1. Beastie Boys - Paul's Boutique

A love letter written in exodus, Paul's Boutique glued the recollected pieces of the Beastie Boys' New York City into a mosaic, teaming with the fragrant food carts and steaming sewer grates missing from their newly acquired, palm tree-lined Los Angeles headquarters. Packing their sonic suitcases with the auto-biographical detail of a Hemingway novel and the memory of an elephant, the Boys managed to ignore the animosity back home and impart their collective positive vibes into a project of immense sprawl, one with the broad ambition of a Beatles' concept album and the contrasting intimacy of a secret diary. The sentiment was novel, particularly for a trio pigeonholed as derivative ruffians, but the experiment's real ingenuity lies in its structure, building new compositions from thousands of nanoseconds of prefab sound.

The resulting piece pushed sampling to its inevitable extreme, morphing songwriting into multimedia art and transforming cultural influences from figurative to literal contributors. Tampering with the form also propagated a certain reckless abandon and danger to recycling culture, giving artists carte blanche to recontextualize the past without permission, foreshadowing everything from the homage fiction of Quentin Tarantino to peer-to-peer file sharing. That being said, none who followed shared the enthusiasm or resourcefulness of our whimsically gabby pranksters, particularly in the specificity of their vision and uncanny ability to pair highfalutin approach with humble craftsmanship.

Converting the art of rhyming from individual competition to team sport, the Beasties shape each bar into a game of call and response, vigorously mimicking their compatriot as he doles out superlatives or singing his praises as he steps away from the podium. The tone cluster created by the abrasive, cheerleader-style chanting inspires a rambunctious and jovial demeanor, mirrored through lyrical content rife with shameless self-aggrandizing and sexual hubris, studiously obscured by sitcom allusion or private joke. Conveying these cryptic footnotes in toto adds a layer of complexity to the writing, exposing a collaborative effort that functions as transmission from the unit and individual notion, imparting a fortuitous universality to every proper noun and neighborhood colloquialism. Despite the rigorous fidelity of idea, a certain lived-in comfortability permeates the dialogue, allowing the vocalist to go off script and birth the most peculiar of similes, shaped by a brand obsession in the spirit of Pop Art and the jokey wit of a Catskills comedy act.

This jocularity, accompanied by MCA's budding spirituality, cradles the tone of the composition, souring only for the rarest act of metaphorical aggression, benign enough in execution to treat handguns as props or abandon them entirely in favor of farcical armaments like bags of ice and egg-launching slingshots. Any vulgar display is in the name of role playing or tall tale, pouring itself into the tough-guy mold personified by Clint Eastwood and Steve McQueen, allowing posture to act as metaphor for group disgust towards racism, domestic violence and drug addiction. A certain paraphrastic glee is channeled through these gritty passages, seasoning the usual banality of street rap with frozen steaks atop puffy black eyes and rotten teeth circling the bathroom sink drain.

Marrying these lyrical eccentricities with the Dust Brothers' capacity for auditory collage, rhythm is propelled by an endless stream of rapid-fire percussion loops and cultural paraphernalia, meticulously pasted into an army of jingles and asides, all vying for space at the aural buffet table. The resulting composition is frantic and adolescent in its enthusiasm, but never sloppy, utilizing the bombast and swagger of "wah-wah" drenched funk guitar to mirror the winsome attitude of the lyricists. Its deviations from beat lead to moments of pure spontaneity, reinforcing the anarchic nature of the project with sonic non sequitur (bong rips, didgeridoo, banjo) and extrinsic bits of dialogue, finishing rhymed phrases like a game of musical Mad Libs.

Non-verbal samples serve a dual purpose, acting as rhythm and accentuation of theme, lending the proceedings an air of classic cool through insinuated association. Cinematic urgency lent by "Superfly" and its rump-shaking low end elevate "Egg Man" from stoned hijinks to Robin Hood myth, painting the Boy's childish capers as noble crusade, further exalted by misappropriated bits of Chuck D's dogmatic poetry and Janet Leigh's disembodied screams. This palpable menace and gravitas carries over to "High Plains Drifter," which is imbued with the paranoid skittishness of cocked pistol hammer and sleazy bass line, transforming the jailbreak fantasies of vicarious outlaws into an erratic, flesh-and-blood manhunt.

