liberty_a320
07-10-2004, 01:41 AM
First off, the pictures:
http://img53.photobucket.com/albums/v162/liberty_a320/thefader1.jpg
(The bottom of the spread reads "Definitive Jokes"... not just "def" hehe...
http://img53.photobucket.com/albums/v162/liberty_a320/thefader2.jpg
http://img53.photobucket.com/albums/v162/liberty_a320/thefader3.jpg
http://img53.photobucket.com/albums/v162/liberty_a320/thefader4.jpg
I learned how to use this cool function on my scanner that'll scan text and automatically put the text in a Word document. That made it way easier to post this article (which is quite long and would've taken forever to type out). Anyway here it is...
"Definitive Jokes"
By Eric Ducker
Photography by Dorothy Hong
It was around 1979 or 1980, and it happened like this: Michael Diamond was in the student lounge of St Ann's, his hippie-ish New York high school, when his friend Raymond Rozado threw in a Harlem World battle tape. During lunch period at Edward R Murrow in Brooklyn, Adam Yauch snuck out to get a slice and heard "Rapper's Delight" for the first time, playing on the radio in a pizzeria.
Adam Horowitz had already heard the Sugarhill Gang and "The Breaks" by Kurtis Blow, but then his brother came home with a 12-inch of jimmy Spicer's "Adventures Of Super Rhymes". That's how the Beastie Boys —Mike D, MCA and Ad-Rock—got into rap music. "It was more real," says Horowitz 25 years later. "I just related to it a lot more. I don't know what specifically set it apart, but it wasn't like... love ballads. My head wasn't at where Cat Stevens was. It just hit me at the right time."
Actually, it happened like this. It was 1986, and I heard the Beastie Boys during recess on my elementary school's concrete baseball diamond. Three big kids stood in a circle just off of third base reciting "Paul Revere" line for line. When they got to the Ad-Rock line about doing it "with a Wiffleball bat" it was so raw and confusing to the seven year-old me that during lunch I found my older brother to ask him whose song it was. It wasn't the first time I'd heard hip-hop; I'd already memorized the Treacherous Three's "Xmas Rap" from Beat Street because I watched it on VHS every morning before school.
Other vivid memories: hearing "Roxanne Roxanne" and "jam On It" on jesse
Edmunds's boombox at his dad's house. Fast-forwarding my friend jono's copy of Bigger And Defferto get to "The Bristol Hotel". Seeing the video for "Night Of The Living Baseheads" on Yo! MTV Raps. And of course, the Beastie Boys—clandestinely listening to License To Ill's "Girls" over and over on my Walkman during a field trip to the Pacific Film Archives.
But the group wasn't important to me until 1992.1 was 13 the year their third album Check Your Head came out, and not knowing better—or much of anything at all—at first I dismissed the Beastie Boys' return. I mean, in the video for "Pass The Mic" Mike D wore black overalls with only one strap, just like the clueless seventh graders we clowned. I bought it (on a lark, I told myself) the day after classes ended and ended up keeping it in my boombox for the duration of my first summer with a job.
In between that summer before my freshman year and the release of Ill Communication two years later (that Tuesday I got to the record store as soon as my brother would drive me) I rediscovered the Beasties' second album
Paul's Boutique. I bought the tape when it was released in 1989, but at the time I thought it wasn't nearly as good as Appetite For Destruction— I was only ten.
But on this go around Paul's Boutique hit me at the right time. It was fun, strange, clever, complicated, braggadocious, kind of retarded,
smoked-out, funky and everything else I imagined myself to be. It also sounded like nothing else my classmates—wrapped up in
the misogynistic thrill of Dr Dre or the three-decade-long allure of the Grateful Dead-listened to. Even the kids who were just playing "Sabotage" in the school van before basketball games or still worshipping the hydraulic phallus of License To Ill wouldn't—couldn't—appreciate it. Paul's Boutique was a secret handshake, and the music was a key to a combination of juvenile energy and hip knowledge that sounded right as I spent my
weekends making mixtapes, hotboxing in Oakland Hills cul-de-sacs, generally dorking out and imagining the person that I might become but usually drawing a blank.
I was a fan of the Beastie Boys, not unlike the kind of fans the Beastie Boys acknowledged themselves to be—curious, open-minded and believers in the transformative powers of learning about the dope shit. The clues in the
samples they chose grew my record collection (thanks for Eugene McDaniels and the Commodores, I could have done without Sweet), but their name-dropping lyrics, album art direction, Grand Royal magazine—in short, the industry of personal style they produced—opened passageways into worlds
beyond my immediate grasp. I saw The Taking Of The Pelham 123 because Ad-Rock mentioned it in "Sure Shot", I knew who Haze was because of the booklet for Check Your Head, and like they said in "Sounds Of Science", I rocked myAdidas and never rocked Fila. I had a Bruce Lee poster on my
bedroom wall and Hunter S Thompson books on my floor. I had an ill-conceived flirtation with visors.
