A multi-award-winning experience of what it’s like to live in constant fear, from rookie Hungarian director László Nemes
Andrew WK : I Get Wet
Andrew WK makes music like bodybuilders pump iron. His sound is furious, muscular and relentless...
By now, you'll doubtless have already heard his debut single 'Party Hard' and realised Andrew WK makes music like bodybuilders pump iron. His sound is furious, muscular and relentless - not to mention camp, dangerous and slightly insane. It's also no fluke, because the whole of this precocious debut follows exactly the same blueprint.
'I Get Wet' is an amazing experience. It's a record made entirely of raw eggs and steak, it's for people who like the smell of hot crack in the morning and if we were to write a review in a similar style it would have to be ENTIRELYINCAPTIALLETTERSWITHOUTANYPAUSESATALL.
Recorded at the cost of a quarter of a million dollars, its state-of-the-art production has been designed to crush anyone who comes within a 100 yard radius of it. It takes driving anthemic rock as its starting point (think Van Halen, Abba, Springsteen, The Ramones and Slayer) and then offers a 35-minute rush of adrenalized mayhem built solely to relay WK's unique philosophy on life (ie, let's party until we a) puke or b) die of exhausation).
Every song here is identical. It's entirely one-dimensional, but - hey - what a dimension. In a world dominated by nu-metal bands with issues or British acoustic groups with girl trouble, 'I Get Wet' offers a thrillingly hedonistic alternative, operating at such a primeval level it's frightning. 'She Is Beautiful' is about seeing a girl and shouting "She is beautiful!!!!" 'I Get Wet' - with its apocalyptic brass and Wagnerian intensity - is about getting so excited you wet yourself. 'I Love NYC' is about, well, we're sure you get the picture...
In this tsunami of tightly-compressed power chords and bulging biceps, it's hard to pick out highlights, but special mention must be made of 'Girls Own Love' (a re-recording of his first US single 'Girls Own Juice') with its stone-age take on the battle of the sexes ("You got to make her understand/That you are a man!") and the synth-strafing 'Party 'Til You Puke', which comes flooding out of the speakers with all the sensitivity of a Nuremberg rally. Resistance is futile, and the only question now is - having ripped apart modern rock music - what's Andrew WK going to do for an encore?
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