Review Summary: Don't even try to deny it. You're gonna have a party tonight.
F*ck Objectivity. It’s an ideal that deviates from the enjoyment of life and is usually employed by smarmy types too busy reveling in their fleeting sense of post-modernism to notice life is metaphorically simple: you either party till you puke (aka enjoy life) or think that partying hard and partying till you puke is sophomoric and trite (aka you hate life and try to make everyone else miserable so you can look smart). An objective person hears Andrew WK and employs self-affirming comparisons like “throaty” and “cro-magnon” before resuming their jack-off session over the latest electro-pop, un metal, unmanly fiasco Pitchfork is ramming them in the a$$ with. Maybe they’ll wax poetic about the supposed moronic platitudes of frat boys and the unsophisticated like because those are the dudes who used to beat the piss out of them in high school just before banging their girlfriend. Or maybe I’m wrong. Maybe the fact I legitimately enjoy bands like Steel Panther and Nashville Pussy and passionately believe if you don’t like AC/DC you might as well kill yourself means I’m actually a moron. But I don’t think so.
I’m smart enough to know that songs like “Fun Night” and “I Love NYC (OH YEAH, NEW YORK CITY) and their towering campiness are unrivaled, unabashed exorcisms in TARD rock. I am fully (intellectually, but who gives a ***) aware “I Get Wet” is either the result of a pot-licking one-chromosome-too-short ape somehow being granted access to a machine that multi-tracks guitar parts and programs drums or just a really contrived tribute to DUDES everywhere. It doesn’t f*cking matter. It doesn’t matter because there have been at least 6 times in my life where I legitimately and un-ironically thought the uncompromisingly badass title track (an understatement), was the best song ever written. It doesn’t matter because I used to think doing keg stands to “Party Till You Puke” was more than a rite of passage; it was a Goddamn Friday night requirement. It is of no consequence that any autistic 2nd grader could write the melody for “Ready to Die” on their toddler friendly keyboard, if you hate this song you have no soul and you probably kill puppies, and the same goes for any other Budweiser and testosterone fueled anthem on this uncompromising, hard-jamming opus.
If we remove irony from any equation involving Andrew WK, you can separate the entire world into three groups. In pop culture irony is usually a shield for guilty pleasures. Anybody who only enjoys Andrew WK ironically is the sad sack who desperately seeks affirmation and validation from everyone, can’t make a decision on anything, and will stab you in the back when you least expect it. The ones that can’t stand Andrew WK and loudly proclaim this fact in a chest-beating (yet wimpy) manner, hate life while suffering from grandiose levels of self-importance, probably detest the idealisms that built America, and are not to be trusted. The ones that love Andrew WK are the salt of the earth because they like to party which means they rule at life. It really isn’t more complicated than that. Let’s give Andrew WK credit. Aside from having a totally badass album cover, his polarizing mantra actually makes some of life’s difficult questions extremely simplistic. His Neanderthal-like (read: awesome) presence unwittingly reveals the key to human nature and personality types. Drink. F*ck. Party. Simplistic it seems, but is life worth living without those things? I say absolutely and unequivocally not. Thank you Andrew WK.
