When you mourn an artist who helped make your life better, it is inexorably a selfish act.

So first and foremost, R.I.P. Chuck Brown and Donna Summer. I hope your family and close friends find comfort knowing how well you were loved.

For me (and doubtless many if not most of my peers) both of these artists are inextricably associated with 1979, a year I celebrated in detail here (keyword: Slush Puppie).

Obviously as I grew older and learned more about music, and culture and history, I understood that Chuck Brown was not just a local hero, he was an industry unto himself. Now that he has gone to that great big Go-Go in the sky, I have no other option than to to celebrate the song that rocked many of our worlds circa 1979. Of course it still does and always will. (And, inevitably, there is a reason James Brown is called, amongst other things, The Godfather. It all begins and ends with him. You hear it here, and if there is anything wrong with that there was never nothing right.)

It’s possible, though unlikely, that you lived through the late ’70s and did not know who Chuck Brown was (my condolences), but if you were sentient during the late ’70s you knew who Donna Summer was. Period, end of story. Not until Michael Jackson a few years later was there an artist (much less a black artist) as ubiquitous as Donna Summer. Anytime I hear “Bad Girls” I’m back in 1979 and that is a very good place to be, with or without a slush puppie.

Yeah baby. That was the perfect song for a world that was still grappling with disco and what the Bee Gees had wrought (having once owned the soundtrack to Saturday Night Fever functioning as a kind of eternal, existential aesthetic walk of shame, despite the redeeming value of “Disco Inferno” and the Tavares doing “More Than A Woman”. And, if pushed, a few of the Bee Gees songs as well. Damn it.)

Let’s break it down: this was pretty racy stuff, circa 1979, at least for mainstream radio. And this was all over the radio. For a nine year old straddling the line between young boy and adolescent (or between Kiss and The Beatles, before realizing the world could –and should– exist quite peacefully with both…and it does), this was not quite sexy but certainly not innocent. And I’m not talking about the lyrics, or even the music, necessarily. I’m talking about the groove, the feeling. It did what it had to do, on cultural and pop-culture levels, and it endures. That still sounds great. Dare I say: Disco is not dead?

Now, I can understand if you think I’m being nostalgic, even sentimental to a fault. Cherishing my memories of Donna Summer is one thing, but…Barbara Streisand? Yes. I can’t remember the last time I listened to this (but I’m glad I just had an excuse), although I certainly can remember the first times I heard it. Let’s name names. Many of my peers, at least the ones who, like me, went to Forest Edge, then Terraset, and eventually Langston Hughes (Panthers!), will remember Mr. Bryant. Spencer. He was so old school he was pre-alphabet. Afro: check. Rocking the ‘stache? Check. Working the gum like it was his job? Always. But aside from his inimitable voice and manner of speaking (straight street mixed with cool and, since this was the late ’70s I am allowed to say it, jive). He was at once intimidating, amusing and, in a way, inspiring. He did not just encourage us to be good, he demanded that we not be bad. I know Mark Seferian will remember Health class in 8th grade and the immortal promise he made on the first day of school: “You only get but one grade, A or F.” (No one said, isn’t that two grades?) If Mr. Bryant is around I hope he is well and I’d like to thank him for being himself.

And mostly, I’d like to thank him for playing music in gym class. Does anyone else remember that he would bring in the ancient school reel-to-reel tape player (big enough that he needed a TV tray to hold it) and play funk and soul music? He blared it. I distinctly remember hearing “She’s a Brick House” for the first time (circa ’77) at Forest Edge. By ’79, at Terraset, it was all Donna Summer, all the time. As far as I recall, none of us complained. And of all the songs I remember hearing as we played kickball or dodgeball, it was “Enough is Enough” and loving it. And him.

So I guess what I’m saying is that I’m sad to see Brown and Summer go, obviously. But I can –and will– appreciate the symmetry of them bustin’ loose from this mortal coil so close together, since they are so directy connected, culturally and for me, personally. Again, it’s inevitably a selfish act, but what else is an honest celebration than a sincere acknowledgment of happiness and gratitude? That is what this is, and all I have to do is listen, again, and it’s 1979. But it’s also today. And tomorrow.

Once again I’m indebted to my man Robert Rodriguez (and once again: if you are a music fan and especially if you are a Beatles fan, you need to get to know his work, STAT). Via his daily Facebook posts (get in on the action and like it here) I learned that it was on this day in 1976 that one of the more controversial albums by Jethro Tull, Too Old To Rock ‘n’ Roll, Too Young To Die!, was released.

