S U C K

"a fish, a barrel, and a smoking gun"
for 13 October 1998. Updated every WEEKDAY.
 
 


 
    Beastie Boys


 

Investing the phrase "egg on your face" with rich, new significance, Suck is proud to announce the recipients of its first annual Evil Genius Grants. Over the next 10 days, the Suck EGG honorees, as selected by Suck's blue ribbon panel of experts, will be profiled on this page. Included are standouts in fields as diverse as pop music and pop-music criticism, film acting and film directing, magazine punditry and television punditry. But unlike those humdrum, dime-per-dozen MacArthur Foundation "genius" grants, each Suck EGG fellowship is offered not for such narrow purposes as "rewarding outstanding achievement" or celebrating the "power and possibilities of human creativity." Nor are they extended to those whose work represents the "greatest benefit to mankind," like the recently announced Nobel Prizes.

Instead, the Suck EGGs provide an infinitely more valuable service to humanity: Namely, each fellowship is granted only on the condition that for the next calendar year, in the interests of Human Civilization, its recipients stop doing the voodoo that they do so annoyingly well. (To prevent welshing, actual prizes are not conferred until the completion of each term.) Those who aspire to the heights of EGGdom in the future should realize that, by definition, it is impossible for us to accept applications - since this is an award not for who you are, but who you will cease to be.

- Sucksters


  There's a significant argument among those who follow such things as to whether the Beastie Boys' journey from assholes to artistes is best expressed by the contrast between the Licensed to Ill tour's inflatable penis and the Free Tibet concerts' penetrating afflatus, or by the difference between "Brass Monkey" and "I Don't Know," the tuneless quasi-love song from Hello Nasty. But the real sign that the Beasties have come perilously close to squandering their lifetime supply of cred is the fact that their latest albums have included lyric sheets.

The assumption that we might care what the Boys were actually trying to say (instead of simply being amused by the noises they made in attempting to say it) has threaded through their anarcho-capitalist approach to empire since day one, of course. We suffered Grand Royal the magazine because its ineptness (bad writing, slovenly scheduling, addled subject matter) was genuine (not some Urban Outfitted sneak attack on authenticity). We suffered X-Large because its ineptness seemed designed to take hard-earned money out of the pockets of suburban moms and dads via the children they supported. We even suffered Grand Royal the label because we kind of like the idea of child labor.

But lyric sheets? Isn't it enough that they made the '70s cool to a generation of Beavis and Butt-heads? Given the extent of their aesthetic and cultural leadership, it's conceivable that they could bring back the '80s as well - all it would take is one well-placed photo of Ad-Rock in a Member's Only jacket, of Mike D in a mullet, and soon we'd have the Spin fashion spread that takes place on the set of Heavy Metal Parking Lot. They have that kind of power, we've seen it at work, and they give us lyric sheets. We had hoped for more from the boys who once dared to mock-fuck cans of Bud onstage, who sang odes to Carvel ice cream cakes, who embraced stupid so hard we forgot what it meant to be smart.

Ages:
Mike D (Mike Diamond): 32
King Ad-Rock (Adam Horovitz): 31
MCA (Adam Yauch): 34




courtesy of the Sucksters