The single most schizophrenic moment is "The Sounds of Science," which functions as a patchwork of 3 distinct movements squeezed into one package, only coming up for air by way of incongruous reggae sample or scratch passage. The introduction methodically bounces on an oompa-loompa bass line and warped siren wail, drained of the momentum of the previous 5 tracks and punctuated only by infrequent piano key clank. The team vocally matches the bass in tone and speed, gently lilting along with bleary eyes, but never losing intent or purpose ("expanding the horizons and expanding the parameters"). Laconic lyrics are dropped in a sort of stream-of-consciousness, free poetry, reflecting on a variety of "ologies" and aligning the fruitful endeavors of Sir Isaac Newton and Ben Franklin to their own experiments in hip-hop genre bending.

Ad-Rock signals the terse half-time show with loud, echoed exclamations of dominance and viridity, leading directly into a lyrical lightning round of relentless speed and raging libido. This proclivity for prurience and penchant for wisecracks doesn't change much for the coda, but the trio separates from formation to flex their individual abilities, highlighting personal preoccupations. Eagerly springing into action, Mike D's verses are as brash and foolhardy in construction as the warring Beatles samples they waltz upon, morphing a night of wine and women into a "freak unique penetration," drunk on a litigious brew of jaunty John Lennon guitar solo. MCA is just as enamored with the promiscuous and pernicious, but far more introspective, stressing epicurean taste over frugality in a life of indeterminate length. His capacity for debauchery and frivolity certainly matches that of his brothers in arms, but certain sacred cows remain untipped (i.e. illicit white powders), masterfully elucidated through a jarring cut to Pato Banton's paean to all things "sinsemilla."

As capricious as it is, boundless eclecticism and progressive thinking were bleeding edge in 1989, cutting far too close to the bone with fans unwilling to indulge in self-satire or fetishized 70's kitsch. With the progression of technology and society's ever-increasing cultural gluttony, artistic quotation has become ubiquitous and the once sophomoric and indulgent has become prophetic and revolutionary, inseminating everything that would follow and spawning a creative community of enthusiasts keen on making their work reflect their passions and existence.

14. Beastie Boys - Check Your Head

Reintroducing themselves as both adept instrumentalists and resident Californians, the Beastie Boys saw their third LP as an opportunity for spiritual and musical growth, pairing a new-found compassion with an ever-evolving nostalgia for forgotten soundscapes. Assembling a cohesive work with the flow and texture of a time-worn mixtape, the band manages to function at their most ferocious and thoughtful, utilizing this oxymoron of emotion as a vehicle for excursions through the outer reaches of their record collections. Funneling through funk, punk and bedroom electronics with the demure posture of the most seasoned session musicians, Check Your Head goes for broke, refusing to be anything but an honest representation of metropolitan musical culture and a desperate attempt to widen hip-hop's sphere of influence.

Building steam from a vocal bond so fluid that it rarely seems like the work of three individuals, Check Your Head finds the trio's verbal skills matching their bravado, confidently alternating between pensive think-pieces and confident dust ups, both of equal resonance. Stressing diversity, while actively provoking enemies and the closed-minded masses, the Boys' sharp tonal shift would seem contrary in comparison to previous works, but the addition of message-oriented material hasn't detracted from the infectious in-joking, which is at its liveliest and most inspired. Snacking is still the Boys' muse, generating rambunctious patter about cucumbers submerged in hot sauce, the Frugal Gourmet and Shasta, but gone is the party-boy entitlement, replaced with a certain working-class resolve, evident in their desire to take on multiple musical roles, as well as a genuine sense of gratitude (see similarly titled track).

