August of 2007. The worst in-public thing Donald Trump was up to was shaving Vince McMahon’s head, and The Beastie Boys dropped their second instrumental album of funky breaks and keyboard groovin’ tunes, titled The Mix-Up. One of the magazines I was writing for got me into a presser at the historic Capitol Records building in Hollywood for an in-person interview with Mike D, MCA, and Ad Rock.
Spent two days trying to write questions that didn’t sound like they came from the Chris Farley school of interviewing, and while I was never truly confident with my questions, even when talking to artists who’d rocked my world less often, I arrived with about ten questions that were suitable, and, hopefully, worthy of a hilarious conversation full of pop culture references. Or they would just laugh at me. Better chance of being laughed at than laughing with, I thought.
Outside of Capitol Records, looking down at the Hollywood Walk of Fame stars for each of four Beatles, Bob Seger, and Tina Turner, I smoked a nervous smoke and really started to feel like I was out of my league. I’d done hundreds of phone interviews with bands and athletes, and some face-to-faces with people I greatly admired, but this was in person, at this place, with a group whose records I danced to on top of desks in my sixth grade classroom (the teacher left the room for a few minutes on the last day of school, and somebody dropped “No Sleep Til Brooklyn” on a boombox). Fuck being professional, I’m going Farley. I didn’t want to do that, but I couldn’t promise it wouldn’t happen.
In the hopes of gaining at least a nod of approval, and perhaps an invitation to a secret taco shop in Glendale, or to play hoops at Spike Jonze’s house, I wore an Autolux t-shirt to the interview. Eugene Goreshter, the bass player and singer of Autolux, played violin on “Eugene’s Lament” from Ill Communication, and I figured the Beasties would appreciate my appreciation of their collaborator enough to know I could drop science like Galileo dropped the orange. I wouldn’t even have to ask my stupid questions, they’d just want to talk with me. Ah, yes indeed, this t-shirt would be my ticket to Mardi Gras boat parties, sneaker shopping, and transcendental meditation. Yeah, boy, fuck nerves when you’ve got an in.
Rode the elevator up to the fourth or fifth floor of the record-stack shaped building and met the group’s publicist. She sat me in a waiting room with about seven other writers who all looked like they were about to touch the hem of Jesus’ robe. Fidgety or hiding behind low-slouched hats, all of us. I figured we’d each get about ten minutes of facetime to fumble through an interview, but quickly learned that we’d be doing this group style, altogether now, at a boardroom table where probably thousands of young troubadours had been told to get back to their day jobs. The eight of us had thirty minutes total. And the publicist made a point to tell us all, “Do not ask them if they still think they have to fight for their right to party. They will leave.”
That wasn’t one of my questions, but I kind of wanted to ask how often people asked that, but now that I had to fight for time, I had to prioritize the (maybe) three questions I’d actually get to ask.
I don’t remember what the Beastie Boys wore. It was casual, even though they were asking fans to dress to impress on this “Gala-style” tour. They were just three guys, perhaps a little more wrinkly than I’d expected, and certainly more ordinary. They were sitting directly across the table from me, so I was not feeling casual. I tapped my pen against my list of stupid questions. The publicist directed that we just go around the table, so the person to the Beastie Boys’ left would get the first question. I was third. Damn. Which question should I ask? I had questions about the difference between recording this instrumental record and their traditional records, but that was the first guy’s question. My tape recorder was on. “Less time thinking up rhymes,” Ad Rock deadpanned. The next guy asked a question about their favorite places to buy sneakers when they’re in LA, and he hit the jackpot of Beastie Boys interview questions. The three MCs spent about fifteen of our precious thirty minutes reminding each other of shops, warehouses, and dealers from Cerritos to Ventura. Somehow, this morphed into the best places to eat in LA as well. It was enthralling in the same way that they could probably make reading a label from a can of soup sound cool, but it wouldn’t make for great copy. I didn’t write for a shoe magazine, and I couldn’t afford cool kicks.
After all that preparation, and all that worry, I ended up asking a question about what they would say when they’re inducted into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame. Another deadpan from Ad Rock, “I will probably thank my dog.” He had put such a verbal crossover on me that I didn’t even have the wherewithal to ask the basic follow-up of “Why?” And not one of them even did a double take on my t-shirt. Farley voice in head, “Fuck, that was so stupid!”
Thankfully, somebody else got them talking about the dress code they were strongly suggesting for this tour, and how un-Beasties it seemed, and I, like everyone else who interviewed them in 2007, used those answers as the lead for my story. I never got to ask another question, and the tape I recorded the interview on was lost before I could explore the sneaker shops they told of.
As the interview wrapped up and I could breathe normally again, we watched the publicist’s eyes bug out as one of the writers pulled a vinyl copy of License to Ill out of his bag and asked for an autograph. Mike D obliged, but she shooed everyone out before the protocol breaker could get the trifecta. Bad form, motherfucker. I wish I knew who he was or who he was writing for so I could call him out. Mike D probably would’ve said something about my shirt had he not stopped to sign that record.
Anyway, interviewing celebrities is harder than you could possibly imagine.
Someone said to me that Ad Rock came off kinda like a jerk above. He wasn’t. Maybe they were all a little bored with the whole thing, except for talking about shoes and where to eat in LA, but they were never rude or even overtly condescending. They were a little testy about the dress code questions. The dress code thing was a suggestion, I remember one of them stating emphatically. I remember MCA saying something along the lines of, “Come out, look good if you can. If everyone can dress sharp it would be a cool experience.” All of us slovenly writers were incredulous, but the Beasties defended their tongue-in-cheek suggestion with the idea that wearing a tux to a concert would most definitely be cool, and, they didn’t say this directly, who the heck were we to decide what’s cool or not? Again, that sounds kind of dickish, but in hindsight it was just them defending a goofy idea.
Great article man! Felt like I was there…