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Eulogy for a Beastie
RIP Adam Yauch, aka MCA, 1964-2012
Plenty has been written about the recent death of Beastie Boy Adam Yauch, aka MCA. It’s stupid to think that I have something special or different or insightful to say about this, but getting stupid with the Beastie Boys has been a running theme of my life.
I was 11 years old when Licensed to Ill hit the streets. I would hardly count myself an expert on the Beastie Boys, or even one of their biggest fans; they have simply been a stalwart sonic companion for the greater part of my life, as they have been throughout the lives of most of my friends. None of us (that I know of) ever met nor corresponded nor shared any special one-on-one moments with any MCA or any of the Beastie Boys, except via our speakers and headphones. We sat around in our houses underage drinking and drove around in our cars smoking weed blasting the Boys, spitting out their lyrics with ferociously nasally braggadocio. We had solo dance parties and thrust our fists in the air, fighting for our rights to be dorky teens and awkward 20-somethings with attitude. They were a beacon of hope. We felt that if 3 white Jew punks from New York could become Hip Hop legends, fucking ANYTHING was possible.
In my whole life, I’ve never met anyone (that I know of) who didn’t like the Beastie Boys, at least a little bit. Most everyone in my age range remembers the words to “Paul Revere” after a couple of beers. I’m pretty sure Paul’s Boutique is on 99% of all iPods that belong to awesome people. If “Intergallactic” doesn’t make your butt shake a little bit, either you don’t have a pulse or you’re sitting in wet cement. Hell, my 6-year-old nephew was just singing “Girls” the other day, for Chrissakes. The Beastie Boys have united us.
And now, right now, already, Adam Yauch hath risen. MCA is still spewing mad rhymes out of my speakers. RIGHT NOW. He is immortal, unstoppable, and he has an army of disciples carrying the message that he can’t, he won’t, and he don’t stop.