My wife has left me for an older woman. I can hardly blame her. She is a sophisticated, landed lady who collects books, dotes on her dogs, and wields soft power all around her neighborhood. She’s surprisingly modern for being 411 years old. For the next couple of weeks, my wife will be doing detective work at Harvard’s Houghton Library on her friend Frances Wolfreston, a lady book collector of the seventeenth century, which leaves me here alone manning the pumps. The hounds are being predictably bad. Spencer took a spill in the mud yesterday, so we had to have a bath after our walk. Echo’s separation anxiety compels her to shred one piece of junk mail if I am gone for too long. I guess it could be worse.
When your spouse is out of town, that is a good time to blast your old Beastie Boys albums at all hours. I remember contemporary critics being a little sniffy about this one. It’s maybe a little long, but still a banger. It sat comfortably in the bin of hip-hop albums that white college kids loved along with The Low End Theory and Three Feet High and Rising. It’s friendly and breakbeat-y. It’s respectful of music history (i.e. your parent’s record collection). It’s knowingly self-referential, and gets asses shaking on the dancefloor. White people love that shit!
Around the time this album was released I spent a summer living by the now demolished Robert Taylor Homes. I heard lots of R&B, contemporary and “dusties,” blasting from cars and open windows in the breezy Chicago summer. Never once did I hear someone rapping. I found that interesting.
Republicans would happily stomp out any and all music education to the communities that gave us national treasures beyond value: jazz, rock and roll, and hip hop. Let’s stop em. Here is the fund that’s split between all eventual
Democratic nominees in House districts currently held by Republicans.