Controversial mostly because it was supposed to be a rock musical (for the stage and/or screen), which would have upped the ante from the album-length concept albums from ’72 and ’73 (the beloved Thick As A Brick and the not-so beloved A Passion Play). Like yet another concept album gone awry (or reigned in, depending on your perspective), 1974′s War Child, this one became a semi-straightforward album with proper songs. It occupies a place in the Tull cataolog that ranges from overlooked to misunderstood. Of course some of the more hardcore fans find much to recommend, and the hardest core would argue it has some of Tull’s best material. Personally, I find it a bit of all these things: it’s definitely overlooked and underappreciated, and it has a couple of throwaway tunes (“Crazed Institution” and “Taxi Grab”, while not stinkers, are far below the quality Ian Anderson usually insisted upon). And, finally, it does indeed contain some of their best work. Even a listener who has never heard this particular album should be blown away by the acoustic tour-de-force that is “Salamander”, while album-closer “The Chequered Flag (Dead or Alive)” is just about as good as prog-rock got in the mid-’70s.

Coincidentally, if conveniently, it was only earlier this week that I addressed the song that gives this album its name if not its sensibility (a full review of Anderson’s latest work is here). For some folks, this is one of the handful of Tull songs they hear (and hate) on FM radio; for others it is something else (good, bad or ugly, and personally, I think it’s a bit of all these things):

However unwittingly, Ian Anderson wrote his artistic epitaph all the way back in 1976. “Too Old to Rock ‘n’ Roll: Too Young To Die!”, the hit from the album of the same name, used music as a metaphor (or vice versa) where he, understandably, wondered if—or when—a musician might be reasonably expected to retire. The answer, of course, has always been straightforward: when the musician feels like it. Whether written off by critics, ignored by trend makers or still selling out arenas, only the artist can decide when it’s finally time to walk away.

It was more than a little prescient for Anderson to skewer himself, the industry and his audience by at once admitting it was ridiculous for an “aging” rock star to keep both feet in the spotlight, while celebrating it with appropriate defiance. What else is a rock star supposed to do? Of course, this message does not remotely apply only to rock music. As the hippies and baby boomers see –or at least sense– the shadow of that chequered flag, they can pick up what he was putting down. It wasn’t a joke then and it’s definitely not a laughing matter now.

Speaking of prescience, how about the satirical meat hooks Anderson puts into the quiz-show craze of the time. Consider how quaint that seems given our current state of reality TV where knowledge and talent often take a back seat to willful and very public humiliation.

For anyone who never thought prog rockers had a sense of humor…well, it’s understandable. But whoever you are you did not listen to enough, and you certainly did not listen to Jethro Tull. Appreciate the tongue-in-cheek “celebration” of the counterculture, or the finger in the eye of snobbish society. Or both, and more…

Bottom line: not only is this album far from a failure, it is an album that was (doubly ironically, considering its title) a bit ahead of its time and as a result it’s aged quite nicely. The musicianship is, as ever, top notch and Anderson is hitting on every conceivable cylinder, lyrically. (A few sample grabs: “Old queers with young faces/Who remember your name”; “I’m self-raising and I flower in her company”; “I’ve a tenner in my skin-tight jeans/You can touch it if your hands are clean”; and, finally, the opening salvo that holds as true today as it did in the bell-bottom era: “The old Rocker wore his hair too long/wore his trouser cuffs too tight/Unfashionable to the end, drank his ale too light”).

But for the full monty, we must go back to that last song, where Anderson uses several minutes to cover several albums (or novels) worth of themes and issues: birth, death, despair and death. You know, the usual rock and roll cliches.

In sum, isn’t it grand to be playing to the stand, dead or alive? Fucking-A right it is.

Did you know how great this guy was?

Nevermind the fact that his best friend, the equally brilliant Steve “The Colonel” Cropper –who played with him for more than four decades– recently remarked that Dunn was the best bass player to ever live (and the best guy, period: check out a nice obit here).

By all available evidence, Dunn was a genius and a gentleman. His life was music and he helped make music better (and more inclusive, and groovy) for all of us. A life to be celebrated, and a man to be missed.

It’s all on the record, on the records.

Yes, he was a crucial member of the immortal Stax house band, Booker T & The MGs, and took a well-deserved (and, one hopes, well-paid) victory lap as an honorary member of the Blues Brothers.

As usual, the best way to articulate the greatness of a particular musician is to let them do the playing.

Did you know how many epic songs (albums) Dunn played on? Here’s a sampler.

“Time is Tight”:

“I Can’t Turn You Loose”:

“Hold On I’m Coming”:

“I Almost Lost My Mind” (author’s note: getting a hold of this Albert King album might be the best choice you ever made):

“Shotgun Blues” (a bit more on The Blues Brothers here):

For an iconoclastic prog rocker who is currently enjoying his 44th year as leader of Jethro Tull, it’s at once ironic and appropriate that his first single, from 1969, is entitled “Living in the Past”. The next sentence is inevitable: whether or not Anderson is figuratively wallowing in the brighter glow of glory days long gone, he soldiers on. As it happened, he was—and is—not yet too old to rock and roll. (That sentence was inevitable as well.) Jethro Tull continued to make remarkable music throughout the ‘70s and was steady if not always impressive during the ‘80s. Things slowed down dramatically in the ‘90s and no new material has surfaced in almost a decade. Nevertheless, Anderson has been an indefatigable performer, leading his ever-evolving line-ups on tour pretty much without pause. If his voice was effectively shot many moons ago, the crowds still turned up for the shows.

