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Record Review 

Spewing arena-rock cliches like a preacher foaming over Scripture, New York-by-way-of-Motor-City madman Andrew W.K. emerged from the British hype machine with his white T-shirt and jeans dingier than when he entered. Whether W.K. is as blatantly preconceived as many other transatlantic success stories is utterly eradicated by the sheer sonic assault of his debut full-length.

An album in which half the song titles include the word "Party," I Get Wet earns every shred of its existence as guilty pleasure's older metalhead brother (the one Mom doesn't talk about). It's pure-grain celebration, clear as vodka with the kick of moonshine, flavored with hair-metal power chords and new wave keyboards. Imagine the Ramones and Quiet Riot subjected to the baroque bombast of Bat Out of Hell-style '70s super-production -- but with "Mutt" Lange at the boards circa Def Leppard's Hysteria. Wet skips the frontal lobe altogether, lodging itself directly in the pituitary, forcing ungodly amounts of testosterone and adrenaline. It's a sound so big, you'll Wet yourself.

Andrew W.K. plays the Cotton Club Tues., April 23.

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