Andrew Earles

Some old, but hopefully entertaining, writing of mine that was originally published by The Washington City Paper….

Posted in Uncategorized by Andrew Earles on February 27, 2013

…circa 2006 & 2007. Again, these are a few shorties that originally

appeared in The Washington City Paper, and I happen to be fond of

them, hence the self-promo of sorts.  

G. Gordon Liddy

Far less incendiary than its author or title would suggest, G. Gordon Liddy’s new Fight Back! Tackling Terrorism, Liddy Style looks at successful terrorist acts and concludes that private citizens need to be more prepared, so he makes families and small businesses the audience for this worst-case-scenario handbook on homeland terrorism. Given that Liddy’s credits include prison time and bit parts on Airwolf and MacGyver, Fight Back! is stuffed with advice from military and emergency specialists, and it’s little surprise he shares writing credits with three others. There’s no shortage of technical preventive-maintenance advice or eyes-peeled suspicion. A Who’s Who section of extremist and garden-variety hate groups at least doesn’t exhibit the general insanity put forth by some far-right leaners—those who think members of, say, the ACLU should get a one-way ticket to Guantánamo. (Andrew Earles)

Daniel C. Dennett

Sweet Jesus! Talk about a book that’s bigger than its author, bigger than its contents, and bigger than you. As if to willingly construct a wall that can’t be climbed, Daniel C. Dennett, philosopher and director of TuftsUniversity’s Center for Cognitive Studies, at least lends his expertise to picking apart a daunting subject. In Breaking the Spell: Religion as a Natural Phenomenon, he argues for scientific inclusion (and scientific examination) of religious belief systems. The result is pleasure reading that may also fill in a gap or two in your knowledge. And though science vs. religion may be a tired, terminal battle, Dennett at least knows this. His fair-and-balanced book speaks to believers in an amicable fashion and resists the temptation to pander to a preset customer base of secularists. Really, that would be preaching to the choir. (Andrew Earles)

John Lennon’s childhood stamp collection

Though not as exciting as the news that current hard-core Christian and former Facts of Life star Lisa “Blair” Whelchel actively keeps a scrapbook, the National Postal Museum’s recent acquisition of John Lennon’s childhood stamp collection should offer a window into the mysterious nuances of this musician—who was most famous for getting kicked out of clubs with Harry Nilsson. The 500-plus stamps (Jeez, a little bored were we? I mean, the factories were hiring, right?) might even offer some insight as to why Lennon’s offspring seem unable to make music that doesn’t suck, or why the Imagine image makes for the most irritating T-shirt design of all time. According to the museum’s press release, the album features stamps from—gasp!—several countries and was started by a cousin and then passed on to the young Lennon. He attended primary school… OK, OK, settle down! It’s an intense story, I know. (Andrew Earles)


Like any form of land transport that is not automobile, backhoe, motorcycle, bicycle, skateboard, or foot, the Segway instantly makes its operators look like complete rubes. The vehicle’s Web site uses such phrasing as “feel the freedom for yourself” and “discover what fun, smart transportation feels like.” I don’t know—risking getting hit with half-eaten fast food traveling 50 mph out of someone’s car window doesn’t sound so “free” to me. There’s even an off-road Segway, with big knobby tires; whoever chooses this model doubly deserves to have his ass kicked. And do you know how much a Segway costs? Neither do I, because you have to assemble your own Segway from a massive list of parts, and the end result appears to be an approximately $1,200 mistake. My urgent, unsolicited advice to interested parties is to buy a bike and spring for some balls while you’re at it. Have you not seen Arrested Development? The reason that a Segway was written into the show as Gob’s means of commuting is that Gob is what is known, in the parlance of our time, as a “douchebag.” This monstrosity is the PT Cruiser of “alternative transportation.” How did it come to exist? Several well-paid people sat around a boardroom and actually concurred with one another that this thing was a good, profitable idea. But wait! Perhaps I judge too quickly. Maybe the creators were one step ahead of us; maybe they purposefully created a machine that will take society’s dolts and face-plant them right into the sidewalk. (Andrew Earles)

