WE LOST A BEATLE
Hey Listen: There WAS no fucking Google.
In 1986, when my crew of eleven-year-olds discovered The Beasties’ encrypted vinyl doctrine, we had our work cut out for us. We couldn’t just type their lyrics into some futuristic machine and have the meanings handed back—each crass little Easter egg had to be decoded by perverted detective work, or by relying on older brothers and irresponsible doormen to tell us what the hell it meant:
- How can he recognize a girlie from the back of her head?
- They all switch places when he rings the bell? Sounds fucked-up like naked Twister maybe?
- Rolled up to Wooley? Who the fuck is that?
We had to earn the enlightenment of each and every lesson, like tracking down hidden fire-flowers and 1up-mushrooms nestled in the uniform bricks of World 1-2.
In a world where owning a Playboy was the greatest achievement a kid could hope to attain, Licensed to Ill was more than the soundtrack of our childhood; it was a secret guide to humor and rebellion and confidence that helped us invent our own identities and eventually get laid.