“He sang of partying with such ferocity that suddenly parties seemed like trench warfare…” How we saw, and only just survived, an early performance of the 00s' first rock classic

A sweaty Andrew Wk surrounded by fans.

Back in the raw, drizzly spring of 2001, I found myself in some dumbo punk’s basement to watch my friends in a local leather neanderthal band melt some faces. There was the standard array of half-assed thrash bands on the bill, but the opener was just some dude from out of town.

He moseys up to the– well, there was no stage, just kind of a cleared corner of the cellar – and pushes play on his boombox. The guy wears all white, except it’s clear he hasn’t bathed or changed in a good week or so. He's grimy.