Almanac Music: Beastie Boys

 

I never liked the Beastie Boys. Ever. But I was 19, scratching for work, and landed a gig being a supervisor for a Summer Camp for wayward boys.

 

My pose was from the commission flats. The worst of the worst, they said.

 

The worst of the worst they were. I wasn’t ready, wasn’t trained. Didn’t have a bloody clue. They bashed any and everything, each other, then fixated when tears were found. Bashed other region kids, broke windows, chairs, walls, went the full charge.

 

Our cabin was their epicentre. I just hung on, watching the ripple effect in horror.

 

“Every year,” the cook told me, in a voice that had died long ago.

 

He was no better, grabbing the good and bad by the collar, if kids didn’t clean up when it was their turn. He’d hunt them and their super down.

 

To a one, the rough nuts like ‘Licence to Ill’. It was that generation’s Who, their ‘Highway to Hell’. Their Eminem. Their chance to be bad.

 

I’d watch them, jealous of the way they lounged in each song, let the music dictate their struts, wear its volume as it pulsed outward from their leering cool, tainting everybody with their bad news.

 

An audio reminder, we were all on notice, every second, every day.

 

At night, our cabin became Lord of the Flies. What the hell could I threaten them with? I was some blow through, looking for loose change. Kids like that can smell a lack of authority, grade it, and shove it up your bum. They ran riot, while I barked an origami bark.

 

Around midnight, desperate, I played ‘Licence to Ill’, softly. So they had to shut up to hear the words.

 

Within a song or two, the screams turned to shouts turned to; “Cork it, fuckhead, I can’t hear!”, to about 15 apprentice bruisers, and their victims, lying in bed, past midnight, softly crooning song after song, work-for-word.

 

I put the album on loop, until the whispered of  lyrics decreased from a room, to ten, two, none.

 

This lifeboat, shaped like a band, giving me a moment, that lasted until the boys fell asleep, and I drifted away.

 

 

More from Matt Zurbo Here.

 

 

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