david taus

Missa's Requiem

music: Ray LaMontagne- ‘Till The Sun Turns Black

At the age of 24, I made the decision to enroll in a teacher training program whose goal was to prepare intelligent, qualified, driven adults for a career in teaching in the inner cities of the United States. I thought at the time that this would be my task for the rest of the time I walked the earth as a competent adult, that I was to work in the service of those who needed it most, that I was to play a hand in achieving social equity, that I was to battle ignorance and injustice on the front lines. I dug into the task with pluck and resolve, and emerged battle-weary 12 months later with a small piece of paper saying I was now qualified and prepared to fight such a fight.

I realized quickly that my approach to teaching in public inner city high schools demanded a certain degree of martyrdom from me. In exchange for doing the work necessary to achieve progress on the front lines, I gave up significant parts of myself. David took a backseat to his teacher alter-ego Missa Toss, who ran the show for 10 months out of the year. Missa Toss achieved things during his two years in Boston and received many high compliments from pretty impressive people and places, but it all came with a heavy personal price. David was left with nothing. David found himself being given Friday nights after a full week of Missa Toss hammering and blasting, being hammered and blasted. All David could do for those two years was put his pillow over his head and hide in the darkness until the unconsciousness of sleep took the pain away.

Somehow this was tolerable to me. I justified my own suffering by the thought of my students; how because of the work I’ve done for them they will be given some sliver on an opportunity that I had growing up, that somehow my endless hours and incredible sacrifices would give them that little edge that would help boost them into a position of opportunity in their life. And those students would make it, some of them at least, and they would find ways to achieve certain degrees of power themselves and then throw themselves into changing the system that had beaten me and countless others into acquiescence, a system that was designed in many ways to keep them down, keep them pacified, keep them poor and disadvantaged. This hope is what sustained me through countless weekends lost to grading and planning and worrying, and hundreds of accumulated free hours spent resorting the insides of my own head in quiet and darkness. By all measures, Missa Toss made me miserable and I did nothing to rectify the situation for a very long time.

Halfway through my 27th year, over three years after I pledged myself to the service of urban America’s youth, I sent Missa Toss into early retirement. I turned my back on my job and life in Boston, packed my things, and drove clear across the country. I reflect now that I drove as far away as I could from my life as Missa Toss. I landed in San Francisco, took a job that felt more like a vacation than work, and immediately felt the difference in my own life. I was told by those close to me that I sounded and looked much healthier than I have in years. I indeed felt better than I had in years. David had his life back, and was enjoying the hell out of it. My first year in San Francisco was one of my best years to date.

However, the lesson was not learned and that part of me that allowed for Missa Toss to exist was not yet quiet. Because of financial pressures, job market pressures, pressures of professional obligation, and internal pressure to not give up on such an important cause so easily, I found myself last spring poking and prodding at Missa Toss to see if he was really dead. Through a series of tough decisions and unexpected twists, I ended up taking a teaching job for this fall, fully believing that this time, it would be different. I believed that this time, because I had two years experience and because of some structural and pedagogical differences with the school, I could find a way to compromise Missa Toss’s relentless drive with David’s basic human needs.

I was wrong on all counts. I quickly fell right back into Missa’s old patterns and practices, and realized within days that this would once again be David’s undoing. Once again my physical and mental health suffered, once again I allowed myself to believe that Missa’s fight was worth the personal sacrifice. Once again I was martyring myself. It was someone else, someone who at the time cared more for me than I cared for myself, who had the empathy and love to point out to me how damaging it all was. Only six weeks after starting again, I began to plan my exit. The second attempt was not working, the lesson was not learned the first time, and I was realizing how much I’d tried to deceive myself into believing it would work.

I began to write this in the middle of December, almost two months after I snapped into admitting that my personal health is more important than the battle for America’s urban teenagers, and all the while I, and my relationship with this wonderful person who cares so much about me, are in need of rebuilding.

Just before my winter holiday, I gave notice to my principal that I would be leaving teaching at the end of the semester in January. I spent a great deal of time reading back some of the things I wrote as Missa Toss from years past, and was struck at how much I suffered under Missa’s direction. I spent a good amount of energy thinking about what my life has become, and am not at all satisfied or happy with my current predicament, but have been too intertwined with Missa’s work to do anything about it. Everyone in my proximate life has, to some degree, given up on me because of Missa Toss. I don’t blame them; Missa leaves no time for himself, let alone other people. Missa is unfair to himself and those close to him. Missa has slowly been wearing me down to nothing. It is for these reasons that I have decided to leave teaching, and with it, bury Missa Toss for good.