The damaged, low-fidelity production, provided by Mario Caldato Jr., also carries this industrious dedication, cobbled together from disjointed bits of Money Mark's jaunty organ, down-tuned bass guitar and delicately-palmed percussion. Instrumental tracks bring to mind the Latin-tinged, blunted grooves of War and Santana at their most somber and sedate, contented to dish out positive vibes over feverish guitar strum and a bottomless cup of fuzzy distortion. Parallels are drawn between polar opposites, most notably on "Time for Livin','" which couples Sly Stone and mosh-pit worthy hardcore breakdown, bringing an almost religious fervor to The Family Stone's message of selfless charity. These digressions give the project a sprawl that would be ungainly if it weren't so intimate, a quality that seems to stem directly from the core five-man team that created the lion's share of the album's melodies.

The chief statement on this adventurous undertaking, "Pass the Mic," is also the composition most willing to take a detour, moving from Eastern psych drone to pummeling guitar riff to messy, drum-laden bricolage. Turning the figurative references to urban life into the literal, background cacophony mirrors the grinding pummel of public transportation, even closing on a heavily-distorted bass riff that squeals like a tire scraped over gravely asphalt. Think of sample-building from your own feedback as a less-litigious form of recycling*, though the vocal flurry is even tidier, taking on a tightly-coiled tension, flitting back and forth between pithy rage and sentimental call-and-response.

Equal parts sunny and cerebral, Check Your Head takes on an Autumnal feel, developing concepts previously in chrysalis into the leitmotif that would epitomize the Beastie Boys at the end of their 31 years as a team. Brave enough to apologize for past indiscretions and faithful enough to believe that audiences were willing to mature alongside them, the Boys proved that hip-hop wasn't a cul-de-sac but a clean slate, as welcoming of confusion and angularity as it was confidence and precision.

*They were still unsuccessfully sued for not paying licensing fees for the use of James Newton's "Choir."

Hip Hop Top 50 Vol. 2. Playlist

Submitted for your approval, a second sampling of tracks from the Hip Hop Top 50. Despite Spotify's claims of an encyclopedic and endless catalog of music, Dr. Dre's The Chronic is noticeably absent, leaving him unrepresented on our mix. In his honor, I've added a second track from Doggystyle, spotlighting his unique style of production. Also of note, De La Soul's "Me, Myself & I" contains elements not present on the studio LP. For that, we sincerely apologize.

17. Beastie Boys - Licensed to Ill

Walking a tightrope between satire and frat-boy idiocy, Licensed to Ill bestows an almost mythic grandiosity to the spoils of youth, adorning its three Beastie Boys with a harem of wenches, flowing goblets of Olde English and bellies full of the Colonel's chicken. Certainly some of this pomposity is hubris, and the Boys realize the inherent absurdity of the act, masquerading as pirates, drifters and outlaws, quick to bed your girlfriend or break your glasses. There's nary a sign of conscience or high-minded pretension, but the group dynamic and stubborn sincerity are gleefully confrontational, drawing reference points to everything from Schooly D to AC/DC to The Three Stooges. This eclecticism is birthed from New York City's cultural melting pot and the vision of whiz-kid producer, Rick Rubin, who abetted the Beastie Boys in sparking a deep connection with millions of like-minded delinquents, yearning for limited supervision and maximum destruction.

Sounding like a collision between power chord bombast and basement electronics, Rick Rubin's production work bears the crunchy thickness of distorted, atonal bass repetition and precious little nuance. His vision is tailored to fit the unique lyrical interplay of the group, lowering the volume to reveal the big punchline or setting off blaring machine gun beats to mirror the fervor of the team's "Ra Ra Ra" group cheer leading. Samples even parallel the storytelling, taking horns to the red-light district for "Brass Monkey" or lending juvenile toy piano to the schoolyard mock-sexism of "Girls." This isn't to say that Rubin is partial to making sample-based music, leaning more in personal taste to New York hardcore and working-class blues rock like Aerosmith and Motorhead. Lucky for him, the Beasties cut their teeth as gleefully-sloppy punk rockers, helping "cock of the walk" tough guy rants like "No Sleep till Brooklyn" ring with truth and ease their transition from one musical genus to another.

