact that some idiot thought it necessary to headbutt, and hospitalise Andrew WK gives indication of the passions this fella will arouse
Tonight Andrew WK plays his first UK date and it's in front of the assembled masses of the British music industry. Hardly the sweaty, party-mad crowd he demands, the suits stand, arms folded, sneering sceptically, waiting to pass judgement... It may as well have been Peter Waterman, Simon Cowell, Nicky Chapman and Dr Cocking Fox!
But fuck 'em and fuck Pop Idol! Within seconds of his appearance, Andrew WK is Rock Icon!
What do you want in your new superstars? The swagger of Elvis? The presence of WWF's The Rock? The energy of Axl Rose? The hair of that bird out of The Corrs? He got it. And he got plenty tunes... And he got an all important one word manifesto!
After a good minute of prime AC/DC riffing and a chant of 'It's Time To...', Andrew WK bursts onto stage, joining his motley looking band of thrash metal refugees, and hollers 'PARTY!'
White jeans and T-shirt soaked with sweat in seconds, the man is a fearsome frontman - a mix of biceps, charisma and presence not seen since Rollins. But sexy.
'Party Hard', 'Party 'Til You Puke', 'I Get Wet'... Andrew WK throttles through a set of blatantly obvious, crass, shameless and thoroughly insane party rock. The message is simple. The music even more so. And it's furiously, frenetically fantastic.
'I Love NYC' and 'Girl's Own Love' come on like The Stooges playing Five, or Van Halen doing Hanson, or Slayer doing The Spice Girls. Stars in their eyes. And stars in ours. They haven't come to save rock. They've come to party!
Opinions split? 50 per cent of people are wrong. And the fuckwit who felt so impassioned to attack WK pays him great compliment. He testifies to how powerful and emotive music his music can be.
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