Tomorrow will be my last day in the classroom. Tomorrow afternoon I will turn in my semester grades, hand over my keys, box up my personal belongings, and turn my back on Missa Toss after four very hard years of much struggle and little progress. I, as an individual human being, am experiencing a strange mixture of emotions, including relief, disappointment, anticipation, and deflation. The price I have been paying for fighting what amounts to most days as a losing battle is not worth it. I am excited to be able to soon get to things that have been waiting in the wings for over four years. I am hopeful to re-establish contact with my friends nearby. I am praying that I can mend my relationship with those I’ve hurt in the interim. But I am also feeling quite defeated, feeling like I’ve failed in my work to a large degree, feeling quite guilty that those that believed in me and counted on me to do this important work are being let down. I think: if someone like me, who is qualified and intelligent and in all ways cut out to do this important work, if I am unwilling to do this, then where does that leave our society? I worry greatly about the future, and about the inequity that exists in our world. I worry greatly about people growing up and not being able to contribute productively and positively to the world. I know, though, that I can’t begin to address these problems if I am myself not an effective person. It’s because of this that I have to leave, however shamefully and reluctantly. I know that I have to find a way to take care of myself first, and then worry about the rest of humanity, and I can’t take care of myself as Missa Toss. If I can’t take care of myself, I surely can’t take care of the kids I’ve promised to serve.

The kids…again I am amazed by them. As I leaf through some of the parting words they left for me, I reflect on how frustrating they are, how needy they are, how immature, bullheaded, volatile, nasty, selfish, irresponsible they are, how needy, scorned, protective, resilient, damaged they are, and in the end how compassionate, thoughtful, empathetic, supportive they are of their teacher. For all their setbacks, struggles, and faults the kids I taught are good people. And in the end, that’s all I want for them: to be good people.

So this is Missa’s requiem. He is slipping quietly into obscurity, with very little fanfare or ceremony. He is not finishing what he has begun. He is admitting defeat at the hands of the system he worked so hard to serve, not able to cope with the crush of humanity that passes through his life at school every day. He is leaving me worn out, defeated, underfed, underslept, and depressed. But I am still here, ready to start rebuilding my own life, excited about the infinite possibilities and directions I might take, anxious about what the next short while will look like for David. With Missa Toss out of the way I will able to find the time to take care of myself, and by extension, those other things and people I care about.

This time of year carries with it the most darkness, but also the knowledge that light is ahead. It has been gray and raining all week, but there is hope for sunshine in the near future. I have been crying most of this week, but I am keeping faith that the struggle now will ultimately point towards healing. I reflect on some of the moments in my life when I knew that afterwards everything would be different — my last days at camp, my last weeks of college, my final visits with my grandmother before she died — and I know that this week carries equal gravity. By the end of tomorrow it will be done. Missa Toss is dead; long live David. The future is wide open, brimming with possibilities, and for the first time in years I’m excited for it to come.

I Scream, You Scream, We All Scream

music: Blind Faith- Blind Faith

I’m pleasantly surprising myself as of late. It’s pushing 1am, I’m still awake with a full school day tomorrow, and moreover I’m just getting home from birthday celebrations at a karaoke bar. (Side note: it was my first time at a karaoke bar, and somewhere in between “Livin’ On A Prayer,” “Don’t Stop Believing,” and “Bohemian Rhapsody,” I was floored by the power of music to bring complete strangers together. I’m sure the alcohol helped too.) So all this in and of itself is quite surprising on several levels, but speaks volumes about the corner I’ve been turning in relation to my relationship with my job (more on this sometime very soon). It also indicates a shift in my priorities and a refocusing of my goals, namely that in the midst of a life of service to those who desperately need it, I am giving myself permission to loosen up on the reins, relax, have fun, treat myself nicely. It’s hard, but I’m getting the hang of it.