Was he supposed to fade away or quietly tend to his salmon farms? We tend to mock our elder statesmen when they get lazy or lose inspiration. (This begs the uneasy question: is rock and roll almost exclusively a young musician’s game? With few exceptions in terms of both quality and consistency, the answer is a resounding yes.) And so: what is there to say about someone who continues to make music past retirement age? Fair play and cheers to anyone who is willing and able to stay in the game. All of which is to say it was surprising, but not disheartening to hear a new album was in the works. On the other hand, revisiting—and updating—a progressive milestone and masterpiece? Hmmm.

Ian Anderson, who has cycled through sidemen the way his more hedonistic compatriots once speed-dialed through dealers, has yet another cast of characters for this recording. The gentlemen from the ‘72 line-up have been gone for ages. The one exception, throughout, has been Martin Barre, lead guitarist from the second album on. Distressingly, if revealingly, Barre is nowhere to be heard on these proceedings, which are intriguingly (if revealingly) entitled Jethro Tull’s Ian Anderson: TAAB2 (Thick As a Brick 2). Hmmm.

Expectations were moderate, to put it mildly. Simply, if harshly put, the notion of this entire enterprise seemed like a recipe for fiasco, an exercise equal parts ill-advised nostalgia, indulgence and obvious lack of inspiration. Recent years have not been kind to either Anderson’s voice or, judging from the scarcity of new works, his muse. In the great old days, these were the two sharpest arrows in his quiver.

And yet, here he is, pressing on because he can; because he needs to. The verdict? It’s not terrible. It’s not even bad, actually. And yet, it is difficult to determine if it’s really very good. It is not remotely an embarrassment which, given the stakes and circumstances, is not an inconsiderable achievement. Of course there will be fans prepared to protest Anderson’s audacity: how dare he meddle with the legacy of a dearly-loved album, etc. Those unforgiving, unimaginative folks are advised to give this one a miss, though they may in fact be missing out on material that is interesting and more than occasionally quite satisfactory.

Martin Barre is sorely missed (on principle if nothing else) but in fairness, his young replacement Florian Ophale acquits himself more than adequately. The rest of the band, including drummer Scott Hammond, bassist David Goodier and keyboardist John O’Hara may not make anyone forget the ’72 crew, but—again, in fairness—few outfits (then, now) could.

The impetus of this endeavor is a doubling-down of sorts, revisiting a gambit employed for the original. Thick As a Brick, as the elaborate faux-newspaper packaging declared, featured lyrics from an eight year old wunderkind called Gerald Bostock. Now, 40 years on, Anderson imagines the various paths this fictional character’s life may have taken. As such, careers ranging from banker to soldier to preacher are explored, with varying levels of effectiveness.

The lyrics are mostly okay, but seldom encroach on the rarefied air Anderson occupied for the initial decades of his career. The music is, frankly, better than any reasonable fan could hope for. At least the instruments are all being played by human beings and there is a merciful minimum of studio tinkering and technological trickery (thanks in no small part to mixing engineer—and prog rock MVP—Steven Wilson). The vocals? There is no way around it, the vocals are weak. At this point Anderson utilizes a strategy of necessity, half-speaking in a sing-song style. Unfortunately there are also sections of deadpan narrative delivered in an unembellished speaking voice. These moments are aesthetically disappointing, more so for their unoriginality and the last resort of sorts that they signify than anything else. Overall, there is sufficient variety, in terms of the pacing and the sounds, to result in a discernible, sporadically pleasant flow. The packaging is neither as clever nor as impressive as the original, but the old version didn’t come with a bonus DVD featuring interviews, a making-of feature and lyric readings (this one does).

The key question remains: is it memorable? Will it be returned to with any regularity? Check back in a month, or a year, or a few decades. Grading on the curve, it seems unsporting to be excessively harsh. This project could never replace or even compare favorably with the first one, but not many albums could. To this listener (and long-time fan) the results are much more lively and worthwhile than anything Anderson has done since the early ‘90s. That he had the tenacity to pull this off without resorting to self-satire puts him in a better light than most of his peers who are safely enshrined in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and/or debasing themselves during the Super Bowl.

