Mean Old Monica | Letters | Chicago Reader

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Mean Old Monica



Mean Old Monica

"Monica and friends."

How can you possibly have any friends when you write a column that dismisses almost every act you choose to write about (Spot Check, 9/10)? The conditional clauses that follow any compliment to Lost Goat, Eyesores, and Twelfth House are tiresome. Your skepticism about a live reunion of Pretty Things undermines your praise of their album, and you spend more time talking about the compilation Steve Earle has one track on and the cause he is playing for in Chicago than you do discussing his own merits. The backhanded compliments to Andrew Bird's Bowl of Fire leave one helluva red mark.

I can see why Bowl of Fire's cleverness gets on Ms. Kendrick's nerves--she aspires to be as clever in reviews as they are in their writing but falls short. It ain't Zappa, but another old saying comes to mind: if you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all.

Poor Monica Kendrick.

G. Sutton


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