Analyzing Monica

Although I enjoy Monica Kendrick’s Spot Check column enough to read it every week and agree with her collection of 50-word band blurbs at least half of the time, there is always something, either relentless PC-isms or general smugness, that creates a fine line between enjoying her often astute observations and an immediate inclination to use Section Three to clean up dog shit.

Of all the reasons there are to pick on Big Bad Voodoo Daddy [April 10], a band I can’t stand

any more than Kendrick, she chose the supposedly “racist” implications of their name. C’mon, I thought

you cultured Gen X types were familiar with the notion of irony. Her take on Nashville Pussy is almost as silly [Rock, Etc., May 15]. Ten years ago, with Vixen and metal makeover-era Heart selling tons of records, Nashville Pussy would have been the godsend she described, but at this point L7 and others have already opened those doors. I don’t know a Pussy fan that holds them to more than lowbrow entertainment, and even the band admits it is just “Motorhead with tits.”

In her Bauhaus review [September 4] Kendrick says,

“I come neither to bury goth nor to praise it,” and it seems that she actually thinks she has the power to propel or shoot down a proven genre if she wanted to. This isn’t the first time she has shown such self-indulgence. She tried to shoot down the Mr. T Experience, a band that participated in the founding of

the scene that spawned the Fireside Bowl, with a lame and obvious joke about their name.

She compared one band to her apparently common activity of scraping mold off food, and I’m still trying to figure out what the hell the Cows have to do with the lack of square edges in her apartment. As Bill Maher would say, get over yourself.

Doug Arnold