By NATHAN FISHER
Managing Editor
Jesus loves you…
Andrew W.K.’s appearance at Johnny Depp’s
Viper Room on Sunset felt curiously like a late twentieth century
resurrection fantasy, starring Andrew Christ as Himself, incarnate.
“You have a choice,” he mysteriously announced between
songs in typical Christian existentialist fashion.
Indeed, our choice was between him singing “I
love New York City” or “I love L.A. City.” Los
Angeles being the location of the show, L.A. City was chosen and
the modified song commenced. Andrew sang like he had never sung
before—I was delirious with pleasure. By demonstrating that
New York City and Los Angeles were interchangeable as far as his
love was concerned, I believe that Andrew was trying to tell us
that he loves us all, no matter how wretched we have become. This
was what confirmed his Christ status for me, ultimately, although
there were several other clues.
At one point, Andrew instructed us to mosh in
a counter-clockwise direction and the whole room began to agitate
and spin. Security guards stood in the eye of the storm, tackling
various ne’er-do-wells that took the opportunity to grope
women and hit children. At one point security tackled me, but
it was only to get at someone behind me.
A few songs later, Andrew declared that “the
circle will live again.” The counterclockwise moshing recommenced.
He had galvanized his audience into an organic sequence of writhing
bodies—he was, with his long, brown hair and filthy white
t-shirt, most certainly a Christ figure. The lyrics “We
can never die / You can never kill us” confirmed this.
This particular evening belonged to the Summer
of ’02—early September, and the memory, not two weeks
old, has already begun to stale in an Inland Empire malaise of
polystyrene and eucalyptus. River Phoenix—who I hesitate
to mention died in the Viper Room so many weeks ago—was
last century (yes?), while being fair, we can’t yet tell
when the twentieth century ended and the twenty-first began, precisely.
That’s one of the more highbrow ways in which this Andrew
concert was both a fascinating window into American culture as
well as a damn good show in its own right.
Politico-historically, the scholars might tell
us that November 7, 2000 was the century break, but theirs would
be an exercise in futility, even an effective demonstration of
the ambiguity of the millennial zeitgeist itself. They might say,
“the Election of 2000, the first 50/50 split in memory,
was the final elective asphyxiation after which we all became
robots and our democracy became robot democracy. That is where
the twenty-first century truly began.” On the other hand
they might say, “there. There is the ambivalence that has
come to symbolize fin-de-siècle capitalism. Forty-eight
million for Gore. Forty-eight million for Bush. One hundred million
for no one. The twenty-first century did not begin there.”
In so many words, the scholars and the election
and the lot of them went “computer,” sort of Matrix
style. The year 2000 itself began in “computer” fashion
(sort of Matrix style too), the “millennial bug” being
little more than our “twentieth-century angst” played
out as fictive, global-systemic malfunction—this century,
last century, unsure, vaguely afraid.
Music too? Well, in the midst of this temporal and spiritual ambiguity,
Andrew promised he would never let his fans down, that he believed
in humanity. And that’s precisely why I felt compelled to
attend, whatever the cost.
That, and one Charlie Ittner’s ’03
moment of spontaneous genius, when he realized it was time to
purchase Andrew tickets. Whilst adrift upon an instinctual journey
aboard Al Gore’s internet—that tangled, cogitative
manifestation of our culturally pervasive late-capitalist genius-idiot
dialectic, Ittner discovered that he could see Andrew, in Los
Angeles, the next day, for just $32 (plus parking) for both of
us. He quickly bought two of the last remaining tickets and called
me, ecstatic, religiously so. In exchange, I was to buy dinner,
the first few drinks, and put out after the show. Heart aflutter,
I agreed.
Suffice it to say that this wicked world revolved
upon its axis but once as I could barely contain my enthusiasm.
I was about to see the band that Maxim hailed as the best act
at OzzFest this summer. You might dismiss Maxim as reactionary,
misogynist propaganda. All right.
