The New Style, Beastie Boys: (New Jersey Turnpike, 1989)

And on the cool check in, center stage on the mic, pulsating out of the Alpine cassette player of my parent’s maroon Pontiac station wagon. The whole thing is shaking at 80 miles per hour, as I try to stay on the tail of the black BMW in front of me. It’s the fourth car I’ve drafted behind, with the 16-year old logic that the cops will pull them over, not me. We left Arlington, Virginia a couple hours ago, passing the city of Baltimore, where I’d told my mom we’d be taking in the Harbor sights for the day. No Sleep Till Brooklyn is more than a title track, it is us, the Go Go drumbeats, our siren song pulling us to the NYC. We park in Spanish Harlem, take the subway to the Village, eat lunch, walk around Times Square, make it back to the car. Now I chill real ill when I start to chill, when I fill my pockets with a knot of dollar bills. The one tape plays over and over, while I tight grip the steering wheel in Saturday night traffic out of Manhattan, horns honking at the Virginia plates and my lack of direction. The rhymes blanket my panic; cushion my exhausted eyes staring at the broken line of the 95. Around 1am we make it back, my girlfriend, Adam Yauch, Ad Rock, Mike D., and me.

The New Style

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