Photos by Alex M. Smith, styling by Lauren Oppelt

Andrew WK is more than just the sum of his parts. His energy, attitude and fierce positivity have all participated in solidifying his status as a hard-partying rock star, but it’s been his unwavering loyalty to his fans and his overall mission that have brought him success in the worlds of music and business. “My music isn’t about communicating an experience; it’s more about trying to conjure up a feeling,” he explains. For Andrew, both his approach to music and the work itself come from very personal place. “When you’re young you have all these emotions — anger, confusion, frustration — bad feelings. I wanted to find a way to not feel that way. I wanted to work on something that had ideals and hopes associated with it, that I could also be inspired by. Something that could build me up to be a bigger and better version than what I would have been otherwise. I had a mission, even if that mission was just making exciting music. Creating that kind of pure joy, which isn’t necessarily associated with any reason, is what I always liked most about music and art; this idea of pure energy. A feeling of possibility that wasn’t necessarily associated to an idea, an opinion, or a belief. An undeniably good physical feeling that you don’t need your brain to process — your body tells you by giving you the chills or butterflies in your stomach. I wanted to immerse myself in that, that physical sensation of joy.”

Growing up in Southeast Michigan, the son of a professor and a “super mom,” Andrew was encouraged to experiment with music at a very young age. By the time he was four, he was enrolled at the University of Michigan’s School of Music, where he began training in classical piano. With no older siblings to guide his foray into popular music, he found other ways to satiate his curiosities. “I would hear something on the radio or see something on television, and my mom would really do her best to try and help me figure out what it was.”

Even without a musical lexicon, one of Andrew’s earliest musical attractions was to a “sort of funk guitar wah-wah sound, like the Shaft theme song.” He articulated what he could to his mother, and found himself with a Led Zeppelin record that didn’t really fit the bill. “I was expecting Barry White or Shaft and was confronted with this strange rock ‘n roll stuff — I didn’t like it all, out of sheer disappointment. A couple years later, I put it on again and it ended up being my favorite album. I was so thankful to my mom — she wasn’t sure if it was appropriate music for me to be listening to, but she never stopped me.”

When speaking about his parents, Andrew’s voice softens. His admiration is evident, and his approach to music was obviously affected by the lessons he learned as a child. “I don’t think a parent’s job is to keep their kids from being exposed to the world. I think it’s more about building the capacity and intelligence in that young person, so they can process those experiences themselves in an intelligent way. My mom would let me do anything, like draw naked lady pictures when I was young and not freak out about it! She made me feel like I was okay, and that the world was okay, and she trusted my judgment.”

It’s not hard to see how Andrew WK’s positive message and mission evolved — they were ingrained in him from the start. Like so many creative voices, Andrew had his sights set on New York City early on: “New York was made out to be so exciting in films and television. I liked the tall buildings, the energy. There didn’t seem to be a lot of people in New York that were doing what I was doing. It wasn’t based on one attitude or one shared opinion. New York seemed so volatile. I think I wanted to feel threatened in a way that would inspire me to work really hard. I respect the mindset that you don’t have to move anywhere to realize your dreams, but when your dream itself is moving to New York City it’s a no brainer. I didn’t think it would take moving here to do what I wanted to do, but it seemed more fun to me — it was a pleasure.”

It’s hard to pinpoint why some musicians drown once making the move to New York while others thrive, but certainly work ethic and drive are major components. For Andrew, it seems that his unrelenting positivity and openness to new opportunities have also played major parts in his success. His endless touring, and his willingness to collaborate with fellow musicians on events like the 2012 World Snowboarding Championships in Oslo, Norway, in which he is serving as a rock ‘n roll ambassador, are part of the puzzle.

Another important part of Andrew WK’s success has been his “party hard” message. Unlike other musicians who espouse the use of alcohol or drugs to heighten the party experience, Andrew’s message has always been about the high you get from life, unfiltered, unadulterated. What better way to capitalize on that appeal than to create a nightlife mecca where revelers from all walks of life can get down?

Santos Party House is a passion project between Andrew and a group of friends, who wanted to create the ultimate New York City destination. It opened in 2008. “I like clubs, but I usually can’t get into them,” he says with a laugh. “We all had very strong opinions, and a lot of experiences with venues, bars, clubs, sound systems and everything else. I think we really did achieve what we wanted, which was combining the best elements of all these things. We definitely went big with it. We didn’t want to settle or shoot lower out of fear, because it is a huge undertaking in a big space. It was also really important for us to do it in Manhattan, because there hasn’t been a new, proper dance venue downtown with a real cabaret license in over 20 years.”