Bottom line: the effort does little to affect the impact of the ‘72 release. Or any of the albums that preceded or followed it. It puts the clearest perspective possible on the question only the most ardent fans bother to ask (and, as such, serves as a curious kind of public service): what would happen if Ian Anderson had stuck around for another 40 years after he created Thick As a Brick? Answer: this is what would have happened.

I’m fortunate, in a sense, to be the type of person that gets more sentimental about the times I read a certain book or heard a particular album than I ever do about holidays. But I’m still human. I still recall the almost breathless inability to accelerate time and make Christmas arrive more quickly. Or the Halloween costumes, Easter candy or the great Thanksgiving feasts (and the not-so-great family fights that would sometimes ensue). The holidays, as idealized rites of passage, still resonate; but these occasions are not capable of enhancing or obliterating whatever mood I’m already in. As such, the absence of my mother might feel more acute on holidays, but none of these events have been unduly marred during the past decade.

Surprisingly, even the week that presents a triptych of raw remembrance, comprising her birthday (August 23), and the anniversaries of her death (August 26) and funeral (August 30) have been bearable. These have become prospects for celebration, however somber, and I am mostly able to channel that grief into gratitude for the times she was around. Similarly, Mother’s Day is seldom joyful, but it provides an imperative to consider happy times and my relative good fortune—despite what is obviously lacking, now. It also obliges me to behold my family members and friends who have become admirable mothers themselves, and I am humbled to see my mother alive in the looks they give their children.

And if I’m ever inclined to stop and consider how corny, or manufactured these sentiments may be, I console myself with the awareness of how increasingly corny and manufactured holidays in America have become.

***

Any time I need to be reminded that I am one of the lucky ones, I look at the picture taken the day I was born. The pose is not unique; virtually every child has at least one frameable shot of the post-delivery adoring gaze. Or, every child fortunate enough to have been born in a hospital (or home) under safe conditions to a mother who welcomes the moment and, most importantly, is prepared for the moments (and days and years) that will follow. I don’t need to resort to religion or sociology: I can simply consider the circumstances and the infinitesimal odds that I ever made it from my father to my mother in the first place (if you know what I mean).

What child cannot recall asking, on Mother’s Day, why there wasn’t a Kid’s Day? The response was always the same: Every day is Kid’s Day. Most of us who have lived a single hour in the so-called real world quickly came to register how accurate this tired cliché actually is. Indeed, those of us who were sufficiently well-raised didn’t need to wait that long for this epiphany to occur. A year or two punching the clock, paying bills, cleaning up one’s own messes—the literal and especially the figurative ones—and generally attaining that independent status one strove so single-mindedly to attain is impetus enough for reflection. Not merely an appraisal of how impossible it would be to repay the investment made, measured in money, time, affection and approbation, but a recognition of what was truly at stake: the selflessness your parents displayed, putting in all that effort to enable you to become your own person. The best gift a parent can give (you come to understand) is loving you enough to allow you to not be exactly like them; to encourage you to figure out exactly who you are supposed to become.

***

Holidays have not been intolerable, no more than any other day, especially the bad days when I miss my mother most. As a result, I reckon I’m not the only one who has found that my birthday is the single occasion that can never be the same. Inexorable nostalgic pangs, the pull of biological imperatives, or the simple fact that I’m still human has ensured that the annual recognition of my birth day is imbued with sadness and a heavy longing I don’t feel any other time. If so, it seems a reasonable trade-off: that deep and uncomplicated connection, along with the longing any child can comprehend, signifies that yet another cliché holds true: absence makes the heart grow fonder.

Every time I scribble a thought with artistic intent I am inspired by the support my mother offered, going back to the days I was a kid with crayons, coloring outside the lines while listening to The Nutcracker Suite. She will never be forgotten; in fact, she will never be gone. This is what helps and it is also, at times, what hurts.

***

How do you get over the loss?

That is the question I asked a former girlfriend who lost her father when she was a teenager. “You don’t,” she said. Hearing this, you can acknowledge—and appreciate—the sentiment; you can easily empathize with how inconceivable it is to possibly heal from that kind of heartbreak. But it isn’t until you experience it that you comprehend the inexplicable ways this reality is an inviolable aspect of our existence: it’s worse than you could ever envision, but if you’re one of the lucky ones, it’s also more redemptory than you might have imagined. Mostly, you accept that a day will seldom pass when you don’t think of the one you loved and lost. And more, you wouldn’t have it any other way.

Every day is Kid’s Day, and who would hope to change that?

Every day, for me, is Mother’s Day. And on my birthday, I don’t celebrate myself so much as acknowledge—and appreciate—the one who did the most to help me get here.

* From a non-fiction work-in-progress entitled Please Talk About Me When I’m Gone.

I may have to go purchase a five gallon (ten gallon?) hat just so I can properly tip it to the good folks at Sabotage Times for unearthing this gem.

