So he can brick himself in the face without wincing, eh? But Andrew W.K.’s apparent lack of a reasonable pain barrier isn’t the most frightening thing about him. The Status Quo-like guitar chug of his records is. Still, there’s something undeniably thrilling about imagining Andrew charging about a stage in leopard print leggings, shaking his great mane of hair and inciting a load of confused decrepid rockers to “Party hard/party hard/party hard...” Mindless, anarchic fun.