TL;DR
Friday, 5/4/12, about 1 P.M. Winding down my week. Printing a huge amount of documents and putting them in binders…occasionally waiting for the printer to catch up with my mad 3-hole punching skillz. I clicked on over to my Facebook feed and noticed someone had posted “R.I.P. MCA.” I had a bad, bad feeling right away. The printer kept kicking out sheets as I somewhat frantically typed “MCA” into my browser. Fears confirmed: MCA dead at 47.
I knew I was pretty much done working for the day at that point. I kind of stared into space for quite a while. I had to check another news source to make sure this wasn’t some kind of crazy hoax. Nope.
I’ve had a day to think about it now. Life went on. Shit, I went to a movie last night. Had a nice dinner. Regular Friday, pretty much. But I was in a negative mood; more so than usual. I just felt foul. I can only compare it to someone I actually know dying, except there were no rushed travel arrangements, no cancellations…just an emptiness.
(This is really embarrassing. Beware; it’s probably gonna get worse.)
As I sit right now, I’m playing Paul’s Boutique at obnoxious volume, and watching the Beastie Boys Anthology on my DVD player. I can’t bring myself to start reading tributes and shit. Just…not gonna do that. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
Beastie Memories:
‘87. Yeah, I was seven years old. Just sort of getting a feel for music; graduating from kiddie stuff to actual “radio music.” Mostly Sweet 98 (ugh) back in those days. I had a boom box with a tape deck; pretty heavy shit at the time. I spent a fair amount of time fucking around with the “record” button. I liked to tape Sweet 98, then overdub my own voice for…well, I don’t really know what for.
I went to the babysitter during the summer. It was one of those situations where two of the kids there were the babysitter’s sons; they were a year or two older than me. They had an older brother named Wayne. Wayne’s bedroom in the basement was OFF LIMITS (which of course made it extremely interesting). He was in high school at the time. I’d seen him dancing on the local cable access “Teen Dance!” show that aired after school. We all thought he was pretty amazing; his room was a melange of beer advertisements, big Playboy bunny stickers, and all kinds of unfathomably cool shit. He drove an old beater Camaro. Frankly, he was possibly the Coolest Person Ever in my seven-year-old eyes. Anyway, Wayne had a bad-ass collection of tapes. All the freshest Ratt, Loverboy, Van Halen…and a pristine cassette copy of Licensed To Ill. On one of our forbidden sojourns into his room, we explored his music collection. I vividly (VIVIDLY) remember opening up Licensed To Ill…unfolding the cover…the plane, my God, the plane. Wayne had a “dubbing” boom box. We figured it out, brought back blank tapes, and illicit copies were made.
Having a copy of this album was highly forbidden in my home. I didn’t really know the Beasties beyond Fight For Your Right, but I knew damn well that they were controversial. It’s kind of hard to say how big of a deal they were at the time. I knew they were bad news. I’d listen to the album clandestinely on my boombox…not long after I got a crappy knock-off Walkman (GTX brand! It was 80s yellow!) and I could finally listen with some privacy, goddammit! I didn’t own many tapes. Licensed To Ill was in very heavy rotation for about three years, no joke.
I subconsciously memorized every song on that album. I didn’t even understand most of the lyrics. I knew they swore a lot, and I liked that. My sister (four years older) and her friends liked Fight For Your Right, but it was a one-off goof song for them. I couldn’t understand why; the entire album was full of great songs in my opinion. Right around the time I was finally tiring of my now worn-out tape, Paul’s Boutique dropped.
‘89. I’d graduated from the babysitter to just running completely wild during the summer. My mom could never figure out why I went through so many D batteries; it was because my buddies and I always took the boombox into the woods during the day. You can’t build a fort without musical accompaniment. Hip-Hop was in full swing by this point. LL Cool J was in heavy rotation. Too Short and Eazy-E…2 Live Crew had just released their album, and the shit seriously hit the fan for white suburban fans of rap. It wasn’t a joke anymore; albums were getting banned, even burned in a lot of places (OK, the South). In the midst of all this, the Beastie Boys released…Paul’s Boutique? What the fuck was this? No radio hits? My memory of it at the time was really mass disappointment. Now it’s recognized as a masterpiece; at the time, people couldn’t figure it out. All I knew was it sounded pretty good. Somehow I got a dubbed copy right after it came out; it might have been another Wayne hook-up. I don’t remember. I pretty much repeated the pattern from Licensed…fanatical listening on the Walkman. Memorization. Borderline worship.