Wow. As my boy Shieldsy (tip to him as well for sending it to me) and I agreed: we can’t say anything about this because what can you say?

Whether or not Kubrick’s take on The Shining (combining elements of pretense, fussiness, precision, detachment bordering on aloofness and a host of other things, some distinctly Kubrickian, others less so) did Stephen King’s novel justice, greatly outpaced it, brilliantly reimagined it or…whatever, there can be no arguments –and none will be tolerated– that Jack Nicholson was not perfectly cast. He had fun with it and he let us have a lot of fun with it. But he also took it very seriously, and there are moments (many of them) that are quite serious indeed.

I don’t want to talk about it; I want to celebrate it (more on Kubrick here):

I read the news today. Oh boy.

Looks like one of the worst-kept secrets in the industry is beginning to spring a rather unseemly leak.

Sounds like art may have been imitating life a tad too closely when Travolta, as Vincent Vega, maintained that “I’ve given a million ladies a million foot massages and they all meant something.”

Jokes aside, what a sordid spectacle that Travolta is even in the position of having to defend himself. (If any of what is being alleged is true…super-size the spectacle with a side of self-loathing.)

If, to avoid confessing (and/or confronting) the fact that he is gay, Travolta has been reduced to back-room escapades that involve coercion, money and power employed in all the wrong ways, it probably still says something more about our society than it does about him. Yes, today we can stand back and take legitimate pride, as a nation, in how far we’ve come that the biological fact of being gay is no longer something to feel ashamed or secretive about. I’m certainly not the only person from my generation who can easily recall that less than two decades ago, gay-bashing was de rigeur in virtually any stand-up’s routine. If you doubt that, just consider two of the most famous and wealthy comedians of the late ’80s: Eddie Murphy and Andrew Dice Clay (the fact that both of these guys have broken more gaydars than Ted Haggard is beside the point).

Which brings us to what happened yesterday in North Carolina.

I guess it should not be too surprising, given the recent bubble and squeak over contraception (more on that manufactured and ultimately self-defeating controversy here.). It’s still illuminating to see people so motivated by an issue that affects them, on a personal level, so little. It’s not like we don’t have an employment crisis or ever-growing evidence of global warming or, well, take your pick of problems (old and new) that we could address for our collective benefit. Or perhaps that is precisely the point: because things are increasingly chaotic and uncertain (like they where yesterday, or last year, or last century) people instinctively focus on the trivial things they control, however tenuously. It does not require a degree in Sociology or a passing familiarity with American history to make easy if unfortunate correlations between what is happening –the things being said, the ways they are being said, the circumstances they are being said under– has happened consistently in our country. Leaving religion and faith out of it for a moment, even though that’s impossible, it’s telling to note that the signs being held at these rallies (even the misspelled ones) are using the same smug certainty, animosity and illogic that decorated the signs held up during the Civil Rights movement and, before that, the Women’s Suffrage movement. Not similar; identical. Even Andrew Dice Clay could put the pieces together.

Which brings us back to the beginning: religion.

Matters of belief and actions vs. words aside, most of us can concur that religion giveth and religion taketh away. When it gives comfort, inspiration and increases the capacity for love, I can speak for myself (and many millions of others, I feel safe to presume) when I say this is all good and well. When it gives incentive –or cover– for exclusion, intolerance or increases the capacity for hate, this is what people (like me) talk about when they talk about the danger of a fundamentalist mindset (nevermind, for the moment, the myriad hypocrisies inherent in any person’s life who claims to follow the infallible word of the bible because, just to take one example, if you own the computer necessary to read these words, or are reading them on the screen you work at to make paychecks, you’ve already parted ways with Christ).

Blessed are you when men shall hate you, and when they shall separate you from their company, and shall reproach you, and cast out your name as evil…

In my personal experience, The New Testament resonates with people who are interested in emulating and not merely obeying. Indeed, the only people who read, much less seek inspiration in the Old Testament tend to be proselytizers or repressed opportunists looking to find ecclesiastical back-up for their very human prejudices and desires.

Whatsoever you do to the least of my people, that you do unto me.

This does not leave much room for interpretation, no matter how consistently the dominant themes of this man’s teachings are neglected or appropriated for our unevolved times. This is where the scripture and the rule-following (and the rule creating) men in charge of laws and wars miss the soul of the words they claim to worship. Jesus, ideal as an inspiration if not the revealed truth. How can you not get behind this example, this idea that is larger than any individual faith, no matter how sincerely held?

Without Love I Am Nothing: this is the sort of sense you can spend many Sundays (some folks spend their entire lives) trying to understand in a church. It sounds good when you hear it, and it may even be inspiring if man on the altar conveys it with sufficient humility. But like so many aspects of organized religion, it’s when the rhetoric matches reality in the streets that it affects the soul.