Bret Easton Ellis

Far too simple to be considered “metafiction,” LunarPark is little more than a semiautobiographical “what if?” that just happens to feature Bret Easton Ellis as its protagonist. As satire (which is his defense against the critics, it seems), it lacks one key ingredient: It’s not even remotely funny. Oh, so the reason the book is wholly unentertaining is that I’m not supposed to take it seriously? I see. When LunarPark finally lapses into pure fiction, it’s a heavy-handed, boring story of the hazy reality and paranoia that befall famous people. Of course, there are drugs. But the drug-problem sequences could have been pulled from any number of rock ’n’ roll biographies. I mean, Ellis might have had a drug problem, but he didn’t have this drug problem, or my 91-year-old blind aunt would have been talking about him. The author/narrator’s cocksure stance may be self-parody, but that doesn’t stop it from being incredibly grating. If arrogance is the domain of the truly superior, the truly superior should have eaten some shit, toiled in obscurity, and occasionally lost their dignity before success greeted them. And we all know that didn’t happen with Mr. Ellis.(Andrew Earles)


Now that the price of a ticket to see Devo rivals that of an Eagles-reunion pass, we must weigh the mechanical men’s “seminal” status. First-album-era Devo? Groundbreaking and great. The disc pioneered geek chic. Subsequent albums are still good, at least for the boring New Wave band Devo quickly became. And that one weird Muzak/easy-listening album managed to be moderately interesting. Fast-forward 20 years: Mark Mothersbaugh’s credits on a gazillion movies and TV productions. Like other bands that made a big postpunk mark the first time around, Devo is reuniting. And for better or worse, I say bring it on, because more people need to see why there are a gazillion brainless hipster action-figure bands ripping off early Devo. After all, isn’t the herd mentality what Devo was against in the first place? (Andrew Earles)

All-New Genetically Altered Jug Band

The benevolent All-New Genetically Altered Jug Band is not exactly what I hoped it to be. I was thrilled that I might be writing about one of the Sci-Fi Channel’s bio-terror quickie films or one of those plastic-surgery-gone-awry shows on Discovery Health. Alas, there will be no screenings of DinoCroc or Trash Can of Skin contemporaries. ANGAJB is, in fact, a real jug band, a jug band with a flower-print-shirt-to-band-member ratio of 3:4. And band members Special Ed (banjo, guitar, vocals), Rockin’ Ron (washboard, percussion), Gutbucketeer (washtub bass), and the ominously nicknamed Bags (trumpet, vocals) are available to play at your picnic, block party, zany wedding proposal, zany wedding, or divorce proceedings. (Andrew Earles)

Elmer Sperry and the Invention of Autopilot

Lawrence Sperry had 23 patents to his name, all falling within the realm of aircraft safety. The Chicago-born Sperry sprang from inventor blood; his father, Elmer Sperry, invented the gyrocompass, that nautical wunderthing that equipped many warships by the early 20th century. In 1914, the junior Sperry became an early entry into the long line of Americans made into celebrities by the French. As the last entries in the Concours de la Securité en Aéroplane (Airplane Safety Competition), Sperry and his French mechanic, Emil Cachin, traversed the SeineRiver as charming showoffs. Demonstrating his late father’s gyroscope-equipped stabilizer, later to be known as autopilot, Sperry and Cachin literally stood on the wings of their C-2, each 7 feet from the controls, as the aircraft flew a straight line over the spectators. Winning the competition and becoming (French-)famous overnight, Sperry continued his research (including some that would result in guided bombs), suffered nasty crashes (one that ended in a broken pelvis), and finally perished during a routine flight over the fog-covered English Channel in 1923. (Andrew Earles)