“The only way we were able to do any of it was with the support of the city and the people themselves, so creating a space to give back to the city which has given all of us so much was a great privilege and a real labor of love for everyone involved. It’s the most rewarding and the most magical thing I’ve ever been involved with!” Santos has been a success since its inception, and its appeal has extended beyond New York City’s borders. In February, when Andrew attends the World Snowboarding Championships, he plans to bring Santos to Oslo every night. And of course, the completion of a new record set for the end of winter means yet another year of touring is on the horizon. For Andrew, it’s a mission he’s overwhelmingly happy to accept.

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Be at a time in your life when doing edibles seemed like a good idea.

Have no plans for the night. Imagine an evening of low-key boredom. Be sitting at your apartment with your friend discussing what you want to do. There’s a party at your friend’s house, but it’s far and might be a costume party. “That might just be too much, you know?”

Fiddle your thumbs some more and then remember that your friend gave you a pot brownie a few weeks ago. Get excited. What a great way to remix the night! Ask your friend if they want to get high. “I have an edible from awhile ago. I haven’t even tried it yet. Oh my god, lets do it. It could be fun. Fuck yeah, lets get hiiiiiiighhhh!!!!!” Your friend agrees and you each split a half. The flavor of the brownie is Cookie Dough Chocolate Surprise but it really just tastes like bits of chocolate just landed on some nugs of weed. Chug water after ingesting.

Don’t really care for weed because it makes you feel fat and lazy, but try hard to enjoy it anyway. Go into each weed experience with optimism and excitement. “I like weed! Right? It can’t be bad. It’s an altered state!” 20 minutes later: “Fuck, I hate weed. I want some nachos. Why am I laughing so hard at The House Bunny? This shit is not funny!” Be confused as to why you have no learning curve with pot. Then remember that it’s because you’re 20-years-old.

Wait around for ten minutes for the high to hit. Get restless and decide to go to the costume party. Take the subway and start to get annoyed at your sobriety. “Do you feel anything yet? Cause I don’t. Fuck.” Your friend shakes their head. “No, dude. I feel so sober. You know, sometimes edibles don’t work.” Resign yourself to the idea that this night might be a bust.

Show up to the party and see so many annoying hipsters dressed like Garth from Wayne’s World AKA just themselves in a blonde wig. Regret even coming. Then it happens. All of a sudden, a tidal wave of stoned washes over you. Look over at your friend and realize they’ve been staring at a blender in the kitchen for five minutes. Call them over to you.

It takes you five minutes to realize that this is no ordinary high. This is some fucked up other level shit. Drunk Garth’s are coming up to you being like, “Yoooo! What’s up?! You guys look weird.” Be unable to speak to them. Just stand there paralyzed at the thought of moving your mouth, and wonder what the hell is happening to you. Are you being possessed? Your friend responds to the drunk Garth, “Um, hi.” and then starts to walk away slowly. Very slowly. Try to follow them but every step you take feels like you’re climbing Mount Everest. It’s just the two of you now running away very slowly while “Party In The USA” plays in the background.

Ask your friend, “Um, what is going on right now? We need to leave.” They look at you with their terrified dilated eyes and say, “Listen, I don’t want to freak you out but I’m really fucking scared right now. Scared.” Attempt to walk down the stairs. Every step you take sounds like a loud clap of thunder though and you have to sit down every five minutes. In that moment, you and your friend look like stoned senior citizen zombies.

You finally make it outside and realize you have no idea where you are. Spend ten minutes standing in petrified silence. Finally, an acquaintance comes up to you to say hello.

“Hey! It’s so good to see you. Are you coming upstairs to the party?”

“No.”

“Um, okay. Do you like my costume?”

Look at this girl and honest to God, see a wizard. She’s wearing a long white beard and some sort of crazy hat. Yup, she must be a wizard.

“Yeah. You’re like a wizard from Harry Potter.”

“Um, no. I’m Andrew WK!” Your friend storms off in a huff, leaving you with the realization that you’re hallucinating. Is that even possible? Feel like you’ve been drugged with an LSD brownie.

Since both of you are too stoned to use your phone or get on a subway, you try to hail a black car that looks like it might belong to a car service. At a red light, attempt to open the door and have it be met with a terrified scream. Oops. This is not a car service. This is just someone’s car. Back to square one.

It takes twenty minutes of pep talk to get your friend to call her roommate and have them call us a car service. The conversation goes as follows:

Sean, is that you? Listen, something horrible is happening to me and I need you to call me a car because I can’t do it. No more questions. Just know that I’m so scared right now.