And our soul, as a nation, is in need of healing –and awareness– if we continue to kid ourselves that there is a spiritual foundation for institutionalized injustice. If we allow ourselves to hide behind what is, at best, an inconsistent message that was obviously lost in translation. If we fail to recognize that those who translated these words owned slaves and stoned their wives and fought wars for land in God’s name, thousands of years ago. If what is happening today does not remind us how much has changed, and how little.

This is a tough one for anyone born after 1960.

That said, it must have been indescribably gratifying for Sendak to know that an entire generation (and then their kids, etc.) read –and loved– his work. I mean we talk about wanting to leave a mark on the world; Sendak most definitely did that. To do so and leave the world happier and more imaginative than it would otherwise have been? That is downright heroic.

The name alone is epic: Sonny Sharrock.

I won’t resist the urge, because I can’t, to pick a low-hanging pun and opine that Sonny put the rock back in jazz.

Still blazing down the trail Miles helped forge with the genre-obliterating Jack Johnson sessions (which Sharrock made an appearance at), Sonny seamlessly wove angular, concrete-hard riffs into compositions that were just on this side of free jazz. He was recognized as a genius fairly early on, which naturally meant he had no chance to make a decent living as a musician. He dropped out of the scene for many years and came back (and/or was goaded back by the indefatigable Bill Laswell, not only one of the all-time heroes of postmodern jazz, but a man who has helped create, collaborate on and produce more albums than some people will ever listen to), invigorated and en fuego. He made, arguably, his best music at the end. Just as he was on the precipice of way-overdue major label acclaim he was felled by a heart attack. He remains not only a guitarist’s guitarist, but a jazz guitarist’s guitarist, which naturally means not nearly enough folks know about him.

Consider this a primer.

If you take my advice just once this month, pick yourself up a copy of his masterpiece Ask The Ages. You can download this for less than six bucks @ Amazon. Less than one dollar a song, folks.

Check it:

Anyone with ears can understand the beauty there. But Sonny was also a beast, and he brought the pain with an intensity that has not been rivaled by many names outside of Greek mythology.

Exhibit A: From the same album, this one really showcases the incomparable Elvin Jones and Sharrock’s closest aesthetic compatriot, Pharoah Sanders. It’s okay to be afraid; that is what happens just before you break through to the bright lights.

If you’re looking for truth in advertising, sometimes a song title really can tell you what it’s all about. And then there’s…”The Past Adventures of Zydeco Honeycup”? (I know).

And in case there were any lingering questions.

Remember what I said about the bright lights?

This hurts. Word is hitting the wires that Adam Yauch, a.k.a. MCA, has succumbed to cancer. This is awful news, obviously, but also surprising since it sounded like he had been kicking cancer’s ass. Of course, cancer seldom has the good grace to stay down once it’s been beaten, so we should never be shocked when it rears its insidious head.

Let the tributes flow, and they will (as they must), it’s enough to lament the loss of a talented man, a cultural icon (anyone who was at least fourteen in 1986 has indelible memories of the way Yauch and his band exploded into the public consciousness like bozos with a bazooka) and a dude who left his imprint on music.

By way of appreciation, I feel obliged, albeit happily, to reprint a piece that went live almost exactly three years ago. The occasion was the remastered reissue of Check Your Head, the album I still maintain is their greatest achievement. With respect –and gratitude– I offer up this blast from the past.

MCA: I hope there are skate parks, soulful sounds and smiles wherever you’re at.

Any discussion of Beastie Boys’ third album is likely to divide fans into two camps: those who contend that Paul’s Boutique was—and remains—their masterpiece, and those who feel that their second album, while amazing, was also a necessary gateway for their best material. Put another way, they had to make Paul’s Boutique, and once it was out of their systems, they could embark on new challenges. This reviewer thought Check Your Head was a surprising and refreshing leap forward in 1992, and the passing of 17 years has done little to diminish its enduring appeal. It remains vital and engaging, in part because of the way it documents a particular moment when the band embraced the past while anticipating the future. A forward-looking album that establishes a distinctive ‘70s-era soul vibe? Only this band was capable, at that time, of pulling off such an ostensibly paradoxical achievement, and bringing the masses along to the party. That the group was able to establish a foundation from which their future work would flow was only slightly more momentous than the ways in which they turned a white-hot light on the myriad influences they wore so gleefully on their sleeves.

When the boys picked up instruments and actually proved they could play them it was intriguing; that they produced an album brimming with original, occasionally indelible material remains something of a revelation. Who woulda thunk it? This is the same band that announced themselves (quite successfully) to the world as wiseass clowns on License to Ill. They rallied the underage troops to fight for their right to party and, beer bongs in hand, a nation of nitwits made them millionaires. But there was always a sense that this was a naked, calculated ploy for commercial success. To their credit, it worked. So it was impressive and, frankly, astonishing, to see how quickly they put away childish things and got busy concocting Paul’s Boutique. Indeed, the prepubescent fan base deserted them as quickly as it had embraced them, and their second album earned instant street cred simply for not being a retread of what had worked so wonderfully the first time.