Human Marvels Rock’N’Roll Stunt Show

Enigma and Katzen: the newest Fox sitcom about two Jim Rose Circus Side Show dregs trying to make it in the square new millennium! Kidding. No, the completely inked Enigma and Austin, Tx., tattoo artist Katzen are part of the Human Marvels Rock ’N’ Roll Stunt Show. It’s marvel enough that people still care about the great ’90s tradition of weirdos trying to freak you out with extreme body modification and the swallowing of jagged garbage. I somehow suspect that their accompanying music will combine hints of industrial clanging, rockabilly flair, some rawk, and plenty of between-song mutilation interludes. The Enigma’s career has been further energized by his acceptance as a sitar player in the touring version of Pigface. Let me lay out part of that sentence again for you: the touring version of Pigface. That, my friends, is what we call perfect nostalgia. So if you’ve been sorely missing those bygone days of concrete blocks swinging from nutsacks and rock bands munching on glass, your time has come. Back. (Andrew Earles)

Napoleon Dynamite

Jared Hess’ Napoleon Dynamite does one thing right: It encompasses everything that is wrong with the 18-to- 35 demographic. A terrifying number of professionals, hipsters, frat boys, pseudointellectuals, and hippies liberally throw around such terms as “brilliant” and “genius” when describing this lowest-common-denominator, audience-loathing bedsore on the tuchis of true comedy. The film’s creators did nothing more than take a random selection of thrift-shop sight gags from multiple decades (Ha ha! Just look at that crazy van/wood paneling/outfit!), write characters that no one could possibly become attached to, reheat some nostalgic catchphrases, and piece together lame subplots from the margins of pop culture. The attempted “timeless” element of the town was completely botched: Surfing the Internet gets shoved together with inspecifically retro wardrobes and automobiles, and the billionth worn-out use of a boombox to allow humor-challenged dolts to point and say, “Remember [insert ’80s thing] from the ’80s?” I’ve honestly heard people claim that white kids really dress that way in small towns. No, white kids in small towns dress like black kids in big towns. (See Malibu’s Most Wanted as a serious anthropological example.) Yes, Napoleon Dynamite could have swept the Oscars had there been categories for Best Lazy Attempt at Latino Humor, Best Lazy Attempt at African-American Humor, and Best Film for Aspiring but Wholly Unoriginal Humorists. I have a general response to the never-ending parade of people who love this movie: Watch more movies. (Andrew Earles)

Goldie Hawn

Goldie Hawn is so much more than the quintessential MILF. Allow me to present some less-than-scientific proof: The Sugarland Express and Shampoo are both unassailable classics. She was integral (and hot stuff) in Laugh-In. Foul Play is a serviceable action comedy, late-’70s-romp-style. OK, most reasonable people will pass on Private Benjamin. And most reasonable people absolutely shudder at the thought of Best Friends, Protocol, Seems Like Old Times, or Wildcats. But Overboard was airing on daytime HBO when I lost my virginity in a Floridian beachside condo. And I once took a date to see the theatrical release of Bird on a Wire; that also “worked out.” Hawn has recently written a book, called A Lotus Grows in the Mud. There are plenty of memoirs out there by people who have done nothing interesting, but Hawn’s not one of them. Plus, she’s sharp, with miles of stories—lending cred to my assumption that this baby is not ghostwritten. (Andrew Earles)

Sarah Vowell

Assassination Vacation is not the novelization of the nonexistent sequel to Robert Duvall’s Assassination Tango, but is instead Sarah Vowell’s latest enigmatic look at us confusing Americans. A road trip planned around places of icon assassinations and bloodletting and the tourist traps that they’ve become—this was an idea only Vowell could have executed with any sort of warmth and humor. The author of The Partly Cloudy Patriot, Take the Cannoli, and Radio On; contributing editor of NPR’s This American Life; and, as the book jacket attests, a “McSweeney’s person,” Vowell explodes the tourist trap, er, trappings of the assassinations of Lincoln, McKinley, and our shortest-lived president, Garfield. With a historical breadth you might expect from some cartoon professor with a bow tie and comb-over, the enthusiastic and insightful Vowell deftly picks apart the blind glorification of some very odd physical locations, such as Dry TortugasIsland, where Lincoln-assassination conspirators were imprisoned. Plus, we get to meet her family along the way—it’s a vacation, after all. (Andrew Earles)