Around this time, I finally took over the paper route on my street. Upon receiving my first paycheck, my Mom grabbed it out of my hands and said “we’ll put this in savings.” I remember there being some drama, my Dad was brought in, and it was decided that we’d go open an account at the bank. The passbook was mine; the money was under no restrictions. It didn’t take me long to figure out I could ride my bike down to the bank, cash my check, and just take the cash. I guess my parents figured I earned it. Over the next few years, my paper route money went exclusively towards cassettes (eventually CDs), and bicycle parts. Well, candy and pop too. Needless to say, legitimate copies of Licensed to Ill and Paul’s Boutique were soon in my ink-stained hands. Got a new (real this time!) Walkman, too. That shit had Auto-Reverse. Yeah, baby. Walking in tall cotton now!
Around ‘92, the Beasties were kind of stale. There was no new album. I think most folks figured they were a “one-hit, one shitty follow-up” band. Paul’s Boutique still got very little respect. By this time, I’d begun to buy more and more rap albums. I had the entire “Rapmasters” collection that was sold at KMart. I had a tape called Kool G Rap; another called Hip Hop Attack!. The beauty part was, the cashiers at KMart never gave a shit how old you were. This was pre-“EXPLICIT LYRICS!!!” labels, but a lot of places still wouldn’t sell rap to pre-teens. The compilation tapes, though, were far easier to obtain. After listening to a ton of rap (3rd Bass! Public Enemy! Positive K! Biz Markie! LL Cool J!) I think I started to recognize that not only did the Beastie Boys belong within the milieu, they were literally better rappers than most of those guys. I stuck to favorites while absorbing the rest. (I didn’t realize at the time that all these guys knew each other, and that regardless of their standing with the general public, the Beasties were highly respected in the relatively small world of successful rap artists.)
I remember sitting in “my” bedroom at my grandparents’ house in Ames, IA. My cousins, both of whom attended Iowa State and were thus infinitely cool, stopped by to say hello. I was chilling, listening to some Beastie Boys. I’ll admit that the M.C. Hammer tape was also at my bedside. My cousins saw the B-Boys jewel cases and asked, with smirks, if I still liked the Beastie Boys. I remember very defensively replying in the affirmative.
‘93 was a traumatic year for me. My family moved from “in town” to the “edge of town” and I was not happy about it. I couldn’t hop on my bike and ride to the bank anymore. Couldn’t even get to KMart or Don’s Big Wheel without a serious effort. And worst of all, I lost my paper route. No more cash flow. I blew my last wad of paper money on a brand new mountain bike. How often do 13 year olds roll into bike shops with a stack of twenties and pay $450 for a new mountain bike? (They asked where my parents were. I remember just sort of holding out the money.) The World-Herald ran a points program for carriers, with a little catalog to pick prizes out of. Four years of carrying 120+ papers a day, and they hooked me up with a Sega Genesis. Pretty good deal, really. One of my last memories of the old house was playing “Jailbreak” (like tag, kinda) on a Friday night, and then going inside and hearing Check Your Head for the first time on my buddy’s older brother’s tape deck. So What’cha Want had hit MTV. I liked it, but I kind of thought it was a weird direction for the B-Boys to take.
By this time, my sister could drive. I bought Check Your Head on CD at the Musicland in Crossroads Mall. It was one of my first CDs. It completely blew my mind. Completely. Blew. My. Mind. So What’cha Want was like, the eighth best song on the album. I cranked that shit on my stereo (components now. Pioneer amp, Sony single CD player, and the speakers my parents got for their wedding in 1970. Side note: I’m still using those speakers. They are fucking awesome.) as loud as I could.