The next night, and a jaunt down the 210, the
110, the 101 (with a fortuitous detour at Pink’s Chili Dogs
on LaBrea and Melrose) and Sunset Boulevard later, we were in
the wee, conspicuously art-deco Viper Room, standing comfortably
away from the crowd, which rocked pretty hard, there, in front
of us. A cute waitress in a white tank top, which read “Viper
Room” in viperesque, art deco lettering brought us Budweiser
after Budweiser. I was pleasantly drunk, though, and the waitress’s
affability was the most genuine thing about the Viper Room, save
possibly Christ (Andrew) himself. Art Deco being a twentieth century,
modern interpretation of late gothic style, and late gothic style
being foremost a Christian style, I feel comfortable in telling
you that Christ rocked his temple hard that night.
The band consists of four (fucking four!) guitarists,
Andrew (one of the four), a clearly tongue-in-cheek representation
of a cave-man bass player and the drummer. After a brief set by
L.A. upstarts Soulshine (whose lead singer, intriguingly, performed
in an overcoat and scarf) and a thirty minute wait involving some
of the most rocking songs out there (the Ramones, Aerosmith, the
Vines), the curtain lifted and a half dozen fans dove out into
the crowd.
Then, Andrew and his band appeared and began the
first few bars of “Party ‘Till You Puke” while
simultaneously throwing water at us. I was struck by how boy bandish
this all was—the unnecessary number of people on stage,
the screaming audience (much of which was female), the band’s
whole shtick. While I have my reservations about being a “cultural
dupe” (nobody likes to admit that they’ve been taken
in by boy-band capitalism, let alone boy-band Christian capitalism),
I have to say that the performance made me rethink my automatic
disqualification of boy bands. The show was fun, and that’s
what a good boy band show should be. Plus, they rocked incredibly,
probably ironically, hard.
At the conclusion of the show Andrew, closely
followed by his bandmates, dove into the audience—the crucifixion,
perhaps. Ittner lept over to his false idol and grabbed his hand.
Andrew clasped back in reciprocation and the two enjoined limbs
raised above the fracas, like a spire, toward the heavens. I managed
to rub Andrew’s sweaty, sweaty head and tell him that “I
liked his music.”
“Thank you,” he said. This guy sincerely
loves his fans. His overwhelmingly tiring set and stage presence,
crowd diving and all, is far too difficult to replicate night
after night for mere money. I take all his famed ramblings quite
at face value, though I admit that his major label status and
ironic-not-ironic billing is lining the pockets of quite a few
capitalists, including Andrew Himself. Well, render unto Caesar
what is Caesar’s, I often say.
So what is this guy and his boy band doing at
the top of the OzzFest hierarchy? OzzFest, for me, conjures up
images of commercial rock purists with the multitudes giving respect
to big time artists like Rob Zombie and P.O.D. (themselves Christian)
who take themselves way too seriously. My guess is that Andrew,
as I’ve said, is quite serious himself in his superhuman
efforts at pushing rock to ridiculous extremes in his all-consuming
stage persona.
All the same, this leads to a central ambiguity
for me. Which century’s ghost do we belong to, now, in September,
2002? The twentieth century, perhaps, can be categorized as the
apotheosis of irony. The chattering classes of post-September
11, 2001 U.S.A. immediately declared irony to be dead, perhaps
too immediately. But they do have a point. We don’t need
to call rock “alternative” anymore to rock out to
it. This new wave of rock, which would have been laughed off stage
five years ago, seems to be pretty well accepted by the most pretentious
of my music loving friends.
So, in true Christian fashion, Andrew transcends
this irony-non-irony debate. Yes, he and his band are fake in
the sense that they are hyperformulaic and they rake in tons of
money for rich white men. But they are also genuine about their
hyperpersonas, at least Andrew is; this I really believe. Irony
turns us all into cynics after too long, jaded machines that complain
as we exchange commodities on the “free” market. Andrew
W.K., caught in this tension between human and machine, comes
down firmly on the side of humanity, and he has chosen to bear
a hefty burden on behalf of us. Once again, long live the new
savior of rock.