The car comes after two minutes or two hours. You’re not sure which. You get dropped off at your apartment and lay in bed feeling like you’re going to die. Take ten minutes to construct a text to your friend that says, “I’m going to die.” When your friend calls you immediately after you send it, scream and turn off your phone. Eat Wheat Thins and feel like you’re going to choke on every single cracker. They feel like knives going down your throat, but they also taste criminally good.  Be convinced that this is how you’re going to die: stoned in bed with a Wheat Thin lodged in your throat. Make peace with it. Make peace with the fact that you will die. If you survive, you promise to never eat an edible again. You promise to be honest with yourself about the fact that you hate weed. You promise to live a good honest life and stay away from things that could make you feel bad. Promise.

You survive.

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We recently had the most exciting week ever in Brokelyn land: a story by newbie writer Quiana Stokes about how and why she passes the time as a SAHG (Stay At Home Girlfriend) set off a firestorm of discussion, dissent and some downright nastiness internet wide. Readers questioned why we would run such a thing: on top of the regressive nature of her feelings about gender roles, the post wasn’t our usual mix of entertaining-but helpful journalism. Commensurate with the talkback were calls for any stay-at-home boyfriends to out themselves: after all, that seems more in line with the trends of our age. Magazines and blogs are rife with tales of men receding into a habit of perpetual adolescence as women outrank, outflank and outnumber them more and more, especially in New York; dyed-in-the-wool male ego is losing ground to cold economic reality.

Then I thought: if we did run a SAHB piece that had the potential to generate the same level of controversy — let’s say the SAHB argues why you should stay at home ironing your working lady’s panties instead of going to watch the game — who would be the dude blogs leading the charge of apoplectic indignant rage? What sites would whip up foment of masculine ire that a poor, misguided (Ms.-guided?) bro in Brooklyn was devoting himself to domesticated doldrums?

The answer, I realized, is that there aren’t any.

First, you have to understand the scope of the response to the SAHG piece from the female blogosphere. It angered people, but in terms of internet metrics, it was our Avatar. Within hours, SAHG became our most-popular post of all time. Linkbacks and comments poured in from all corners of the internet. Nick Cannon’s producers asked if Quiana would come on his radio show (side note: Nick Cannon has a radio show?); Kathie Lee and Hoda even whittled away a little nook in their towering mountain of intractable Today Show blather to opine on the topic.

Putting aside the irrefutable data of a smash hit-blog post, the content wasn’t really my cup of tea. The author certainly had an interesting perspective from her first-person experience living this kind of lifestyle, but I kept wondering if the ghost of Betty Friedan would be haunting our interwebs, preparing to strike our site with a volley of hijacked Viagra and Cialis ads (which did happen, btw, though we are still unraveling the mystique of the cause).

Nor was it the cup of tea of many of the major blogs that focus on women’s issues: the post got picked up by Jezebel, Gawker, The Hairpin and The Frisky, most of which took time to deliver an extended riff on the topic. You could sense furrowing brows through the intertubes:

The Hairpin‘s response was simply: “LOL is this a joke?” Gawker: “It could be a tongue-in-cheek kind of jokey type thing, right? A humorous essay chronicling the silly misadventures of a young woman stepping into more ‘traditional’ domestic duties while her live-in boyfriend is at work and she’s looking for a new job. But… it’s just not. It’s really just not.” Jezebel: “But let’s face it: the tone of this is…troubling. Not least because when one is in the author’s situation, it’s not that straightforward: one often doesn’t feel good about oneself, lacks confidence and doesn’t feel like the equal partner you once were.” The Frisky (Who, after declaring this story was linkbait, went on to link and write extensively about it): “Could I live like Quiana Stokes? Probably not. I’d get bored.”

These blogs come from varying points of view but all tried to contextualize the response of smart, skeptical women across New York City and the country. I read all these sites regularly for exactly this kind of viewpoint. But there’s nothing out there on par that curates dude opinion in the same way.

Think about it: What are the leading dude blogs out there today? I can’t think of one, and I’m a dude who blogs for a living. Switch that question around and I could name you some really top-notch sites that cover lady issues. The Hairpin, for instance, has lodged itself firmly in my regular blog rotation, not just for its entertaining looks at all things with a women-related tilt (see: stock photos of women laughing alone while eating salad) but also for its insightful commentary and its quiver of smart writers with honest takes on issues the modern, educated girl faces (see: Emily Gould’s open letter on what it means to have a 14-year-old magazine editor).