Think of "The New Style" as initiation and proper introduction. Ad-Rock ushers in the future of the form like he's reading off the fight card, steeped in echoes and enveloped in hushed silence. MCA counts off backwards, foreshadowing a wave of robotic, preset cymbal and tinny, homespun 808 thump. Rubin adds metal lick dissonance and abrupt breaks to the mix, further hardening an already brutish force. The Boys rhymes are spit out with a hurried intensity, as if some unseen force looms over, threatening to pull the plug on their mics. MCA is at once the best linguist and most metaphorical, alluding to higher artistic aspirations by comparing his popularity to Picasso's capacity for painting. Ad-Rock loves to accentuate his "Noo Yawk" accent, particularly at the end of each bar, straining his vocals to an aggravatingly high-pitch that perfectly compliments his egotistical flights of fancy. Mike D may not pack MCA's skill or Ad-Rock's sheer volume, but he's best with a witty quip, taking a laugh-out-loud jab at Jimmy Page's sex life that would be slightly offensive, if it weren't such an acid-tongued potshot at the worst indulgences of rock stardom.

That's not to say that Licensed to Ill is free of hedonism, even if said hedonism is done with a shit-eating grin. The Beasties would spend most of their career reforming the image created on this LP, eventually conforming to a rigid standard of tolerance, sexual equality and healthy living. Maturation is expected with age and most of their early infractions are forgivable, especially when seen as harmless teenage rebellion. If anything, Ill benefits from this feral recklessness, birthing a cross-breed of hip-hop's arrogance, punk's ardor and pop culture's triviality. Their eclecticism bulldozed through preconceptions about the genre, while stretching its vocabulary toward more obscure reference points, rarer sample fodder and knottier similes. Taking offense is to be expected, but we must sacrifice our "good taste" at the altar of artistic innovation.

43. N.W.A - Straight Outta Compton

"Life ain't nothin' but bitches and money."

With that fateful line, Ice Cube and his partners in crime (Dr. Dre, DJ Yella, Eazy-E and MC Ren) beget 1,000 impostors. Their crime-obsessed, profanity fueled, lyrical Molotov cocktails would enrage parents, provoke the government and influence the masses, so much so that the sub-genre of hip-hop they actualized would become status quo.

Yet, they've still managed to separate themselves from their offspring nearly 25 years since the release of their seminal debut. It's not that the subject matter or production style is any different or more complex, but that the creators were more inspired. Beneath their front as provocateurs, they were actually diligent craftsman, capable of building narrative and diversifying their sound to broaden influence. They also wisely never hid from a little bad press, wearing their troublemaker persona as a badge of honor.

Cube was the most outspoken of this group of agitators; brazen, hostile and chauvinistic. He'd be easy to pass off as brutish enfant terrible, if he wasn't skillfully crafting compelling characters. With Eazy-E, he constructed a devilish anti-hero, both comedic and carnal, packing a drunken bravado that matched his high-pitched vocal wail. "8 Ball (Remix)" is their collaborative apex, bringing the smart-ass rebelliousness of Licensed to Ill and Van Halen to the streets of South Central.

These incendiary voices are backed by low-tech 808 clash and bass line thump, buoyed by skittish horn and guitar that wouldn't be out of place in a Blaxploitation montage. Despite the relatively primitive construction, the conceptual aspects of Dre and Yella's production are quite brilliant. Each track is built to fit a certain niche, whether that be rallying cry ("Gangsta Gangsta"), club jam ("Something 2 Dance 2") or, dare I say, sanitized inspirational anthem ("Express Yourself"). They're casting a wide net in hopes of attracting multiple demographics, possibly to counter any controversy inspired by aberrant and anti-social lyrics.

Ultimately, Straight Outta Compton benefits more from this pop sensibility than its sensationalism. Emotionless violence is a hard pill to swallow, but N.W.A manage to temper it with enough smirking and song craft to make us forget... if just for a moment.