The real highlight of the night came just after, when I was suiting up to go home earlier than most. I am required to be on point at 8:00 AM tomorrow, after all, and just being out for a little bit on a Tuesday night is a significant accomplishment in my book. But as I was just about to peel out and head home, I get a call from my friends Adam and Rose, who had just liberated over 300 pints of ice cream and were planning on giving them all away to the good folks on the streets of San Francisco. It was more legit than it sounds; Adam works in a food store and they had to throw out their stock of ice cream because of power outages. Instead, Adam grabbed it all and thought it best to spread the sugary wealth. They needed some help pushing the wheelbarrow of ice cream around, and requested my presence. I live a life of service to others, after all, and felt obliged to help. I rolled west on Haight and ran into Adam, Rose, a fairly full wheelbarrow, and a small crowd of ice cream connoisseurs. The three of us spent about 45 minutes emptying the wheelbarrow and putting ice cream in the hands of anyone who would take it. We got some folks who were to streetsmart and wary for their own good, but most everyone we ran into was very excited to score a free pint of ice cream. The range of folks was astounding: bargoers, homeless guys, convenience store clerks, bus drivers, couples on their way back from dinner, even police officers. Everyone wondered why it was happening, what was in it for us, whether it was stolen, and the like. We found that people were much more likely to take the ice cream if we were eating it as well, which was just fine. I was smiling and laughing the whole time.

I was taken back to younger and simpler days, summers spent in the parking lot bazaars of music festivals and Phish concerts, back to an ethic cultivated at summer camp, back to a more innocent and idealistic mindset where talking to strangers is encouraged, giving is commonplace, and the moment is what matters most. I’ve gotten very wrapped up as of late in my supposed obligations and in being careful to take care of myself so I’m able to meet those obligations. This fall, Missa Toss would frown severely on carousing in the streets until the wee hours with school the next morning. I still have obligations and things that need my energy and attention, but I’ve recently placed myself on the top of that list. Tonight, thanks to a serendipitous phone call, what I needed most was to give out free ice cream to some of the people with whom I share my city.

When the wheelbarrow was emptied, Rose and Adam opened the back of their truck, revealing two more times the amount than we gave away. They rolled out from the Haight to the Mission and the Castro. I, still having to teach tomorrow, went home with some frozen party favors, but I think I gained far more than ice cream. I’m still smiling.

“and in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make.” -John Lennon

'Tis The Season

music: Sigur Ros- Hauf/Heim

There is something about this time of year that tears at me, rubs me raw, makes me very unhappy on several levels. I’ve spent the past week or so in an irritable, discontent headspace that has colored this so-called vacation in unsavory ways. I’ve been discouraged, restless, exasperated. Full of energy, but without direction or purpose. Craving solitude, but quite lonely. That I have had the chance to catch up on sleep and have had the time to feed myself properly, and that I know that my affect inevitably dips during the final weeks of the calendar year have been my saving graces.

Why does this happen? What is it about the so-called “Holidays” that drive me to wish myself a million miles away from my own life? This year is not an isolated event, not by any stretch. There is something intrinsically…depressing about this stretch of time, and as I sit in the middle of it for the 29th time I can’t say it’s gotten any easier to wade through the murky waters that are the Holidays. This year I spent a good deal of time trying to dissect the subject with the hopes that I could arrive at a meaningful cause for such a downturn in my flow.

First and foremost, to my analysis, is my birthday on the 24th of the month. There are the mini-explosions of existential meltdown that accompany me turning one year older, and those steady reminders of my limited time on this planet do not really cheer me up. I should be thankful on my birthday: thankful for my health, that I have made it through another year, thankful that I have had opportunities most people do not have and have enjoyed relative good fortune, thankful for my mother who allowed herself to be sliced open such that I could breathe air for myself and bask in the light of the world, thankful thankful thankful. Instead I find myself quite the opposite: discouraged. Discouraged that youth is quickly becoming a thing to be spoken of in the past tense, and that whatever divine clock that keeps track of the rest of my days as David Taus is moving inexorably towards zero. Because of the date on which I was born, my birthday is overshadowed by someone else’s birthday — most people have heard of him; he was nailed to a cross about 2000 years ago — and because of this other guy and the special brand of spirituality he preached the country decides to whip itself into an economic frenzy, buying buying buying consuming consuming consuming consuming. This generally happens to coincide with travel to family far away or exotic vacation spots, so as a result most everybody I’d like to spend my birthday with is elsewhere, predisposed with the great American spirituality of capitalism. I’d like to have the option to drown myself in some degree of consumerism, to at least take myself out to a moderately nice dinner on my birthday, but in the greatest of ironies I find the rest of the world has closed for business on December 24th. I am really left to myself on my birthday, and try as I might to see that solitude as a gift, I struggle mightily.

