The Beastie Boys and Me

by editor Michele Catalano

The scene: It’s 1987, I’m 24 years old, still a year away from moving out of my family home. My parents are away and my 17-year-old sister wants to have a party. Given that I threw so many house parties when my parents were away when I was her age, I tell her to go ahead. I’m in charge, and I lay some ground rules for her: our other sister and I get to invite our friends, no hard drugs, everyone out by 1 a.m., and nobody touches my turntable except for the three of us. I know my sister. I know her friends. And I know there’s going to be at least a lot of weed, maybe some coke. I know not everyone is going to leave by 1 a.m. But the turntable is nonnegotiable.

The night of the party arrives. There are about 100 people in the yard, in the pool, in the house. There’s a big mixture of ages, and you have 16-year-olds mingling with 25-year-olds. No one really cares, though. It’s a good party. The beer is flowing, there are snacks, and I am working the turntable. 

Metallica’s Master of Puppets ends—my youngest sister is a huge Metallica fan and I am playing the hits for her—and I put on my favorite album of the previous year, the Beastie Boys’ Licensed to Ill. A cheer goes up. This is a party album. The kids love it, the older ones love it, and the party is hopping. 

My friends and I have stationed ourselves inside the house. I really don’t want to hang out with 17-year-old hair metal kids, and I need to keep an eye on our dog because someone tried to give him vodka earlier. We’re in the kitchen playing cards and watching the Braves on TBS. We’re having a pleasant time grooving to “No Sleep Till Brooklyn,” just thoroughly enjoying an album that years later I would come to not enjoy.

And then it happens. No. Sleep. Till Broo. . .[record scratch, silence]. I start to get up. Someone is touching my turntable. Someone is cutting short a Beastie Boys record. Someone has put on another record. Someone has put on Bon Jovi’s Slippery When Wet but has skipped to “Livin’ on a Prayer.” I hate Bon Jovi. I hate this song. And I hate when people touch my record player. I fly out of my chair and run into the living room. I’m livid. Standing at the record player is my sister’s friend Rose with the evidence in her hands—the cover to Slippery When Wet. She is facing the turntable, and the terrible sounds of Bon Jovi come out of the speakers and I just lose it. I walk over to Rose—sort of sneak up behind her—and haul off and punch her in the back. She’s startled and turns to face me. “What the fuck, why did you punch me?” she screams. I scream back. “NO ONE TAKES OFF THE BEASTIE BOYS FOR BON JOVI.” I lift the needle, take the album off the player, and hand it to her. “Get the fuck out of here.” She is rightfully stunned, takes her record, and goes back into the yard. I put on side two of License to Ill again, and a cheer goes up from the kitchen. 

****

It’s 1998. I’ve lost my taste for License to Ill. I’m married with kids. The juvenile posturing of that album no longer sits well with me. But that’s okay, because the Beastie Boys provide. We have Paul’s Boutique, Check Your head, and Ill Communication, and now we have Hello Nasty.

I play Hello Nasty repeatedly. It’s a game for me to see which of my favorite albums I can get my kids to love as well. They are five and eight and ripe for influence. My daughter Natalie doesn’t really want to bother with it; she’s too busy listening to *NSYNC. But my son DJ, still in kindergarten and not wise to the ways of boy bands, takes to it. He especially is fond of “Intergalactic,” and I amuse myself every day by putting the song on and letting him go off. He dances, he breakdances, he sings, he experiences complete joy, which spreads itself to me, because what greater joy can you have than listening to a five-year-old exclaim “I’ll stir fry you in my wok!” or that “Beastie Boys known to let the beat. . .drop” part, which always left DJ rolling on the floor, laughing. We had a good time listening to the albums, and it’s a core memory for my son. 

****

We’re in the present now, in 2025, and I’ve taken up walking as a hobby. I listen to audiobooks as I walk and “The Beastie Boys Book” comes recommended to me. I dive in. I’ve got 12 hours and 41 minutes of Beasties lore ahead of me, and I couldn’t be more excited. Narrated by Mike D, Adam, and a whole litany of celebrities, it’s the one case I could make for listening over reading. The guest chapters are joyful and funny and poignant. Mike and Adam do a respectable job of talking about deceased member Adam Yauch, making me cry several times. I walk and walk and walk, and with each chapter I become more and more upset that this book is going to end. I want to listen to it forever. I love the lore and the backstories. I love the funny asides and the inside jokes explained. Steve Buscemi. Wes Anderson. Elvis Costello. Bette Midler reads an incredibly funny chapter. Dozens of people read. They all make listening to the book so joyful, and I’m glad the Beastie Boys exist. When I am not listening to the book, I’m listening to the band’s music. I go on a month-long kick and regret nothing. 

I’m thinking of spending another 12 hours on a relisten because the Beastie Boys have a history like no other band. 

As I write this, “Intergalactic” comes up on shuffle, a little miracle, considering that this playlist I’m listening to has 1,900 songs. I smile. My heart lifts. I experience Beastie Boys joy once again. Yeah, that book needs another listen. 

addendum: Rose - whom my sister is still friends with, has forgiven me, and still loves Bon Jovi. My son still loves the Beastie Boys but no longer dances to “Intergalactic.”