Jezebel traffics in celebrity gossip, but it also puts together serious projects and — gasp — actual journalism. Right or wrong in their conclusions, Jezebel‘s recent expose on the Daily Show being a boys club (aka “The Male-y Show”) involved serious reporting, interviews and planning, much more so than just posting a listicle or a news item and dashing off some snarky comments.

Slate‘s blog The XX Factor keeps a running tab on key issues related to women (Lara Logan, the lack of women published in lit mags, etc.). I would have also pointed to Heartless Doll, the acerbic and bitterly hip women’s blog run out of SF Weekly until it was shuttered in May. And there’s more. None of these read like an issue of Glamour, either: I can click on a Frisky post about Feminist Coming Out Day, for instance, without feeling like I’m eavesdropping on a grade school slumber party.

So what are the dude blog equivalents? Go ahead and try to think of some, because I’m more than willing to learn. The only dude blogs that come to mind are the supremely superficial ones: Guyism (tagline: “Hot Girls, Humor, Videos, Photos, Sports, Beer, Celebrities”); Asylum, which also shuttered last month, leaving as its swan song an Andrew WK interview, in which he announces his intent to go into outer space; Thrillist (unofficial tagline: “WHATTUP BROSEPH?!?!”), a repository of what to do and buy now that your frat activities director isn’t around (I site for which I apparently don’t meet the bro standard; I got rejected from a job there last year).

There’s AskMen.com, with its watch brand reviews, and Esquire‘s website, with its “what she wants you to wear” huffy insistence on swarthy materialism as the preferred style. Or Brobible, the voice of the “Brommunity,” a site that should speak for itself (but I’ll speak for it too: the words “Big Boob Bonanza” currently appear on the homepage).

Even when these sites are at their best, they lack a sense of humor about their subject matter, and about being a dude in general. Those sites exist in the old archetype of the “men’s” magazine that hasn’t changed much in decades: fashion, understanding your lady, the sexiest women in X field (because we never expect successful women to be succesexxxy too!). Those media are for “men”: 9-5ers, execs, suit-wearers, dads, old-fashioned bros clinging to their Axe body spray, wooing pearl-clad ladies in Leer Jets soaring above pristine Caribbean waters on weekend getaways.

At the end of The Slap, the Melbourne novel by Christos Tsiolkas, there is a passage—one paragraph, two pages—wherein the character Richie attends a summer festival. Tsiolkas writes, “pushing through the thick crowd [in the Boiler Room], going demented…the hard beats of the music entering his body through the soles of his feet.”

To prepare me for my gate shift at that festival, the Big Day Out, my partner brought this passage to my attention and urged me to re-read it.

The first Big Day Out was held in Sydney in 1992, where the organizers had the fortune to have booked the band Nirvana shortly before their album Nevermind replaced Michael Jackson’s Dangerous as number one on the Billboard chart. Since then it has expanded to tour six cities annually and two back-to-back shows in Sydney are usually needed. A single Sydney Big Day Out has a 55,000 capacity, and the organizers fill this with their knack for touching every quadrant possible of alternative rock fandom; this year’s lineup included, for example, Tool, Andrew WK, M.I.A., Crystal Castles, Grinderman, Megan Washington, and Rammstein.

Which is to say that, as an Australian in his twenties, I was in a tight minority for never having been to one. From the passage in The Slap, I didn’t get the sugar-fuzz of memory my partner did; this coming Big Day Out would be his thirteenth. I had applied for a gate shift pretty much exclusively because LCD Soundsystem wasn’t doing any side-shows on this tour. It’s not that I don’t like festivals, and not that I’m unfun; at a different music festival, I fashioned the plastic catchment of a six-pack around my ears as a beer-delivery device. It’s just that a consequence of the Big Day Out’s lucrative reach is that it’s full of munted jocks—and if I’m going to write myself off for a weekend, I don’t want to do it in view of a shirt that says “THIS IS AUSTRALIA. WE EAT MEAT. WE DRINK BEER. AND WE SPEAK ENGLISH.” In 2007, post-Cronulla race riots, the organizers discouraged the practice of punters caping themselves in the Australian flag, a move which was in turn frowned-upon by our then-Prime Minister. Not that a flag-ban would’ve been effective; these bogans have Southern Cross tattoos.