Secondly, and hardly coincidently, is Christmas. If I were someone who celebrated the holiday, or even had the option to be part of the culture that celebrates it, I might see it slightly differently, but I’m not so sure. As it is, Christmas is the party that I am not invited to, but everyone else is And the whole universe reeks of Christmas: decorations in the store windows, muzak in the elevators, sweaters and velvet stocking caps on the populous. Christmas becomes part of the common greeting between strangers, becomes the reason to do this and that, becomes the excuse to do this and that. It’s inescapable, and from my vantage point on the outside, its existence and role in the country’s fabric is largely one of economics. Christmas is pitched as that other guy’s birthday (not me, the other guy from 2000 years ago), but the funny thing is that all scholarly analysis tells us that he was born in the spring, and in a different city from what the holiday purports. Furthermore, the jolly fat man in the red suit, his entourage of reindeer, and the presents he drops has a connection with the foundations of Christianity that is tenuous at best. And the kicker, even in the age of environmental awareness, is that celebrants of this spiritual occasion take it upon themselves to cut down upwards of 30 million trees (remnants of a pagan solstice rite appropriated by Christian missionaries) and put them out on the curb a week later. What is left of Christmas, then, is buying, giving, consuming, expecting. I wouldn’t want part of it even if I had the option, but just being surrounded so completely by Christmas is enough.

Beyond that, the natural rhythms of the planet are screaming “Hibernate!” to most large mammals this time of year. It is the coldest time of year, the time with the least amount of daylight, and in many places the time when the first snows hit. My instincts have most definitely been to crawl under my blankets and wait it out.

And this year certain specifics have made my December quite difficult. I have every hope that these circumstances will work themselves out in January (more on this late-breaking story as it develops), but the hurdle between now and January is to wait out the Holidays, which make for a period of stasis in all my efforts to rectify what has been dragging me down for the past couple months. So I keep to myself, weather the onslaught of consumerism, phototropism, existentialism. It’s been difficult, and especially so because I never really had the chance to solidify New Years plans that I am excited about. Those close to me who I would choose to share my last day of the year with, are far away, already committed to something I am not a part of. The drop-back plan, which is turning out to have incredible amounts of potential, is a pilgrimage to Yosemite. It is an attempt to contact that which inspired me to come out this way in the first place, an alternative to the inevitably mediocre party I might attend in the city with one-offs and acquaintances, and a means by which I can take stock of all that has happened in 2007 and clear some mental cobwebs for the start of 2008.

2008. I welcome it grandly. It will prove to be a most interesting year, full of incredible transitions and potentially some big decisions that will divert my life’s stream in significant ways. But not yet; I first have to get through The Most Wonderful Time Of The Year. With this much struggle, I expect some really significant progress.

You'll Always Be My First

music: Rodrigo y Gabriela- Rodrigo y Gabriela

Dearest Sigma DR1-ST,

We’ve been together a long time. I remember when I first took you home, fresh from Wade’s and realized that you and I were in for a long-term relationship. Granted, my buddy Mike set us up, picked you out of the crowd and said something like “yeah, this one will do you for a couple years,” but once we had some time together to get better acquainted I knew you and I would go places, and for more than a couple of years. It was the end of high school. I was young and didn’t really have a clue as to what was going on; my future was fuzzy at best. And you were there through all the craziness, solid as spruce and rosewood laminate. You were there during those last days of high school when my world was turning upside down. You were right there with me as I played and sang to my first real crowds at summer camp. You got me through some really hard nights in the dorms my first year of college. Your good looks helped me earn spare change for lunch on the streets of Montreal the summer after, and then accompanied me to several concerts where you and I made quick friends with other people. I took you up to the cold North Woods of Wisconsin where we celebrated the new year on more than one occasion. You served as a translator when I had no more words, you helped me find a common language with complete strangers. You’ve eased some of my more awkward moments. You made the trip up to Boston with me after college ended. You endured a summer in the trunk of my car as I drove around the country, but I made sure that we had some quality time every night. You got a lot out of your time in Boston with me; we tromped around that crazy city and did some weekend trips as well, having good times all the while. I remember that on one trip up to Maine we were sitting by the fire and you were lying in my arms when I had one of my more defining musical experiences to date, and you and I formed what would be come the greatest acoustic duo in history. You even sat in the back seat of my car when I drove out to California, squished between boxes and books and fancier electrical equipment. We’ve been places, you and I, that’s for sure.