I can honestly say that Check Your Head earned me a friend. I eventually ended up moving to Iowa City with the kid; we lived in the same houses/apartments for five years. But when we were 14, the only common ground we had was music. Nirvana, Soundgarden, Pearl Jam…shit, the Breeders, Temple of the Dog, Anthrax…you name it. We had similar tastes, but a lot of healthy disagreements. There was no acrimony over the Beastie Boys, though. Always a perfect pick for shooting hoops in the driveway. We tortured our fathers by bringing a boombox to listen to in the back of the minivan on the way to St. Louis for a baseball game. Check Your Head was on repeat for a good portion of that trip.
‘94. Ill Communication. I got this album in the (in)famous Columbia House “10 CDs for a penny!” promotion. Shit, I taped the penny right to the postcard and waited patiently. I eventually joined BMG, too. IT SEEMED LIKE SUCH A GOOD DEAL! Pretty sure my mom is still receiving unwanted monthly CDs that record companies are desperately trying to unload. That summer was spent riding bikes to the gas station and dicking around vandalizing shit in the neighborhood. The video for Sabotage came out; heavy rotation on MTV Beach Party, and so out of place among all the other R&B bullshit that was hot at the time. I loved it. I recorded it with a VCR for my own purposes. I needed to see it a couple times a day.
Throughout high school, I was sustained by my new appreciation for the Beasties’ instrumental tracks. The one-off “In Sound From Way Out!” instrumental compliation came out, and I realized I didn’t need to buy it (I already owned all the studio albums), but I bought it anyway. I’d become an obsessive BB collector. Their compilation of really old stuff (Some Old Bullshit) was out. Bought it and realized…they were a punk band? Whuh?
By this time, the Beasties were finally being recognized as a very talented band (yes, a band!) with staying power. MCA was starting to go off on his Buddhist stuff. Their albums were critically acclaimed. Paul’s Boutique was finally being recognized as the work of genius that it is. It was good times for a fan. I can’t remember anybody that hated the Beastie Boys; maybe the country dorks, but for the most part, even a Garth Brooks stalwart would at least sit through Ill Communication without complaining.
In ‘96, I could finally drive. I had the sweetest summer job ever working for my uncle’s car audio shop. Who sends a 16 year old out to pick up Corvettes and 300ZXs and drive them back to the shop?!? I started to “party.” The quest for beer was ongoing. A perfect isolated off-road spot was located. My Jeep Cherokee was outfitted with a Panasonic cassette head unit that controlled a 6-disc changer mounted in the rear. I had some cheap-o flea market subs and a busted old Rockford Fosgate amp. Many (many, many) a summer evening was spent drinking $7.99 cases of Milwaukee’s Best Ice and listening to tunes at the “150 hill.” (Brief aside: we called it the 150 hill because it was a huge bluff overlooking the South end of Council Bluffs and the I-29/I-80 interchange. In the summer of ‘96, some committee had planted bushes on the side of the hill spelling out “150” in celebration of Iowa’s sesquicentennial. It was visible from the interstates. You had to have 4 wheel drive to get there.) Fantasy concerts were envisioned. Final tally: the ultimate concert would be A Tribe Called Quest and the Beastie Boys. That would NEVER happen, bro!
‘98. I was pretty much over MTV by this point, but one day I saw a promo. World Premiere of the Beastie Boys new video! I made it a point to stay up and watch it…it was on at like ten ‘o clock on a Tuesday for some reason. The video: Intergalactic. I was fucking stunned. Stunned. And then, not long after, the announcement: MOTHERFUCKING BEASTIE BOYS SUMMER TOUR! And, no fucking way, A TRIBE CALLED QUEST WAS OPENING! This was seriously one of the greatest things I had ever heard. Tickets were procured immediately. Just after HS graduation, we piled into my buddy’s (same buddy) Accord and headed for Kansas City on a sultry summer afternoon. The road trip was legendary.
