To post something like this is normally so opposite of what I would ever do, but…but–not since the death of Heath Ledger (who’s artistic work effected me just as greatly, although it wasn’t as long of an affair as this) have I felt so gutted by the death of a celebrity. My childhood household was a strict one, and I remember sneaking to watch MTV (when I was supposed to be doing homework) on the downstairs television, sound turned down as low as possible but where I could still enjoy it, in order to see the video for Hey Ladies just one more time. Years later, at 19, my roommates, “Nice Guys” Tom and Joey, would blast Check Your Head and this would be when and how I learned that some albums were just so obviously made to be listened to with a little green. That album basically proved it to be a SCIENTIFIC FACT.
Four years later, I’m in Denver, Colorado, in some hole-in-the-wall dive bar that the nice clerk at the downtown 24-hour Kinkos recommended. My friend, Carri, and I are half-way through our drive across country to move to Seattle (me from Virginia, her from Indiana) and enjoying a couple of beers at this bar near our overnight motel stop. Some old drunk lady had apparently done or said the wrong thing and was being heaved out the backdoor by a body guard three times her size. Suddenly and simultaneously the jukebox begins to blare, “NO SLEEP TIL…” followed by that infamous guitar riff. And then Carri and I are “singing” along (in the loosest definition of “singing” as possible), substituting our next major destination, “Boise” for “Brooklyn” in the lyrics. (Little did I know it was much more prophetic than I ever could have imagined, as I would end up very unexpectedly moving to Brooklyn 12 years later.) No relation to the song, but to complete the story of the night, a couple of hours later I would be hit in the back of the head by the side-view mirror of a city metro bus, the driver of which would give no effs and keep going. (As you can probably guess, I survived.)
In Seattle, I would end up working at The Hurricane (formerly known as The Dog House), a greasy (and I do mean greasy) spoon 24 hour cafe, where the busiest part of the night would be right at bar rush, while Intergalactic played on the jukebox at least five times (extremely conservative estimate) a night.
The Beastie Boys last album, Hot Sauce Committee part 2, was released right around this time last year. When the upcoming release was officially announced, I was like a kid at Christmas; it had been a LONG time since I had been that excited about a new CD coming out. As soon as it was available I immediately downloaded the entire album (the only full album on my ipod to this day) and proceeded to wear that nonsense out every single dang day (in reality, like all of their music, in never wore out but rather got better and better with each listen).
The news of Adam Yauch’s death today literally felt like a punch to the stomach. So much of my life and experiences and memories are intertwined with their music. Every time I tried to buy concert tickets, they were sold out in MINUTES (I’m talking like three minutes most of the time). Now I’ll never get that chance; first world problems, right? When I was in the 7th grade, a rumor spread like wildfire (which I caught wind of in my math class) that all of the Beastie Boys had died from drinking Draino (or some other similar household cleaning product). I always associate that memory with Barbara Simms, who was also in that math class (maybe she was the one who told me? I can’t recall now…), who had an untimely death from a freak car accident after a football game during our senior year 5 years later. Every single one of the Beastie Boys’ songs I can relate to a memory, person, emotion, environment, what I was wearing etc. Adam “MCA” Yauch‘s way-too-early death marks a sad, sad for many. Thank you MCA for a lifetime of incredible music, film and art, good old nostalgic memories, and the never ending generosity of your spirit. What a gift your life was.
The Search for my Treasure 