Spin Review of "Hello Nasty" - 6/17/98
BEASTIE BOYS
Hello Nasty
Grand Royal
( The picture at left is not the album cover, which we were
unable to obtain from the Beastie Boys' publicists at Nasty
Little Man -- no "Hello" from Nasty for us this early in the
game!)
"I got the D double-O, D doub-O style!" -- Mike D "Three MC's
and One DJ"
This is a boast. What can you say? The guy's correct. Ad-Rock,
MCA... They bring the quality.
It's been four plus years since Ill Communication. The B-Boys
are back with another ambitious headphone record that you can
read like a magazine, eat like a sandwich, smoke like a blunt
and sink through a hoop in a pick-up game -- the
all-purpose/all occasion summer epic payoff for the fans, a
reward for saintly patience. They haven't dropped the ball in a
decade and in '98, they're still shooting threes. If Hello
Nasty isn't case-closing evidence of some kind of collective
genius, I don't know what is. Unlike License to Ill and Paul's
Boutique -- back when the Beasties could make your head explode
-- "Hello Nasty" is the first album to introduce to critics, if
not to fans, The Beastie Problem: it's so brilliant, it's
dismissable. Then, I'm thinking, "Maybe it's not brilliant."
But after nearly a hundred rotations, I can't dismiss it. The
problem with the Beasties has nothing to do with their ability.
It may be irreparable. At heart it's probably our problem (or
my problem) but I wonder, if we (the millions) have come to
expect a masterpiece with each release, what kind of pressure
exists in their mythical studio (and if that darkness is not
one of the reasons why the albums drop in presidential terms).
As if to prove that The Beastie Problem isn't gonna keep them
from getting loose, there are indulgences aplenty. Sometimes it
taxes the expert flow/rhyme/flow (you try rhyming "Hornblower's
lederhosen" with "like Walt Disney, he is frozen") and always
inventive, engaging soundscapes. Does Nasty profit from XL,
astro-porn jams with tired, retro flute riffs, lifted from War
albums? A few wack similes ("sweet like a nice bon bon") here.
A middling but cheerful ballad there ("I Don't Know"). A Lee
"Scratch" Perry dub mis-step ("Dr. Lee PHD") -- more of a
chance to rope the dub legend into their album (not
exploitation, just pure, unchecked and ultimately awkward
enthusiasm) than a great song. Some noodlings, detours and
binges are more spastic than visionary.
Evidence of age is here as well, if only in their troubling
propensity, amidst shout-outs to typical, Beastie icons of
irreverence (Kenny Rogers, Krispy Kreme donuts), to name-check
and reference their own history/catalog: "Beastie Boys known to
let the beat... da-rop!" and "You can kiss my ass you Funky
Boss." Where the hell does that leave us? Feeling to damn old
to do the Wop. Even the Stones leave their solid,
museum-quality glory-days alone. To their serious credit, the
Three Stooge-antics remain charming. At thirty, yeah. Forty?
Maybe not, but that's not our problem (or theirs yet) and has
nothing to do with The Beastie Problem. They're aging as
gracefully as Neil Young or Chuck D or Thurston Moore and
Madonna. They may be enlightened, by age, marriage and the
Llama but it hasn't desiccated the vital snot that made them so
lovable and listenable. Call it enlightened vaudeville, sublime
vulgarity - -- it seeps through in attitude (dusted but pro)
and cocky lyrical flow that says (at best) and screams (at
worst) we're still in touch... still vital. And they are. But
more importantly... smart. At the height of the Kraftwerk
canonization, the savvy Three have the good sense to jack up
the first single "Intergalactic" with a Krautrock by way of
Afrika Bambaata synth riff and robot chorus, propelling the
samo boast rap through the zeitgeist corona and into the sun,
warming the beach and the jeep with perfect, summer-single
radio rays. Worthy if only for the threat: "I'll stir fry you
in my wok."
Despite rumors to the contrary, this isn't old skool rap. Nor
is it the fuzzed up Playskool rap of Check Your Head and Ill
Communication. There's no hardcore punk throw-downs either. No
strain to be Brooklyn down. The vibe is bi-coastal casual;
cosmopolitan... "interplanetary." The goal is, ostensibly, some
kind of diplomacy -- bringing the "people of the world"
together to "negotiate" and "harmonize." It works on the
playful "Putting Shame in Your Game." Less effective on the
preachy "Remote Control" (though that track ends with a
priceless, mechanical pygmy call out of "I don't like your
attitude boyee!").
In the post-hydraulic-penis era, the job of being a Beastie Boy
is thankless. They've won serious cred from hip-hop, alt rock
and platinum sales. No matter how many answering machine tapes,
giggling, blunted homeboys, twisted, strangled
chicken-scratch-sounds-not-found-in-nature are in effect here,
dropping their plan to save the earth while juggling
self-knowledge and checking their fame, their girlies, and
their funny money, is not an easy task - -- and less palatable
for us, the recipient of sketchy gospel. If I were half as
won-over as I am, props would be appropriate. The youthful,
"let's just f*** shit up" energy bails Nasty out. You can feel
the Beasties discarding the weight, exhaling the smoke and
just... body moving: "A1 sound and the sound's so soothing."
For all the adventurous multi-culti, sonic cuisine here on this
plate, they're at their best when dazzling without care,
passing round the White Castle sack, giving deft organ props to
Sly and the Meters, Weird Al-ing on classic Run DMC, ("I'm the
king of boggle, there is none higher. I gets eleven points on
the word quagmire.") showcasing the talented Mixmaster Mike (of
the Cali DJ collective Invisibl Skratch Picklz) on "Three MC's
and One DJ" (a wheels of steel as wah-wah pedal cut and paste)
or busting rimshot rhymes and La Mega shout-outs ("Dedication")
to "All the people in the dead sea. Beijing. 14th Street."
Yeah, they are the world, they are the (aging) children. A lot
of people, too many, expect them to define what's cool... and
they wait for the new style. It's a drag for all involved. It's
a drag for me when I absolutely love a record but all I can
think is that an artistic failure would be more interesting.
The malady of genius. The Beastie Problem. Do not let it keep
you from hearing Hello Nasty. If it doesn't save the world or
Free Tibet or even fill the vast hole left by their long
absence, they're still about ten miles ahead of their peers...
and running.
Marc Spitz