Pit Er Pat

I know this may sound like a coincidence out of Unsolved Mysteries, but Pit Er Pat bassist Rob Doran and I shared the same Carnival cruise ship during the last holiday season. No diggity. We developed a fast friendship after our heated conversations about Robert Wyatt and Road House served to alienate every single patron in every single shipboard bar in which we decided to plant ourselves. For some, Shakey, Pit Er Pat’s debut full-length on Thrill Jockey, may draw comparisons to Blonde Redhead or Broadcast, but those folks need to open their ears: The real juice here is a savvy summation of Pram, the Residents, the Art Ensemble of Chicago, and breakup sex (not a band)—and, yeah, maybe some Soft Machine. Some reviewers call the band’s stuff “prog pop,” but I just don’t like the sound of that. I mean, I like the sound of Pit Er Pat, but that terminology makes me feel lonely. (Andrew Earles)

Mark Geary

I’m not sure I agree that the gazillionth album by Dublin’s the Frames, Burn the Maps, contains any “full blown anger” as the press sheet maintains, nor is the band’s music quite like “putting a Herzog still under a microscope” (though a previous album was titled Fitzcarraldo). In all fairness, the Frames are a borderline-great, forgot-to-save-the-drama-for-their-mamas band—and by that I mean they share intimacy issues (generally vocal) with NickCave, Tindersticks, Arab Strap, Frog Eyes, and the Standard. But no one “over here” particularly seems to care about the Frames—much like soccer—whereas they are fucking huge “over there.” Musically, the band jumps around like the above-mentioned Arab Strap (add a little more jangle) but with a decidedly more traditional angle (see fiddle player) that recalls a slower Pogues—you know, being all Irish and shit. (Andrew Earles)

Malcolm Gladwell

Malcolm Gladwell, New Yorker staff writer and author of The Tipping Point, returns with a dissection of first impressions. And by first impressions, I mean the first two seconds the human brain is presented with a subject. In Blink: The Power of Thinking Without Thinking, Gladwell craftily combines self-help, hard psychology, and best-seller readability in what will surely be the catalyst for some rash decision-making. Or maybe not: Examples of poor immediate judgment are also considered, such as the vexing lapses that gave us New Coke and the music-industry market-research studies that almost destroyed the career of nuevo-alterna-funker Kenna. The book concludes with the chapter “Listening With Your Eyes: The Lessons of Blink,” which, though helpful, features nothing about training your brain to generate helpful warning signs, such as immediate pants-peeing or sudden blindness in one eye upon first meeting doomed dating prospects. (Andrew Earles)

Linda Gordon and Susan Shaffer

This afternoon, two very well-meaning authors, Linda Gordon and Susan Shaffer, present a discussion of their new books, Why Boys Don’t Talk—and Why It Matters and Why Girls Talk—and What They’re Really Saying. But let me help shed some light on the mystery for you right now. I know what girls are really saying, because they vocalize the entirety of what pops into their heads. And, in case you missed something, they then proceed to verbally piece it together for you with the utmost thoroughness. Now, boys, on the other hand, don’t talk, because they are sitting next to someone who’s talking the paint off of the walls, making it hard to get a word in edgewise. Boys are also emotional retards who keep everything buried inside. This collision of wills produces the cyclical effect of making girls talk even more, thus making boys talk even less, which leads to girls’ getting upset at boys’ indifference and silence. In short: Boys should learn how to properly open up and girls should learn that not every single thing that comes out of their exhausted mouths warrants a response. Then again, maybe boys just shouldn’t be such complete assholes. (Andrew Earles)

