Paul's Boutique came out a couple years later. By that time, I was living in Alaska, and I was a "Snowboarder". The kids in Alaska were more into Punk and Metal, which, Sex Pistols and Vans shoes excluded, I thought sucked. Back to the Future was old by then, so I didn't understand the jean jacket look, and to this day I don't understand back patches. Even though NWA's first big record was out in 9th grade, and I loved it, I still felt distressed. Where was my rap? NWA was teen-audio-porn. We only listened to it on headphones and in my buddy's garage before his parents came home. I wanted rap that I could memorize, repeat, and listen to in my room. When Paul's Boutique came out I thought it would be a record for kids like me who had vigilant parents and who had better taste and fewer zits than the head bangers.

I bought it and jammed home. The picture on the cover was kind of lame? License to Ill had a cool picture of a crashed airplane. What's up with this picture of a clothing store? I put it in my CD player and stood there for a while looking at it. Nothing. It took forever for the first song to even start. The Sounds of Science? Egg man? I hated it. The lyrics rhymed, but they weren't simple. They were hard to say. I double hated it. The choruses were thin and the verses were long. It felt complicated. The big steady beats were gone. I triple hated it, and spent the next six months trying to learn to like metal. I got a Cult CD and learned to like that, but socially it didn't work out. The guys on the bus were listening to Nuclear Assault and Danzig and they laughed and laughed and laughed when I told them I liked the Cult. The only new rap fix I got for the later half of high school was a Biz Marky single that I liked, but I couldn't find more of it. I listened to gangster rap for a while after that, but it went bad when my nine-year-old brother made copies of all my NWA CDs and my Mom found them in his room. She made my brother and I sit on the coach and listen to a whole record together with her. Trust me, listening to Easy E with your mother, even one time, will put a damper on your enthusiasm forever. My kid love for rap died fast.

I spent the rest of high school completely confused about music. I liked the Lightening Seeds, but they weren't cool at all. I liked some of Zeppelin's stuff, but it was too dark to listen too in a place that was already dark enough. Jane's addiction had a couple of songs I loved and a whole bunch that sounded like a traffic accident. So in 11th grade I found a new and totally different way to use music: scoring points my girlfriend. She was the cashier at the music store.

Cashier "You like Janet Jackson?"
Skinny "Yeah. Totally.."
Cashier "I do too." Smiles
Skinny "Oh. Me too. I always really liked her." Smiles

Liar! I didn't like Janet Jackson! Ten bucks down the drain! But my musical arms race worked. It took a lot of CDs and almost as many wine coolers, but we eventually fell in love. When it ended during my freshman year of college, scattered in the wreckage were a whole lot of embarrassing Cds for a 19-year-old guy living in the Grunge era.

It was the CD stack of shame. Sonic Temple next to En Vogue. Pearl Jam in a full face Philly cheese man lock with Boys to Men. Bel Biv Devo jammed into a Jimmy Hendrix' jewel case. Plump little Janet Jackson stacked under Nirvana angst juice. The late Bob Marley in his long-dred, gold leaf lion stage, case to case with topless, fake-flapper, Dick Tracied Madonna like a lonely late thirties couple on a budget rum cruise. Buuummmer.

To my credit, I still had the Paul's Boutique Cd.

After my daiquiri barfing 13th grade year at a crap engineering school in the Mid West, to purge myself, I moved to San Diego and started surfing. That was the era of tribal tattoos, potato chip surfboards, and the rebirth of long hair for men. Grunge was on its last leg as Orange county punk bands like Pennywise, British up market knockoffs Bush, and grunge look a likes such as STP bled their musical valves into the already confused headspace of 20 something beach cultured males. Rap was in a revival. Dr. Dre and his junior disciples poured out big beat dance raps that were easy to remember, easy to dance to and had no use for lyrical depth. It was the mid 90's. Everything was cool. Friends is on tonight. Paul's boutique languished in a pile of CDs. I think I gave it away at one point only to have it given back years later.

