RIP MCA aka Adam Yauch

In seventh grade the girls bought “True Blue,” the guys “License to Ill.” Both albums were blasted at the end of the academic year party. Few guys owned the Madonna album — I owned both. In the summer of ’92 “Check Your Head” was inescapable. Same for “Sabotage” in the summer of ’94 and “Intergalactic” in the summer of ’98. Ach — no more Beastie boy summers.

“Adam Yauch” was his moniker. MCA is his name as far as I’m concerned. Obnoxious, voice steeped in Brooklyn, a sexist and homophobe (in music; I don’t know about life) , who matured more honestly — which is to say his fart jokes had Buddhist undertones — than most musicians of his generation. As Chuck Eddy, author of a seminal earlier review, said, “They were smart, arty Jewish kids from New York, and they created these white-trash burnout characters with the help of [Rick] Rubin. And they pulled it off.” And left at least three world-historic records.

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