The 44th Annual Washington Boat Show

I just returned from a cruise, which is not exactly the best research into “the boating lifestyle” but is an excellent look at the “start drinking at 1 p.m., gradually immerse self into The Da Vinci Code–esque co-guest environment, unsuccessfully hit on Croatian waitress until it’s time to pass out in cabin, wake up at ass-crack of dawn with mind-bending hangover and start over” lifestyle. Nonetheless, I’m still excited about the 44th Annual Boats You’ll Never Be Able to Afford Show. When I’m living out my last days as an ex-cop, ex-FBI agent, and ex–private investigator under the alias “Scag Winesack”—a man who sometimes gets sucked into a case by staring too long at an ominous photograph, still values a quiet night with his saxophone and pet bird, and is perfectly happy with one hand wrapped around a Cape Codder and the other buried in a bowl of Beer Nuts—well, I’ll probably live on a boat. Make that a boat that was purchased at this show and later discarded in an alarming condition of disrepair. And who isn’t jazzed about coming face to face with the starlets of any nautical festivity, the cigarette boats? I can never shake the idea that the hulls are stuffed with exotic, endangered animals or kilos of cocaine. (Andrew Earles)

Michael Crichton

Now that I’ve found myself walking around the house bellowing “Michael Crichton’s State of Fear!!!” in a foreboding voice for no apparent reason, I must admit that the man’s got the hustle down pat. Take one (or a few) hot and catastrophic headline items from the past year—preferably of the environmental variety—concoct an evil left-wing antagonist, chuck in a disaster here and there, and load that sucker up with so much technobabble that, well, who the hell cares if the book’s accurate or not? This time around, it’s the quack leader of an environmental group spreading fear and murder in order to further the validity of the global-warming theory—a phenomenon that, the “logic” in Crichton’s newest beach-towel accessory argues, is a conspiracy. State of Fear will be anxiously calling out to you from bookstands in airports and on cruise ships—until his next book, when Crichton tackles the snakehead infestation or something. (Andrew Earles)

R. Lee Ermey

Ready for an ALL-CAPS KIND OF AUTHOR EVENT? Prior to his History Channel hit, Mail Call, R. Lee Ermey was known to most as Gunnery Sgt. Hartman, the unrelenting drill sergeant in Full Metal Jacket. In perhaps the epitome of a self-parody, Ermey has racked up a sizable résumé of character roles that seldom deviate from hyper-authoritative law-enforcement or military types. ’Tis not all an act: Ermey spent 11 years in the Marines, including one-and-a-half tours in Vietnam. After studying criminology and drama, he landed his first role, as a helicopter pilot in Apocalypse Now, a movie in which his background also made him useful as a consultant. Ermey’s book, Mail Call (named for his successful show), “Takes Q’s and Kicks A’s” according to the blurb on the cover, which also features the author in a familiar pose: yelling at you. Perfect for weapons nuts, equipment geeks, and history buffs who are sick of Hitler and J.F.K., Mail Call is sure to further distance the genders from each other. The curious are also invited to visit Ermey’s ultra-jingoistic Web site,, where a cheap flash-rendering of our man screams in your face about flag burners and the mention of God in the Pledge of Allegiance. There, you can also purchase Gunny Sgt. R. Lee Ermey, a 12-inch “motivational figure.” Now, that’s not an “action figure,” mind you, but I’m sure it will berate you into some sort of action yourself. (Andrew Earles)

Turing Machine

Landing on both feet after the postrock fallout, Turing Machine has always had the balance other instrumental acts lacked. Despite the poor sound quality of 2000’s A New Machine for Living, the evidence was there that this was not your average group of ham ’n’ eggers fiddle-fucking around with boring extended jams. Boasting members from the occasionally explosive Pitchblende and the deafening Vineland, Turing Machine—named after British mathematician Alan Turing—formed in New York toward the end of the ’90s. The band’s secret weapon is drummer Gerard Fuchs, who is somehow able to pull off a backbeat that sounds completely inhuman. The brand-new album, Zwei, perfects the flaws of the debut, all at once achieving a catchy, big, metallic, unpredictable, and beautiful feel. (Andrew Earles)