I know it hasn’t always been easy for us, that sometimes you felt as though I may have been abusing you. I know there was that one time in that dingy apartment where I dropped you on the floor and gave you a solid crack in your finish (but I did get you all fixed up, didn’t I?). There was that other time where I may have forced one of your pegs out a little too harshly and worn into some wood. There may be a few belt scratches, dings in your headstock, gouges in your finish. I know that one night, when I was messing around with one of those cheap pickups that are meant to pop in and out I accidentally took off a chunk of wood and finish right from the edge of your sound hole. I’ve tried to take good care of you, I really have, and there have been many times where I tried to go the extra mile and have your frets leveled, replace you new tuning pegs, or install a strap knob as to take the tension off your neck. I’ve tried to be good about keeping your fretboard clean and changing your strings on a regular basis. I know that I often kept you under the bed or in the closet. and that sometimes when i kept you out the temperature and humidity made your body warp a little. I’ve treated you rough, I’ve thrown you on the bed on more than one occasion, I’ve picked you up improperly on many more occasions. Some days we just can’t find harmony and I get frustrated with you, but you know that the truth is you’ve made me as happy as any inanimate object can.

So, dear guitar, don’t take this the wrong way: I’ve met someone else. I’m hoping you can be friends, because — and I mean this when I say it — I’m never letting you go. I know you got less face time with me when the Gibson came into my life, but those quieter, tender moments were always reserved for you. But now, as of yesterday, really, There’s a new acoustic. You’re from the same family, it turns out: the Sigma DR-28 that swooped into my life took me by surprise. You can’t plan for these sorts of things. But the DR-28 is, by all measures, a beautiful guitar. It’s older than you, made in 1982. It’s well-crafted, has amazing hardwear and solid construction. It’s a rosewood and spruce model, just like you. I can plug it in. And if I could tell you a secret, DR1-ST, I finally decided that the DR-28 was the right one for me because it reminded me so much of you. I know that’s hard to hear, but it’s the truth.

I’ll tell you this right now: If push comes to shove, I’ll get rid of the other one. You may be road weary, dinged up, full of nicks and chips, but you will always have a place in my life. In those dark, lonely hours you are my go-to guitar. You’re the guitar on whom I’ve written all my songs, please remember that. Instead of being jealous, I hope that you and the DR-28 can be friends. We will have our time still, old guitar. Nothing (except the green osprey silhouette - you know the one, hanging out right across the room?) has been with me longer. We’ve been through so much that I could never let you go.

Here’s to more good times down the road. Things won’t be the same, how could they be? Things won’t be better or worse for you and I, just…different. I hope you can understand this, Sigma DR1-ST. You are beautiful. You have made me laugh and cry, and I’m sure will in the future. Thank you for your time, patience, caring, and understanding.

Love,
David

Missa Sucks It Up

music: Radiohead- Amnesiac

Was I kidding myself when I thought this time would be that different?

I’m at the end of week 4 of teaching, 1/9 done, for those keeping track at home, and David’s already surrendered significant amounts of himself to Missa Toss. There’s been a struggle, clearly there’s been a struggle. After a year off I’m having to relearn some tough lessons and in some ways am experiencing symptoms of a first-year teacher. Beyond that, though, I’m putting in 60+ hours a week again, forefeiting my Sundays again, noticing other aspects of my life slowly cracking and deteriorating again. I’ve been asked if I’m doing okay more times than I should have been asked in the past month, and those close to me have expressed worry and concern more than they had up until last August. My eating habits and sleeping habits are taking a turn South. The general answer, the honest answer, is that right now I’m exhausted and I’m not having fun.

