While these ladies have really sharpened their cratedigging skills (while proudly sprinkling some of their Chicago faves), they’ve also crafted some of their own songs which have peppered their mixtapes and risk overshadowing their DJ sets.
Gonyea’s vocals, while reminiscent of a variety of other breathy female vocalists backed by uptempo house beats like Hubbard’s, manages to exude a sensuality not unwelcome in the Chicago’s seemingly asexual dance clubs + subsequent scene.

While some of the heard-it-before naysaying haters may be quick to step on their throats early in their career, I’m excited about any DJs that move into songwriting (LCD Soundsystem?) as those ears trained to reignite forgotten fires tend to have the keenest insights into what their sound and your ears both need.

The mixtape itself is the first in a few that has been without any of Moneypenny’s original songs and begins rather innocuously (albeit suspiciously) with “They’re Coming To Take Me Away Ha! Haa!” and builds slower than any of their previous mixtapes. It could be the Chicago heat keeping them at the lower BPMs, but the exchange has been a little more time to develop more melodic complexity. By the time the tape rolls over to “Creeps” though, the tracks have built into a gargantuan of thick bass and stuttered beats that are interesting AND danceable. However, the groove hits a bit of a sonic pothole as the Dominatrix track fades into a track by the aforementioned LCD Soundsystem. While this track in a way echoes the polyrhythmic synths that have come in the preceding 15 minutes, the track takes over a little too long while the ladies let it drive with its own dynamic which leads to an amazing interlude by the way of Donovans.

Although from here on out, the rapid fire track jumping that took place at the first half of the mix has been abandoned for the dynamics of entire tracks. The exchange though comes with hearty benefits. For the first time the beats become not just infectious but EMOTIONAL. Here the mixtape, as it rolls to a close with Class Actress, reflects back on the listener who is likely not at a club but listening in a much different environment, a lonlier environement.

Whereas previous Moneypenny mixes only hinted at the sensitivity in what at first glance appeared to be plain and simple dance music, Spandexxx.015 openly embraces this possibility for nearly half its length, if not the entire span. Nobody does it better.

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This place is either pretentious or terrible or both.

Well, you or I would be wrong! The Art of Pizza serves a hearty deep dish, unfairly overshadowed by neighboring Lou Malnati’s Pizzeria. Though Lou Malnati’s is a classic like no other, The Art of Pizza could one day be the Rocky to Malnati’s Apollo.

The crust is similar to other Chicago pizzas–pie-like, buttery, thick–but it’s the sauce that is the unsung hero. Where as others (let’s say even Malnati’s) may need a little salt to bring out the best in the sauce, this sweet and salty spread is a perfect match for the cheese that (also unlike a Lou’s) satisfies without choking you to death. I had the spinach pie which was a nice spinach and ricotta mix spotted around the pie and giving a depth and purpose to the spinach that might otherwise have merely floated about unnoticed. The ricotta also counters the mozzarella to broaden the range of textures.

So Damn Sexy

In past years, the Biennials have been criticized for being too international, giving their $100,000 best in show prize to artists not of American descent. This year, they remained a bit more Americo-centric. The work varied in media and approach, as it should, but not in quality. The politics were strong, especially in works like Nina Berman’s photo series, documenting the return, marriage and separation of a soldier from Iraq, badly injured by a roadside bomb. The emotional drama of certain selections was saved from cheaper melodrama by the candid moments caught between wedding photos and small moments of elation and relief upon the return of the soldier. The photos were technically well executed, their composition often catching emotion through reflection, refraction or dual framing, turning what could have been simple portraiture into something far more uncanny, leaving no viewer unaffected by the implications of the war’s effect on personal lives at home despite the geographical and televisual distance. While it seems at first an easy subject, the candidness and simplicity of composition, despite the awkwardness of being part of the spectacle of a biennial, were handled with taste and restraint both by the curator and the photographer.

Similar in its implicit affect, Kerry Tribe’s H.M. is a case study of a patient who underwent experimental treatment for epilepsy. The film installation was not the type to hide its mechanics. The projector and the inevitable fallacy (old motors are never quite perfect) leading the films to fall out of phase and out of sync with one another was a softly executed point to the confusion derived from psychological doctor/patient relationships. The room was wide enough to move about in for the many viewers watching when I visited and the use of a room with two identical entrances and a symmetrical layout gently suggested the invisible lines between patient and doctor or even subject and viewer. Although muddled by the layout of the floor in general, the curatorial success came from allowing a small area to be devoted solely to this one work and not leaving it to flounder in the echo-y carnival that the Whitney’s Biennials can’t help but become.

If anything, this year’s exhibition was an attempt to be versaitle and more open to criticism. Perhaps the next Biennial at Whitney will be more forward in its approach.

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They led me out to the West Loop where we eventually landed at Ugly Step Sister Art Gallery. In addition to the fact that their website is wretched looking and that their name makes me cringe, the fact that they awkwardly include “Art Gallery” in their name should have kept me out of there. But as luck would have it, they were the last place open at 9:30. The walls were littered with work hung salon style aka carelessly but among the mess were some striking pieces from Jesse Stone. The work showed a love and playfulness with materials while simultaneously holding a high standard for production value. The sculptures were colorful, on a very nice scale and explored a variety of ideas, from post-human oddity to artistic modes of production. It was unclear to me who the people who made the work were (the place was beyond crowded, with a mountain of empty kegs and jug after jug of wine) and unfortunately for both of us, the website doesn’t clear this up a bit. If you find anything let me know. For now, you’ll have to deal with this here slide show.

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As for my pizza review, after reading about Great Lake, way up on the north side, in some fancy magazine who mentioned their sporadic hours, quaintness and off the beaten path location, I knew that I had to start my new column with this place.

What I encountered, after driving for nearly an hour, though google maps said 18 minutes, was possibly the worst customer service, the lowest value and the most pretentiousness I had ever encountered at a restaurant. And at a pizzeria no less.

Although they have no listing to be found online and no website, I was told that I needed to make reservations, the next opening being in 40 minutes. I thought no matter, I’ll take it out. The wait for this was 40 minutes. I said to the woman, polite as can be,

Fine, why don’t I order it now and if there’s seating when I come by, I’ll have a seat and eat it here.

She responded curtly

We don’t do that.

I apologized and said as she could have inferred, it was my first time at this place. Could she please be flexible as I had just driven an hour to be there?

No. We don’t do orders in advance.

This made no sense and the situation escalated. My dinner partner held out her card and ordered and we both regretted it immediately. 26 dollars for a 14-inch pizza. I write this in bold as it turned out to be a 10-inch pizza (I had a ruler in my car). Though we were told we would be called when the pizza was ready, we walked in 60 minutes later, after enjoying some of our BYOBs seated in my car and our pizza was stone cold. They handed it to us practically at the doorway, almost urging us out. This was by far the worst restaurant experience I’d ever encountered (and I’ve lived in Germany). Although the pizza was somewhat flavorful (Shredded Spinach with Goat Cheese and Red Peppers on a tasty thin crust), we were made to eat it cold, seated in my Ford Taurus, feeling like idiots for being insulted and ripped off simultaneously.

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For track listing and download visit his blog.