Noise Against Fascism

Have you ever come across a movie featuring the ultimate dream team of character actors? You think, Dear God, I’m watching a movie with Pat Morita, Hoyt Axton, Treat Williams, M. Emmet Walsh, Bo Hopkins, and Charles Durning! OK, well, this bill is the noise version of that experience, and it’s going to take my entire word count to give even a cursory roll call: You’ve got Mirror/Dash, which is the Thurston Moore/Kim Gordon marquee in the sun. You’ve got Double Leopards (former members of Siltbreeze alumnus Un), a band that may rock my favorite band name ever. Then there’s Miami–to–New York transplanted crazies Monotract, which, if the band’s recent interview in Bananafish magazine is to be believed, fill the acid-gobbling beach-bum void in the noise scene. But I’m not even close to being finished, pal: Stalwarts Nautical Almanac will reliably shake shit up, and Twig Harper of said outfit will be joining Nate Young of Wolf Eyes in something called Buzzardstain. Metalux, 16 Bitch Pile-Up, The Believers, Chris Corsano and Paul Flaherty, and the Magik Markers will floss your noggins as well. And then, then, let’s talk about (what I’m presuming is) the headliner. Tom Smith’s To Live and Shave in L.A. (pictured) has a particularly “drool-cup required” lineup for this little party: How does Smith, Moore, Rat Bastard, Don Fleming, Chris Grier (the man behind this whole shebang), Ben Wolcott, and Andrew W.K. strike you? Hot. Very hot. Fight the good fight and get totally erased by sheer volume! (Andrew Earles)

Used Cars

In the summer of 1980, Robert Zemeckis and Bob Gale’s perfection of the R-rated comedy was undeservedly blasted into obscurity by Airplane! and Caddyshack. Taking a few cues from Hal “the redneck Mel Brooks” Needham’s previous epics (Smokey and the Bandit, Hooper) and turning up the raunch, Used Cars is one of the last thoughtful examples of the formula before it wasted away into Porky’s territory. Kurt Russell, Jack Warden (in a double role), Gerrit Graham, and Frank McRae (as Jim the Mechanic) chew the scenery to pieces in a hailstorm of curse words and physical gags. The foul dialogue of McRae and Warden reaches a Tourette’s-afflicted level of saturation—and this was Warden’s first R-rated film. As the wise and inverted folks at the Washington Psychotronic Film Society clearly realize, the movie is a definitive look at things that were funny prior to the PC poisoning of the ’90s. With boobs, random sex, moral apathy, racial stereotypes, comic violence, dangerous stunts, and a completely infeasible plot, Used Cars has everything today’s comedy lacks. (Come to think of it, White Chicks kinda had that stuff, too.) If the presidential-address-jam sequence doesn’t have you rolling on the floor, get your sad ass out of there and give up your seat to a worthy patron. A little trivia: Characters were given props such as cups and trash and encouraged to litter during scenes. (Andrew Earles)

Alabama Thunder Pussy

Named after a rogue venereal disease that broke out in the southernmost of Southern states, Alabama Thunder Pussy… OK, I made some of that up. The members of ATP are not from Alabama, but, rather, hail from the sort-of-Southern Richmond, Va. The embattled outfit has weathered a label failure and several lineup shuffles, the latest of which involved new-guy vocalist Johnny Weils replacing co-founder Johnny Throckmorton. One of the highest-selling bands on the Man’s Ruin label upon its folding, ATP has remained prolific, releasing five albums since 1998 and building a respectable following. The band’s crunchy country metal can be many things—thoughtfully instrumental, bludgeoning, antagonistic, and even occasionally yearning—but it will never be confused with the neutered division of roots rock à la Antler or My Morning Jacket. ATP’s hardscrabble anger makes a more suitable bedfellow for the rural transgression of dirtball haters Antiseen and Rancid Vat—with more metal, taller riffage, and ’70s Southern-rock indebtedness, natch. (Andrew Earles)