Fast forward through OK Computer, Biggie and Tupac, the Verve, the Fugees, all that crap with Nine Inch Nails and Tool. Go past 9/11, into the war in Iraq, and I find myself in grad school, and that's where I rediscovered Paul's boutique. In the basement at Cal Arts. I was looking for a song for a film I was making. I went to my room, rooted through some old stuff, and took the few CDs I still had down to the basement to line them up with the picture. I put Paul's Boutique in the system, and just like the first time, stood there and stared at the CD player. In a state of awe.

If you've never heard the record, here's how it goes:

The album starts in a colitis-smoke-stream dedication from guys who love girls in a voice that is clearly from the East Coast. Track 2 is a light-of-day-after-church-tambourine-to-the-hip-organ-smasher that gives way to the wind. By track three, Johnny Ryall is picking you pocket in a documentary street story soaked in filthy dirty nasty guitar and a beat that makes me feel guilty. Track 4 is egg man, a crime fantasy story the simultaneously mocks Gangster rap with slasher and kung fu film sound effects and tells a could-be–true story of late adolescent prankstery before it parleys into track 5, a full blown desert fantasy of motels, 7-11s and big convertibles like Fear and Loathing meets Zabriskie Point meets the Dukes of Hazard. It's obvious these guys are strangers on the West Coast. Track 6 is a psychedelic walk through a freeway drain pipe full of mic echo, Hurricane's hard panning scratches and distant brass blaring like a British ambulance on Heroin. The upbeat guitars of Hey Ladies in track 7, a wink to Frat Rap, are like all, "Just kidding man!" Mike D cracks a smile and they keep one simple with plenty of cowbell and a bass guitar too sloppy to make love to. But you'd think about it. Then Oh God, here comes track 8, Barrel of Gun, a brass ringed S.O.B. with a beat so clock-steady that'll make you see numbers. This is the scary part of the record cause they might be serious. Luckily track 9, What Comes Around, takes place in a stinky piano bar with wooden floors you can tap on, but it still feels like we might be stuck in a jam bands sloppy laundry pile. Track Dias, Shadrach, is a soul hook singer meets Dadaist poet trash collector. Not a song you listen to, but a song that pitches to you with so many references, it's like scrolling a Google search page. The whole worlds wrappers are in there, but what do they add up to? At this point we know we're deep in some New York hip-hop kids inside conversations, but we don't mind stickin around cause we might find something to steal. The New York underground story lets loose like a firework, but by now you think it's about YOU. Then lord have mercy, here comes the 12-minute B-Boy Bouillabaisse. At first I'm glue-sniffing DeCaprio from Basketball Diaries telling a playground kiss and tell. That gives way to a break down old school beat box that points straight to the East Coast roots of hip hop. Then opps, we're on the subway peeing on things. By mid song, they're not joking, a high tempo beat kicks in, a serious guitar lick is getting tweaked through a synth like a painful insight arriving during a late night cab ride Blink, and we're in Brooklyn riding a wave of bass. Damn, this record will kill you if you take it too deep. By track 13, Car Thief, we’re getting the F out of town. There's a line of ladies singing backup, we're cruising, arms out the windows, sirens are too far away to worry about. Deep breath. As last songs go, Track 14, The Sounds of Science, is surprising. It features the moo sound from a popular children's barn toy and a minimalist keyboard, until they Karate chop the track in half and finish it inside a grooving high speed steam train ride and some of the most memorable lyrics on the whole record, "Always rock puma, never rock Fila" and "Dropping science like Galileo dropped an orange." WTF! Yeah, that’s how one of the best records of all time ends.

Paul's Boutique is the first piece of art that ever challenged me. It's an important lesson. Sometimes an artist's job is to press the pace and think way beyond what might be popular at the moment and instead, think only of what is right – as if it's going to be around forever and ever.

www.beastieboys.com is steaming it for free.