Andrew WK review

So last Monday I went along to the Andrew WK concert.

The opening band was Republic of Loosh. A bit of Talking Heads, or what Talking Heads would've been like without their best elements (David Byrne, the guitar sound) and with random baggyists drafted in instead.

Next up is Winnebago Deal, who is a guy with a drum set and a guy with a guitar. They make a lot of sound and fury and seem to impress no-one very much. A metaller I know, who seems surprised to see me there, disapproves thoroughly of the wanking about, but allows he's only there to see Andrew WK's Drummer, Donald Tardy, who used to be in Obituary.

The music does get up to a tempo which allows the first outbreak of moshing, which always comes as a surprise. A sudden outburst of (apparent) violence which stops again after a few seconds after failing to reach critical mass. It'll be better later, when it's more anonymous, and no need for apologetic glances afterwards.

After WD fuck off, there's a commotion as Alan Moore/Alice Cooper hybrid Jimmy Coup has appeared in the bar and is talking to people, signing stuff etc. Eventually he wanders into the venue and his going gets slower the closer he gets to the stage. Eventually they have to pluck him from the crowd in order to start the show.

And so it starts, and before the first song is over my friend is singing along, and he knows all the words. And Andrew is here to tell us all that we have in common that we are able to gather here to have a good time. A different (or at least more explicit) view of the reason metallers have so much fun: "It sucks, but we cannot be sure even of tomorrow. Let's have a good time while we're here". It can't be that easy, can it? Looks like it.

There's a piano-length keyboard set up in front of the drumkit, and the first minute of the first song affords us a look at Andrew's muscular back as he hammers away on it.

I forget the main reason why, if you're up front, you should keep an arm up at all times. Not just to salute the rock at all occasions, but also to ward against getting a 15-year-old in the back of the head. Note to crowdsurfers: please wear a shirt. Not for propriety or anything: I'm slick as an otter by the time that starts anyway. But it's easier for the people who do support you to, y'know, support you if you're wearing something they can hold, rather than a slippery arm or torso.

For the last two songs, there's a band-sponsored stage invasion (Jimmy goes down and starts hauling people out), and Andrew sings the chorus of I Get Wet with a fan sitting on his shoulders. Then it's off for a rest, and back out with "I Love New York City". He's done some clever syllable-counting, but the crowds love for him exceeds even the traditional Dublin self-aggrandising, and it takes a while for them to realise that he's singing "I Love Dublin City", as they're singing the other one.

And then it's over, and we're chased out of the Venue Proper, and my friend goes outside to dry off a bit. He seems a little annoyed when they won't let him back in, and when his friends won't go out to join him. What did he expect? The venue is the TBMC, notorious for getting people out and keeping them out, and we're waiting for the Man.

And we wait, and after some time, he comes out of the backstage area, and sits down and people gather around and he starts chatting and signing. Then the staff start making noises about moving up the ramp, so he moves up to the bar. Then the barstaff start making noises, so he takes the whole show outside. And a million-selling artist stands in the corner of Curved Street and poses for photos, answers questions and fills anything handed to him with tiny neat block capitals of positivity until it's one in the morning, and everyone's gone home.