The Beastie Boys' new album To The 5 Boroughs is the group's first entirely rap record in 15 years. The seed for the decision to return to their roots (as it were) came shortly after 9/11, when they organized a two- night benefit show at New York's Hammerstein Ballroom for the families of those without insurance killed in the World Trade Center. Because the show had to be put
together quickly, the group didn't have time to rehearse as a full band, so they decided to just perform a hip-hop set. (continued in next post... there's a word limit to each post apparently...)
http://img53.photobucket.com/albums/v162/liberty_a320/thefader1.jpg
(The bottom of the spread reads "Definitive Jokes"... not just "def" hehe...
http://img53.photobucket.com/albums/v162/liberty_a320/thefader2.jpg
http://img53.photobucket.com/albums/v162/liberty_a320/thefader3.jpg
http://img53.photobucket.com/albums/v162/liberty_a320/thefader4.jpg
I learned how to use this cool function on my scanner that'll scan text and automatically put the text in a Word document. That made it way easier to post this article (which is quite long and would've taken forever to type out). Anyway here it is...
"Definitive Jokes"
By Eric Ducker
Photography by Dorothy Hong
It was around 1979 or 1980, and it happened like this: Michael Diamond was in the student lounge of St Ann's, his hippie-ish New York high school, when his friend Raymond Rozado threw in a Harlem World battle tape. During lunch period at Edward R Murrow in Brooklyn, Adam Yauch snuck out to get a slice and heard "Rapper's Delight" for the first time, playing on the radio in a pizzeria.
Adam Horowitz had already heard the Sugarhill Gang and "The Breaks" by Kurtis Blow, but then his brother came home with a 12-inch of jimmy Spicer's "Adventures Of Super Rhymes". That's how the Beastie Boys —Mike D, MCA and Ad-Rock—got into rap music. "It was more real," says Horowitz 25 years later. "I just related to it a lot more. I don't know what specifically set it apart, but it wasn't like... love ballads. My head wasn't at where Cat Stevens was. It just hit me at the right time."
Actually, it happened like this. It was 1986, and I heard the Beastie Boys during recess on my elementary school's concrete baseball diamond. Three big kids stood in a circle just off of third base reciting "Paul Revere" line for line. When they got to the Ad-Rock line about doing it "with a Wiffleball bat" it was so raw and confusing to the seven year-old me that during lunch I found my older brother to ask him whose song it was. It wasn't the first time I'd heard hip-hop; I'd already memorized the Treacherous Three's "Xmas Rap" from Beat Street because I watched it on VHS every morning before school.
Other vivid memories: hearing "Roxanne Roxanne" and "jam On It" on jesse
Edmunds's boombox at his dad's house. Fast-forwarding my friend jono's copy of Bigger And Defferto get to "The Bristol Hotel". Seeing the video for "Night Of The Living Baseheads" on Yo! MTV Raps. And of course, the Beastie Boys—clandestinely listening to License To Ill's "Girls" over and over on my Walkman during a field trip to the Pacific Film Archives.
But the group wasn't important to me until 1992.1 was 13 the year their third album Check Your Head came out, and not knowing better—or much of anything at all—at first I dismissed the Beastie Boys' return. I mean, in the video for "Pass The Mic" Mike D wore black overalls with only one strap, just like the clueless seventh graders we clowned. I bought it (on a lark, I told myself) the day after classes ended and ended up keeping it in my boombox for the duration of my first summer with a job.
In between that summer before my freshman year and the release of Ill Communication two years later (that Tuesday I got to the record store as soon as my brother would drive me) I rediscovered the Beasties' second album
Paul's Boutique. I bought the tape when it was released in 1989, but at the time I thought it wasn't nearly as good as Appetite For Destruction— I was only ten.
But on this go around Paul's Boutique hit me at the right time. It was fun, strange, clever, complicated, braggadocious, kind of retarded,
smoked-out, funky and everything else I imagined myself to be. It also sounded like nothing else my classmates—wrapped up in
the misogynistic thrill of Dr Dre or the three-decade-long allure of the Grateful Dead-listened to. Even the kids who were just playing "Sabotage" in the school van before basketball games or still worshipping the hydraulic phallus of License To Ill wouldn't—couldn't—appreciate it. Paul's Boutique was a secret handshake, and the music was a key to a combination of juvenile energy and hip knowledge that sounded right as I spent my
weekends making mixtapes, hotboxing in Oakland Hills cul-de-sacs, generally dorking out and imagining the person that I might become but usually drawing a blank.
I was a fan of the Beastie Boys, not unlike the kind of fans the Beastie Boys acknowledged themselves to be—curious, open-minded and believers in the transformative powers of learning about the dope shit. The clues in the
samples they chose grew my record collection (thanks for Eugene McDaniels and the Commodores, I could have done without Sweet), but their name-dropping lyrics, album art direction, Grand Royal magazine—in short, the industry of personal style they produced—opened passageways into worlds
beyond my immediate grasp. I saw The Taking Of The Pelham 123 because Ad-Rock mentioned it in "Sure Shot", I knew who Haze was because of the booklet for Check Your Head, and like they said in "Sounds Of Science", I rocked myAdidas and never rocked Fila. I had a Bruce Lee poster on my
bedroom wall and Hunter S Thompson books on my floor. I had an ill-conceived flirtation with visors.
The Beastie Boys' new album To The 5 Boroughs is the group's first entirely rap record in 15 years. The seed for the decision to return to their roots (as it were) came shortly after 9/11, when they organized a two- night benefit show at New York's Hammerstein Ballroom for the families of those without insurance killed in the World Trade Center. Because the show had to be put
together quickly, the group didn't have time to rehearse as a full band, so they decided to just perform a hip-hop set. (continued in next post... there's a word limit to each post apparently...)