After the out-of-nowhere success of Licensed to Ill, the Beasties had to prove they were more than one-album wonders, and they hit it out of the park with this follow-up. The Boys' lyrics are a hysterical deluge of cultural allusion (Ponce De Leon, Sadaharu Oh, and Love Connection's Chuck Woolery all get name-dropped), compressed wordplay, and adenoidal snottiness, but the real stars are the Dust Brothers, whose production is a hip-hop landmark. Their music tracks sound like the history of rock and funk radio boiled down to a pure concentrate--monster jams built out of thousands of unexpected samples (Johnny Cash! The Sweet!). It's a killer party album, kinetic and dense, and it never slows down. --Douglas Wolk
Having long since shed their image as hip-hop's clown princes, the Beastie Boys now bring what feels like their emeritus recording, a celebratory instrumental memoir of all of the influences (except punk) that brought them to their secure place among hip-hop's fickle elite. The party opens with the aptly titled "B for My Name," its plodding bounce staking claim to the mid-tempo path the album treads almost throughout. "14th St. Break" picks up the pace, especially in the auxiliary percussion breakdown, complete with rally whistle. Then, beginning with "Suco de Tangerina," the album drops into a deep groove cut from dub- and dancehall-tinged ostinati that carry through a full third of its tracks. Among these, "The Gala Event" suffers from a lack of developmental motion that characterizes many of these tracks, but highlights still abound. "Off the Grid," for example, departs from the otherwise unbreakable chill and rips the proceedings wide open, blooming again and again in a series of pulsing riffs that celebrate the very institution of the instrumental groove. More than 20 years since Licensed to Ill took a long, irreverent piss into the mainstream, it seems you can still fight for your right to party. --Jason Kirk
The joke of Licensed to Ill's cover--that the Beasties could crash their jet into the side of a mountain and keep on tickin'--serves as a good metaphor for a career that even some of their 1986 admirers thought might be over after the one-time-only shock of this full-length debut. That thousands of funk-junkie wannabes have since failed at re-creating its groove, breaking-the-law vibe, and ear-splitting mix of rock and rap is an even better joke. And funniest of all is the record itself, which packs dexterous boasts, aural puns, and lots and lots of yelling into a disc that can still be listened to with as much pleasure as it gave in '86. --Rickey Wright
