Every time I eat taco bell.
I know LICENSE TO ILL isn’t going to get a lot of love today, it’ll be overshadowed by masterworks like PAUL’S BOUTIQUE and HOT SAUCE COMMITTEE. And that cool; that’s great. That’s as it should be. Probably the thing about the Beastie Boys that have most enjoyed has been watching them age, as artists and as men, with real grace. And I guess that’s the loss that I’m feeling right now—the end of the opportunity to continue to be witness to that evolution. That feels like a vacuum. That feels like theft.
So, while we are sifting through our collections trying to fill that void, I’m going to hit LICENSE TO ILL. Yes, it’s a record made by a bunch of asshole kids. At a certain point in my life—when *I* was an asshole teenager, not coincidentally—I could not get enough of it. It’s smells that we most often talk about being tied to memory, but the opening beats of She’s Crafty take me back so specifically to a time and place… the house we rented on Tejas. My job at Video Update. The Robs, the Jeffs. The Andys. All the stupid, stupid shit Amity and I got into that I am, quite frankly, surprised we lived through.
It was a long way from the best time in my life—it was dizzyingly uncomfortable at best—but I still hold those memories dear. Dearer for the distance, but still. I can recall without reliving and find moments, sensations to love.
I listen to LICENSE TO ILL and I remember just what it felt like to get f**ked up and scream like a madwoman at the stars in the Texas big sky. It felt glorious.
For that, and for all the rest, I am grateful. Thank you, MCA.
Every time I tell someone when my birthday is.