In other words: if I was going to the Big Day Out, I wanted someone to pay me. I was one of 220 gate staff out of over 500 applicants. My friends and I arrived at eight; I did up my wristband overtight. “Sometimes I think your parents should pay me baby-sitting fees,” my partner said. We sat on the road down from Gate 1B, where we would be working. Just after nine, Vivian Lees, a co-founder, pepped us briefly. We were the first face of the festival; it would be hot, the hottest. So, “Get on some sun splash or whatever you call it, slip slop and slop,” he said, attempting to reference the old cancer jingle that goes, “slip [on a shirt], slap [on a hat], slop [on some sunscreen]”.

My partner winced: “Too much drugs.” Just earlier, Mr. Lees had thanked us for the trip we’d made here; he’d made a tremendous, stuttered batter of that word, “trip.”

Chilly Gonzales takes the stage at the Pigalle Club, a Forties-style dinner and cabaret spot in London’s West End (circular tables, low ceilings, regular intervals of green velvet), and assumes his place at the piano. He is wearing a brown knee-length silk robe with matching trousers and a pair of generously cushioned slippers. His hands are encased in pristine white gloves. With shadowy deep-set eyes and slicked back hair, he is the very image of the brooding piano maestro.

He eases into a medley of slow, spare classical pieces. The music starts off somber and restrained, but his fingers move with such fluidity that they can’t resist adding little flourishes here and there. The embellishments begin to mount up. What opened with an air of great solemnity is now becoming increasingly comical. Now he’s playing a blues standard with one hand, a blur of white hammering away at the lower octaves.

He wraps it up and turns to confront his audience. “Hi, I’m Chilly Gonzales. If you don’t know me, I’m a Grammy-nominated producer.” This is true. He continues: “I hold the Guinness world record for longest continuous piano concert at 27 hours.” This is also true. “I’ve got a lot of famous friends.” He pauses for effect, then performs a modest raise of the shoulders. “In France, where I live, they call me un génie musicale.”

In 2004, Gonzales, who is neither French nor Hispanic but Canadian and whose real name is Jason Beck, released Solo Piano, an album of concise minimalist classical numbers in the vein of Erik Satie which gave substance to the génie musicale claim. Those who came to know Gonzales through that album – his best-selling by some margin – would have been shocked to learn that the author of those beautiful, delicate pieces had previously made, among other things, a gleefully profane lo-fi rap record called The Entertainist.

It’s not entirely surprising that a musician who rolls out his “unfuckwithable resume” at the beginning of a show, and makes unabashed reference to his musical genius at every opportunity, should dabble with rap. Rapping is, after all, the art of the inflated brag. The Sugarhill Gang were extolling their globally-endorsed sexual prowess and enviable motoring options as hip-hop drew its first breath, and given the amount of hot air that’s been blown over 4/4 beats since then, it’s no wonder the ice caps are melting.

Gonzales embraces the spirit of boastfulness on The Entertainist and its more lavishly produced follow-up, Presidential Suite, although in Gonzoworld the line between brag and self-skewering gag is always porous. Yes, he may be “the greatest entertainer of the year”, but he is also “the worst MC” who gets “more pussy than a priest”. He is “the prankster Frank Sinatra”, a “combination of Joe Stalin and Woody Allen”, whom you may address as “Fuckeye” or “the one-eyed Jew”. Or “Chilly Chaplin”. Or “Santa Klaus Kinski”, because he spent a few years living in Berlin.

“I am the worst MC” is at once a villainous sneer and an admission that Gonzales’ rapping abilities circa 2000 left something to be desired. In fact, as he demonstrates during tonight’s show, Gonzales is a pretty good rapper – stylistically derivative perhaps, but deft, playful and always entertaining. He spouts vast jets of nonsense in his rhymes but somehow manages to be more upfront than any other rapper you’d care to name.

Musicians rarely speak about, let alone lyricize, the shallow calculations that often underscore big career decisions, yet here is Gonzales on why he left Canada for Berlin: “I still remember when it first occurred to me./ Fuck it, I’m gonna move to Germany./ I don’t speak German, screw it/ But hey! I’m Jewish/ And I need a new press angle and that should do it.”

These kinds of outrageous proclamations make listening to Gonzales, or attending one of his shows, enormously fun. His almost pathological frankness presents an interesting challenge, however, when it comes to interviewing the guy. Any criticism you’d level at him has already been anticipated, and slyly underlined, in his music, or on other platforms. When he released Soft Power, his paean to Seventies soft-rock, in 2008, he posted a video online in which a Mercury label honcho begs him to take singing lessons to soften his harsh Montrealer tones. In the clip he circulated to promote his London dates, Gonzales tells a buffoonish interviewer, also played by Jason Beck, that although he “owns” France, he remains an underdog in England, adding: “I’m not a young man anymore. This could be my last chance.”

So why all the second-guessing?