Andrew W.K.
with Flogging Molly, Andrew WK, Lost City Angels, and Allister @ the Roxy, Oct. 28
by Brad Reed
“Uh-oh,” I remark to my friend, seeing only a guitarist and a drummer on stage. “I smell a White Stripes rip-off coming on.”
“They’re not a White Stripes rip-off!” exclaims the girl in front of me, probably one of the band members’ girlfriends. “They’re a pop-punk band!”
Unfortunately, she was right. The bassist and rhythm guitarist of Allister came out on stage and fluttered into “Scratch,” off their newest album Last Stop Suburbia. The Green Day impersonation is dead-on, which is too bad because Green Day has been dead for the last few years. 1994, guys, eight years too late! I get a beer and listen to them play some more Green Day songs that they claim to’ve written. I down the beer quickly and head back to the stage. I hear frontman and band namesake Timmy Allister describe the next song, “None of My Friends Are Punk,” as being about “all the punks who sold out and went corporate.” Time for another beer. Seriously, these guys would sign a record contract using Satan’s dick dipped in an inkwell of their mothers’ own breast milk if they were asked to.
Hometown heroes Lost City Angels were up next. By this time, I was too drunk to pay much attention (four beers throughout Allister’s 20-minute set had gotten me pretty rocked), but their set sounded excellent when I wasn’t taking a piss or stumbling around aimlessly trying to find my friends. The band mixes pop sensibilities with the Boston “Fuck off, ya bast-uhd!” attitude, owing not a little of their sound to fellow Massholes, the Mighty Mighty Bosstones.
Lyrical non-sequitors and wrath of indie snobs (who want every band to have the integrity of Modest Mouse) aside, WK is cool as fuck because his creed is “DO WHATEVER THE FUCK YOU WANT! AAAAAAAAAAAH!!” and I think he’s crazy enough to actually mean it. OK, so the music is cheesy and the riffs are cartoonish, but the sound is so goddamn infectious, you can’t help but love it.
A microcosm of the WK Philosophy happened when I started wailing on this one guy in the mosh pit who pissed me off by blocking my camera. When I turned him around, I discovered it was my friend Derek whom I’d lost earlier. WK would have approved: The best way to show friendship is by BEATING THE CRAP OUT OF EACH OTHER! AAAAAH!!!!
Next thing I know, some bastard rips off my jacket and flings it into the audience. I would have been angry, but people are rushing the stage as WK starts to sing his final song, “Party Hard.” I somehow find my way up there and fall into some shit and have no idea what the hell is going on. All I know is that I’m partying. Hard.
The beautiful and talented Bridget Regan captured my heart by playing both fiddle and tin whistle with equal skill, and the rest of the band simply rocked, never letting up on the lightning pace that the songs demanded. Not wanting to rejoin the mosh pit (and feeling it would be inappropriate with such kick-ass Celtic music playing) I stand off to the side and attempt (very poorly) to jig by myself. The band gets more and more impressive as the set goes on, attacking “Black Friday Rule,” “The Worst Day Since Yesterday,” and “What’s Left of the Flag” with relentless energy.
Before playing “What’s Left of the Flag,” which has been getting airplay on WBCN recently, lead singer Dave King thanks BCN’s Oedipus for “having the balls to play a song about my father.” Yeah, that’s pretty cool. Very, very good show, an’ a round o’ Guinness to all concerned.