In some ways, though, I’m still doing better than Missa Toss in Boston. I manage to squeak out two or three weeknights to do something I want to do. I manage Friday evening and all of Saturday for myself. But as before, Missa Toss has the rest. Those who know me know that nobody is harder on me than me, and that I can bend very, very far before breaking. While these qualities may be the secret to certain successes I’ve had, they are also my potential undoing, my classical hubris. I’m reminded of Gaiman’s Sandman again, whose stubborn adherence to his own set of rules on how to conduct oneself led to his undoing. Even though I’m in the thick of it I can see the writing on the wall, and I know I have to proceed with caution. Striking a balance of all that is important to me is proving to be a very difficult thing.

Last year, my first year in San Francisco, was one of the best years on record for me. This year, Missa Toss is back on the scene, and David is suffering because of it. I shouldn’t be shocked or surprised. At some point I have to wonder if all this work, energy, mental and emotional exertion, physical expenditure is worth it. I can’t say from where I am, 4 weeks into a school year, whether it is, but I know that in many cases my work is resulting in kids’ wheels being spun in the sand. Skills are remedial, surprisingly so, and progress (if any) is infinitesimal. Meanwhile, I pay a dear price. At what point do I value my own life over the lives of 110-odd teenagers? At what point do I say to myself that my own time and energy is better spent on my life than theirs? I have already given up three years in my mid-20’s to the teenagers of Boston; was I kidding myself in thinking that the situation in San Francisco would be that different?

It's A School Night

music: Miles Davis- Kind of Blue

In June of 2006, Missa Toss hung ‘em up. Two hard years as a schoolteacher in Boston Public Schools was about all he had in him. David left Missa Toss be, and drove clear across the country. By himself. Now it’s the end of August in 2007, about 14 or so months after MIssa Toss said goodbye, and he realizes that it wasn’t goodbye after all. Tomorrow Missa Toss rises from the ashes and takes on a new school, a new city, a new group of kids, a new set of challenges. Missa be mad forcin’ it.

I myself am surprised at my decision making here. To be absolutely and perfectly clear, I am quite excited to be getting back into the classroom. There are so many good things to be said about teaching high school that I often take them all for granted. But there are also enormous challenges, herculean struggles, impossibly high mountains to climb. Teaching takes its toll on all fronts, especially the more sensitive, personal fronts. And after this past amazing year of movement and growth, after many who have been close to me as Missa Toss have said that I look and feel and act measurably better than I did when I was teaching, going back into it can seem like completely lunacy. Maybe it is.

Last March, when I realized that my current gig as a Naturalist in the Marin Headlands was not sustainable nor personally challenging to the extent I needed it to be, I began to consider other professional options. Resumes were e-splattered all over the Bay Area (because one thing is for sure: I’m nowhere near done here), and of the 30-odd probes into sectors ranging from education to nonprofit to consulting, not even a second look from any institution outside high schools. It’s like that in a city like San Francisco, I suppose, with thousands upon thousands of overeducated, overqualified, upwardly mobile young people all vying for the same 15 jobs on Craigslist. This significant reality check crystallized certain sentiments, though, namely that teaching (and more specifically public urban high school teaching) is what I’ve been trained to do more than anything else, it’s something I’ve been told I’m good at, and more importantly, it’s something I enjoy. That the David on paper could only appeal to that for which his resume was groomed made things much simpler and much more clear. And so by no large surprise, I’m back to exactly where I started.

But Missa Toss has come out of retirement to entirely different circumstances. The school I’m in now is a drastically different place: much more progressive in terms of pedagogy, much more collaborative, much more young, energetic, motivated, intelligent. Instead of planning for ten classes a week from scratch on my own, I am co-planning for three classes a week and working from precedent. Instead of traditional drill-and-kill tactics, I’m encouraged to think creatively about assessment and demonstration of understanding. I’ve been in PD for the past three weeks, and for the first time I feel like I’m being treated like a professional. All this, of course, is the backdrop to the real work that hasn’t even started yet. When 8:00 hits tomorrow morning and the kids are in their seats, expectant and restless, everything changes. No doubt it will be hard work. No doubt I will sweat, bleed, and cry over these kids like I did the last group in Boston. But given the perspective gained from a year away and the years I have under my belt already, I think I’ll manage much better. Beyond the job, I’m in a much more healthy place mentally, socially, and physically and I’m quite sure that I will spend far fewer weekend nights staring at the insides of my room by myself.