Joe Queenan

Joe Queenan is one of the dwindling number of reasons not to walk right through the humor section of your favorite bookstore. The thinking and/or aging hipster’s Lewis Grizzard, Queenan is a very funny man who keeps the politics light and the observations pointed but respectable (and not cruel). After cutting his teeth as a standout writer for Spy and eventually writing for practically every mag on the rack, Queenan is now the proud father of nine books tackling sports fans, movies and movie making, and—his favorite punching bags—boomers and rednecks. Queenan Country is the author’s attempt to make sense of the British by recounting a solo vacation to the Isles. As a history fanatic who writes with a cynical eye for pop-culture minutiae and a high joke-per-paragraph ratio, Queenan is up to the task—which, of course, includes making fun of the food. Some passages even recall the work of the late Bill Hicks, though nothing in here is nearly as funny as Hicks’ attribution of one of Britain’s few gun deaths to an American’s objection to “boiled pizza.”(Andrew Earles)

J Mascis + the Fog

J Mascis’ Dinosaur Jr. leveled the world in 1987 with You’re Living All Over Me. That album created indie rock and stoner rock; it injected devastating songwriting emotion into equally devastating volume; it openly cribbed from underground metal—and it did all of these things years before they were co-opted by every ham ’n’ egger on the block. Thing is, that was Dinosaur Jr.’s second album. The 1985 self-titled debut (made when Mascis was just 19) fiddled with alt-country, hardcore, and ’70s sludge and is a still-overlooked classic in its own right. Many feel that Mascis lost the magic after 1991’s major-label one-man Green Mind—the name of Mascis’ solo show for a while—but the fact is that he has never, ever sucked. Those last Dino albums are hit-and-miss, yes, but at least Mascis never made a NYC Ghosts & Flowers. He formed the Fog in 2000; we’re two albums in (the last, Feel So Free, was released two years ago), and each is far stronger than late-period Dinosaur Jr. With a shifting lineup for each go-round, Mascis (pictured, left) is now backed by Kyle Spence of the Tom Collins and Dave Schools—who, you might be amused to learn, is the plus-size bass player for Widespread Panic. (Andrew Earles)

Juliette and the Licks

“I live for the sweat that I drip onstage,” snarls Juliette Lewis in a bio of Juliette and the Licks, the former Mrs. Mallory Knox’s contribution to the reliably hilarious actor-turned-rocker genre. Lewis and her assemblage of Sunset Strip barnacles—including former Hole drummer Patty Schemel—predictably refer to their music as “punk.” Well, I hate to make you do this, but envision one of Iggy Pop’s crappy turn-of-the-’90s backing bands (think Instinct or Brick by Brick) fronted by a flesh-tone sack of yard rakes hurling such decidedly unsexy commands at the audience as “Put it in my hand and tell me how much pressure it takes to get you off.” Witness a comedy footnote in the making before Tina Yothers gets her lawyer on the line! (Andrew Earles)

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TONIGHT! Friday 2/15/13…I Will Be Interviewed During WNYC/NPR’s “Soundcheck” Program @ 8pm CST / 9pm EST

Posted in Uncategorized by Andrew Earles on February 15, 2013

Tonight’s The Night! For 15 minutes of the one-hour “Soundcheck” program

on WNYC (NYC’s NPR affiliate), I will be interviewed about the Blame

Nirvana: The 40 Weirdest Post-Nevermind Major-Label Albums (follow

that link to read it!) feature that I wrote for in January. Here are

all of your live-listening/archive-listening link options along with other

topically-pertinent exits away from this blog.

Soundcheck’s Facebook Page 

Soundcheck’s Twitter

Soundcheck’s Tumblr

Soundcheck’s Home Page

WNYC’s Home Page





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Don’t play or discuss these artists on the air!

Posted in Uncategorized by Andrew Earles on February 13, 2013


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Listen to ME on NPR this FRIDAY 2/15/13!!!!

Posted in Uncategorized by Andrew Earles on February 12, 2013

As threatened in the last post, I am back with a day & time re: my 15 minutes on NPR! To clarify: I 15-minute interview with me will be a part of the Friday evening (2/15/13 at 9pm/8pm Central/Eastern time) airing of the “Soundcheck” program on WNYC, New York City’s NPR affiliate (that has the widest/largest listenership of any NPR affiliate in the country!). Here is a link to the program’s site.

The topic discussed: My “Blame Nirvana: The 40 Weirdest Post-Nevermind major label albums” piece for

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