By this time, we’d all had and abused fake IDs for some time. We stocked the fuck up and headed south. We already knew the gas stations in Missouri sold hard liquor from previous fireworks runs. Re-stocked up. Ran into friends at a gas station on the way down…caravanned it, just dicking around on the interstate…such awesome memories. We got to KC early. Went to, hands down, the creepiest, most filthy strip club EVER. One nasty old granny on a tiny stage; dudes literally masturbating in the peep-show booth hallway leading to the actual “club.” It was fucking surreal. Hit the parking lot, and boozed some more. We all had absurd tolerances, but I think we were kind of laying off so we could actually enjoy the show. We finally got in…it was a melee. The beer was sold in the hallways; no booths, just a dude surrounded by kegs, tapping and filling while stuffing money into a big bag. Total chaos. Open drug sales all over the place. It was fantastic.
The show itself…well, I’d been waiting ten years for this. Beastie Boys, theater-in-the-round…oh my God. I was ecstatic. It was and still is BY FAR the best show I’ve ever seen, and that was from shitty balcony seats in a huge arena. It’s the only show where I’ve ever spent more than ten bucks on merch. I still have my T-shirt and poster from that show; they’re some of my most treasured possessions.
The feeling at the time was kind of…the Beastie Boys might be done. They went out in a total blaze of glory with Hello Nasty, and it could never get any better. And I don’t think it really did. And then they didn’t release another album for an absurd length of time. When To The 5 Boroughs finally came out, I was a little burnt out on the whole AMERICA FUCK YEAH! thing. 9/11 sucked. I know. Over it. Gotta move on. The last thing I wanted was another politicized, anti-government, anti-war album by a bunch of artists that didn’t know shit but felt qualified to comment. But, since it was the Beastie Boys, I was more than willing to listen. And they managed, once again, to get across their message without being overly preachy (kinda like MCA’s buddhist stuff) and actually make me feel something. I never thought the album was all that amazing, but it kept my interest and let me know that the Beasties were at least maintaining, and still willing to try new things.
I’ll admit that The Mix-Up was out for quite a while before I bought it. I spent most of the 2000s collecting Beasties on vinyl, and picking up all kinds of weird rare EPs from other countries. The Mix-Up never really felt like a studio album. I dug it, sure, but it didn’t blow my mind. Maybe it felt a little TOO adult.
I bought The Hot Sauce Committee: Part 2 right when it came out. I remember being really sad that the CD selection at Best Buy had been totally eviscerated; it used to be my hangout. I’d spend HOURS debating how best to spend my monthly music budget, wandering around way beyond the point where employees would ask me if I needed help. Shit, it was like 8 aisles in the store! The possibilities were endless! Anyway, I unwrapped it, amused myself with the album art, and jammed it in my sister’s car on the way to pick up a friend from the airport. I truly dug it. I’m still trying to get in my “deep listening” to really appreciate the album.
—————————————————————————————————————————————-
I don’t think anybody will get this far. I’m not really sure why I even felt the need to write this. I guess because I feel like the Beastie Boys have just been a really important part of my life; name a critical life event, and I’ll remember which album I was listening to at the time. I just feel a really deep sadness that…that is probably over. I always thought the Beastie Boys would just always be there; kinda like my generation’s Rolling Stones. They’d grow and change, but at their core, they were three guys that loved having a good time, and I could relate to that. I followed them; I got their newsletter; I went to their website on a regular basis. They never got old for me. I never got over them. I never grew out of them. I never tired of telling my dad that yes, the Beastie Boys were still around and releasing critically acclaimed albums, much to his chagrin.
In the end, I’ll still have the music. But it won’t be the same listening when I know that there isn’t any more coming. That saddens me more than I ever thought it would.
Thank you, MCA, for all the memories. B-Boys ‘til the break of dawn.
R.I.P. MCA.
B-Boys mean more to me than I’d like to admit. Down since ‘87.
Sappy tribute to follow. Damn it.
“I don’t even own a gun, much less many guns that would necessitate the use of an entire rack! A gun rack.”
Paging Leif Garrett…and the Coreys…and Todd Bridges…and Gary Coleman…and that dude that played Boner on Growing Pains…
(I can’t wait for the inevitable downfall!)
Or, as a friend of mine put it upon hearing that West Coast Customs had “Batmobile-ized” the Biebs’ Cadillac:
West Coast Customs? Did they install a machine to shoot gummy-bears into his pie-hole while he pilots this twat-mobile?