Although it eventually became a cult classic, Paul’s Boutique was deemed a commercial dud when it dropped in 1989. It was such a departure from the simplistic, goofy boys-just-wanna-have-fun shenanigans of their debut, it obviously alienated some, and left many indifferent. By refusing to ride the gravy train, the band drew a line in the sand and has never retreated. It took a while for fans to catch up with them, but enough people eventually gravitated to Paul’s Boutique to ensure they had indeed made an astute decision, artistically and commercially. And so, some of these newer fans must have been shocked when, three years later, Check Your Head appeared, signifying another radical musical makeover. The response this time was immediate and undeniable, with the album breaking into the Billboard Top Ten. The first single, “So What’Cha Want” was so good, and so fresh, it managed to turn haters into backers. It was, and still is, a magic nugget of pop perfection.

Not everyone loved this release, and a critique that resurfaces to this day is that the album lacks cohesion; that it’s an uneven mess with some great moments, some weak moments, and some middling material. Another way of looking at it is to suggest that the rap-to-rock kitchen sink methodology works just fine, and is in fact an ideal strategy that allowed Beastie Boys to embrace their disparate interests and obsessions. The authentic DIY sensibility wins style points while augmenting what was, at the time, a burgeoning aesthetic integrity. If they couldn’t acquit themselves on their instruments, or their composing chops were weak, all of this would have been exposed and the album would have been a failure. By taking off the sample-phile training wheels, they effectively boxed themselves into a corner and put the onus entirely on their collective creativity. Where they once relied (too much?) on a hodgepodge of pirated pop culture treasure (courtesy of the justly venerated Dust Brothers production team and their set the controls for the heart of the sample M.O.), Check Your Head places the band itself in the spotlight and the focus is evenly split between music and mood.

Not to worry, the rhyming and stealing is still on display, but ultimately the words are part of a much bigger picture: where Paul’s Boutique was an elaborate comic book, Check Your Head is like a successful remake of an old B-movie. The music itself is the star attraction, with Adam (Ad-Rock) Horovitz handling the guitar, Adam (MCA) Yauch on bass and Michael (Mike D) Diamond doing drum duties. It is worth remembering that these gentlemen first formed a group in 1979, so it wasn’t as if they had never played instruments before; of course, it was as a punk/thrash outfit that they first gained attention. The best supporting actor is keyboardist Mark Ramos-Nishita (Money Mark) who makes crucial contributions throughout, adding color, flavor and sometimes a whole foundation the band builds on. It is difficult to overstate how important the organ player’s presence is: Money Mark is the fourth member of this outfit in much the same way George Martin functioned as an indispensable fifth Beatle on much of their later work.

The songs that retain their capacity to impress and amaze are the same ones that opened eyes all the way back in ’92: the instrumentals. Altogether, there are three tracks without any sort of vocals, a handful with minimal vocals and a couple where the vocals function as a part of the music (the chanting on “Something’s Got to Give” and the practically whispered words on album-closer “Namaste”). All of these songs are successful: once the novelty of these clown princes of rap playing instruments wears off, it quickly becomes evident that they also can compose memorable tunes. They have gone from sampling Curtis Mayfield (on “Paul’s Boutique”) to creating bona fide slinky ‘70s soundscapes. And yet, even as they are taking fairly giant strides forward, the band can’t help looking (lovingly) backward: many of these tracks invoke the aforementioned ‘70s soundtrack vibe (“POW”, “In 3’s”) while others recall the past as a springboard for the band’s unique vision (“Lighten Up”, “Gratitude”). And then there is the funkified anthem “Groove Holmes”, an unadulterated tribute to the jazz organist generally considered one of the forefathers of acid jazz. It was never this good before, and never got this good again.

Of course, there are some rambunctious reminders of the good old days, with marble-mouthed rapping front and center on songs like “Finger Lickin’ Good”, “Stand Together”, “The Maestro” and “Professor Booty”. The highlight of the band’s rap-and-roll 3.0 is the tour-de-force “Pass the Mic”, where they demonstrate that they can still pull off what worked best on Paul’s Boutique. This is their tightest, most authentic rap song, a tag team effort crammed with ideas and energy, incorporating everything from Jimmy “Kid Dy-no-mite” Walker to James Newton (a five second flute sample that inspired an ultimately unsuccessful lawsuit). Obviously words can’t convey what sounds achieve, and the best way to “feel what they’re feeling” is to watch and listen:

Sample junkies can have a field day with what could (should?) have been a simplistic throwaway, the infectious “Funky Boss”. In actuality, it is a clinic of sound-collage adrenaline, from the bongo beat/cop-show theme introduction to samples ranging from Barrington Levy, Ohio Players and Richard Pryor—all in just over 90 seconds. “Finger Lickin’ Good” goes all the way from Rahsaan Roland Kirk to Sly and the Family Stone to…Bob Dylan (!). Speaking of Sly Stone, the band’s cover of “Time for Livin’” is like a brick through the window: a short, sharp shock wherein they manage to represent their hardcore roots while working in some borrowed lyrics from the immortal Lee “Scratch” Perry. And here again is an opportune time to reiterate why this album somehow manages to be slightly better than the sum of its parts. An entire album of (or, even a couple more) punk rock workouts would be entirely too much of a not-so-good thing; but coming as it does between the droll “The Biz vs. The Nuge” (sampling Ted Nugent’s “Homebound” with the irrepressible Biz Markie’s serenade) and the almost shockingly subtle “Something’s Got to Give”, it explodes as a one minute and 48-second smoke bomb.

What about the obligatory goofball quotient? The balance is just right, proving that the boys, no longer brats, could still be bratty. The gleeful sample from (actual album?) On Wine—How to Select and Serve is a refreshing change of pace, and the faux night club noodling of “Live at P.J.’s” is amusing enough, while showcasing Money Mark’s flawless organ embellishment. But the ultimate inside joke is the opening section of “The Maestro” which utilizes an actual voice mail left for the boys by someone who called the number for “Paul’s Boutique”: “Yo Paul…you can kiss my ass, I ain’t interested in you anyhow…”

Special mention must be made of the group’s tribute to Jimi Hendrix, the moment when all of these elements come together. “Jimmy James” is certainly one of the ultimate opening statements of any album made in the last two decades, and it still reverberates as the shot heard ‘round the record industry. Listening to this one, then, was an immediate announcement that we weren’t in Brooklyn anymore, and listening to it, now, is an unnerving reminder of how many bands (the good, the bad, and the awful) tried to imitate this hardcore rap rock amalgamation, with little success. Of course the boys themselves emulated the great Run DMC. Obviously they understood they could never sound as authoritative (or make it sound as effortless, think “It’s Tricky”). On the other hand, “Jimmy James” sounds quite unlike anything anyone else had done (or has done): building a sound structure from the ground up, all on a groove from an obscure Curtis Knight song (“Happy Birthday”, featuring a young Hendrix). It anticipates Beck and the full fruition of live music married to samples on Beck’s (Dust Brothers produced) Odelay. Here, the sick sounds of the B-Boys’ science coalesce: the raw scratching and brilliant sampling interspersed with their newfound joy of playing music. Interesting trivia tidbit: Unable to get approval from the Hendrix estate, the original version was “refined” and the actual Hendrix snippets (from songs like “Third Stone from the Sun” and “Still Raining, Still Dreaming”) were smoothed over; although even in the album version you can hear the split second of “Foxey Lady” that spins the song out. Check out the “Original Original Version”, below:

So why now for the deluxe reissue treatment? This being the 20th anniversary of Paul’s Boutique, which itself was remastered a few months back, means there is no time like the present to spruce up the best of the back catalog (their next album, Ill Communication will follow this summer). Frankly, the sound on the original CD was top-notch (much credit should be given to co-producer and engineer Mario Caldato Jr, aka Mario C.), so while you can certainly hear all “eight bazookas” on this edition, the real draw is the second disc chock full of B-sides and remixes. There is plenty of throwaway material here, but for fans who never splurged on the 12-inches, here is an opportunity to get all the detritus in one place. There are some interesting, if inferior versions (and/or remixes) of the mega-hits “Pass the Mic” and “So What’Cha Want”, and there are some tasty nuggets, such as “The Skills to Pay the Bills”. The true highlight is that “original original” version of “Jimmy James”; you can hear all those Hendrix samples and the groove is as aggressive and gnarly on this take.

As always, the material left on the cutting room floor tends to put the final product in appropriate perspective. The fact that they decided to omit a song like “The Skills to Pay the Bills”, which is, by any reasonable criteria, a better “song” than “Live at P.J.’s” or “Mark on the Bus” is ultimately not the point; it wouldn’t have fit into the flow as well. Each song on Check Your Head eases (or crashes) into the next, coming out guns blazing with “Jimmy James” and drifting off to serenity with “Namaste”. It might be said that this is one of the first CDs that truly approximates the feel of a double LP: it has the ups, downs and (importantly) the in-betweens that ultimately add up to an artistic statement: if nothing worthwhile is being said, it’s forgettable, when the material is tight and timeless, it endures as a stylistic and soulful milestone.

“Gratitude” (A joyful riff on Pink Floyd at Pompeii):

And the original, from Floyd: