How Beastie Boys Matured Without Growing Up
Beastie Boys officially ceased being a band eight years ago, when they lost their de facto leader, Adam Yauch (MCA), to cancer. Since then, the remaining members, Adam Horovitz (Ad-Rock) and Mike Diamond (Mike D), have functionally become keepers of the band’s story. In 2018, they published a book (Beastie Boys Book) that exhaustively chronicled their history from punk teen inception to tragic end. Shortly thereafter, they translated the book to a stage show they performed in a few select cities (Beastie Boys Show). And today, they’ve brought the show to the screen, with the Spike Jonze-directed cousin of a TED Talk, Beastie Boys Story (available starting tonight on Apple TV+).
Horovitz and Diamond are better MCs than orators—the best moments in the documentary come when something goes wrong and they have to improvise (see: “crazy shit!”)—but they’ve fully mastered their story. Beastie Boys Story is broken into nine chapters, and those chapters follow a neat three-act structure. So far as arena-packing bands go, Beastie Boys’ ride was rather smooth: the quality of their music—and the way it was received—roughly followed the upside-down parabola arc most bands’ do; they weren’t the subject of much controversy (except, you know, in England); and if there was ever a real rift within the band, it never became public. The love these three friends had for each other has always been palpable. And yet, within their story, there was one central conflict, which, at least in their framing, became the decisive inflection point for the band.
If you haven’t read the book, seen the show, watched the film, or followed the band whatsoever, allow me to play spoiler by quoting Mike D: “We built the box, and we were the dick inside the box.” That’s a metaphor, but just barely. When Beastie Boys’ early frat bro-parodying single “Fight For Your Right” blew up, the band embarked on their first headlining tour (this after touring as Madonna’s opener). Given stage design carte blanche, they requested—what else?—a 25-foot animatronic dick in a box. To them, it was a funny joke—as was their playing the John Blutarsky role, crushing beer cans and bragging about sexual conquests… or, it all was a joke until it wasn’t. Quickly, Beastie Boys became the very guys they were making fun of, leading to an existential crisis. “We didn’t know what was a joke and what wasn’t a joke,” Horovitz says in Story, after embarrassedly reading the lyrics to the outwardly misogynistic Ill cut, “Girls” (“Girls, to do the dishes / Girls, to clean up my room / Girls, to do the laundry / Girls, and in the bathroom”).
The three friends took some time apart, and when they reconnected they had their come-to-Jesus moment. They moved to L.A., and they left Def Jam,vowing to always maintain their creative independence. They began their sophomore album, Paul’s Boutique, with a tribute to women, “To All the Girls”—a precursor to the more overtly feminist Ill Communication opener, “Sure Shot” (“The disrespect to women has got to be through,” Yauch famously commanded). They eventually made good with Kate Schellenbach, their original drummer who they left behind at Rick Rubin’s insistence—even forming their own label and signing her band to it. And led by Yauch, they became outspoken about progressive causes like Tibetan human rights and nonviolent foreign relations. Before woke was a term, Beastie Boys became it.
But crucially, as Beastie Boys matured and became more conscientious, they never sacrificed their absurd, childish sense of humor. Not at all. If anything, as they aged, their larks just grew bolder and battier—more imaginative than genitalia jokes. For Beastie Boys, it was as though every day was Halloween: in one music video they dressed as cops, and in another, uh... colors? At one point, they bought a wig store’s entire catalog. In an interview, they might tell you they were doing “a big benefit for chickens” because chicken people were “a whole audience we haven’t reached yet.” When “Intergalactic” lost out on the Best Music Video award at the VMAs, Yauch, dressed as his Swedish uncle Nathanial Hörnblowér, stormed the stage and called the result “a farce,” adding that “I had all the ideas for Star Wars and everything.” Almost all of their songs began as inside jokes (“Fucking around became our creative process,” Horovitz says in Story), and they included lines like “Dogs love me ‘cause I’m crazy sniffable” and “I got more stories than J.D.’s got Salinger / I hold the title and you are the challenger.” (literally… what!?)
“They were always playing,” Spike Jonze writes in Beastie Boys Book, recalling the time he spent with them during their L.A. days. Maybe that part is obvious, but it’s worth emphasizing. Because more often than not, it goes the other way—famous funny dudes use humor as an excuse not to evolve, to say whatever they want, and, ultimately, to offend marginalized groups. Beastie Boys Story exposes the delusion of that attitude. To all the guys, it says: You don’t want to be the dick stuck in the box.
"Would you say ‘The Mudhoney?’ ‘The Nirvana?’"
Originally Appeared on GQ
