The Beastie Boys’ Adam Yauch died of throat cancer last week. Always some cruel twist of fate for a rapper. See The DOC of NWA & DMC of Run-DMC. We knew him as MCA. (Sheesk. This post already has more acronyms than a text message between 13-year old girls transcribing an FDA compliance manuel. BTW. ALOL.) I have a weird history with the Beastie Boys. When Licensed to Ill dropped, to nearly universal acclaim (among both whites and blacks), I sort of thought they were clowns. Long before some of the divisions that eventually developed in hip hop culture, I felt like the Beastie Boys were a parody of the real thing. I thought their flow was corny, their gear too white, and that they were a product of their beats not their lyricism. (It was probably some sort of latent self-hate.) Even now, I’m not sure I was precisely wrong, just short-sighted. By their sophomore record, Paul’s Boutique, it became pretty clear that there was something sustainable and serious about them. And, in fact, it could be said that they became one of the most creative voices in music, film, and fashion of a generation. They were a significant influence on my musical youth.

Not to mention, Yauch was probably my closest rap doppleganger, a fellow silver-haired spitter.

“I’m flowing like a mudslide and when I get on I like to ride and glide.”

No song today. Nothing really got me going. R.I.P.M.C.A.