I’m apprehensive. That much is certain. I’m determined to put David ahead of MIssa Toss this time around, but I also know how David and Missa Toss have this tendency to work themselves into the ground for the things in which they believe. There will be some serious adjustment, and some long hours, and some days where there is nothing I’ll be able to do but come home and faceplant into my pillows. But I’m also expecting moments of exhiliration, transcendence even. Missa Toss is much more grounded, sure of what he’s able to do and how he’s going to do it, and because of this new context is all fired up. There will be time enough for all that in the coming months, but for now it’s time to get horizontal. It’s a school night, after all.

Freakin' with the Freak Freak

music: Beastie Boys: Check Your Head

My very early musical listening habits were not of my own devising, it was simply whatever was on the house stereo. I can’t remember most of it, save Peter and the Wolf. Around middle school I started developing my own tastes in music, and was split between the raw energy and power of hard rock (Def Lepperd’s Hysteria) and the funkiness of hip hop (Parents Just Don’t Understand). I was, like so many suburban kids, lost in a world of Top 40, because my sole inlet for new music was the radio. Once I got to summer camp, and could sample the musical tastes of way cool college students, my horizons opened up, and when I was 11 or so my ears were graced by three guys who found some middle ground between rock and hip hop. That was it for me for a while. AdRock, Mike D, and MCA became my first band crush, and it lasted clear through the end of high school. In terms of raw energy, varied style, fun, and catchiness, nobody could top the Beastie Boys.

The trio from New York CIty put a spell on me something serious in my teens. Beyond being able to bridge the gap between two styles of music that I’d been digging, the Beastie Boys represented something really important. Here were three guys, three white guys, three Jewish white guys, rapping over live instruments. They would do whatever they wanted, and they could do whatever they wanted, and despite it being hopelessly dorky most of the time we white kids in suburban America ate it up. The Beastie Boys were the Great White Hope for us floundering suburban kids wishing above all else that we could be down. If these three yahoos from New York could do it, then we had a shot, and we at that point refered to myself, and my friends CJ and Roger, who at the time were convinced we wanted to be Beastie Boys and not grow up.

But the B-Boys gave me more to chew on than good times and hopes of coolness. With the release of “Check Your Head” there also came incredible musical substance. I’d of course heard the 1980’s party anthems from “License to Ill,” and they were fun, but nothing could hang with the mix of hip hop, live instrument rock, and acid jazz that was “Check Your Head.” “Ill Communication” accentuated the point, and with the release of the instrumental compilation “The In Sound From Way Out!” I was completely and forever a B-Boys Fanatic. Now, ten years out of high school, the Beastie Boys’ instrumental work is what keeps me hooked and coming back for more. “The In Sound From Way Out!” has probably influenced my playing as a musician more than any other single album has. (It also would make a Beastie Boys fan out of many people who swore that they hated those three brats.) So when the Beastie Boys, now well into their forties, dropped their latest album, all instrumental, and announced a string of all instrumental shows, I knew what had to happen at all costs. I would have to dress to impress, and attend the Gala Event.

Last night, through strokes of incredible fortune, the Beastie Boys hosted a Gala Event (what they are calling the handful of all instrumental shows they are playing around the world) not five miles from my door. My buddy Adam (incidentally nicknamed AdRock, among other things) and I cruised down to the warfield, dressed to impress, and joined the three thousand or so well-dressed eventgoers (and people dressed up! Amazing!) for a night of Beastie Boys at their absolute finest. I was completely and totally hooked into it for two and a half hours, through the new instrumentals (“Off The Grid” holds high esteem), the rare punk breakouts, the acid jazz/funk grooves from the mid-90’s, and the live instrument hip hop that was offered up. It was the best concert I’ve seen in years. These guys, I am reminded, are more than dorky Jewish white guys somehow making it in the rap world; these guys are musicians who play instruments and are bold enough to leave lyrics out of their music despite all the ridiculous crap that has come out of their mouths for the past 20 years.

My band crush with the Beastie Boys never really went away. I dipped into other bands much more seriously after high school, but the Beastie Boys always had a special place in my heart. Seeing them do their thing in person last evoked me at age 15, but simultaneously scratched my more recent itch for quality groove-based rock. I had so much fun last night that tonight I think I’m going to spend way too much money to catch them again at the Greek. Y’can’t front on that.