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.

36. Slick Rick - The Great Adventures of Slick Rick

Walking a thin line between classy and crass, ribald English dandy Ricky Walters is at once an exceptionally eloquent lyricist and an egotistical misogynist. Overlooking his more insensitive material will be a strong task for most, but those with a stomach for "blue" lyrics will be compensated for sticking around. Slick Rick's brilliant vocal harmonies and talent for painting detailed-oriented portraits of sex and crime are funny enough to demand multiple listens and as transgressive as a limerick. His specificity, both in his words and the way he vocalizes them, transformed the role of MC from party starter to poet.

Emphasizing the last word of each bar with a sarcastic snarl, MC Ricky D's singy-songy lilting and "Queen's English" pack a playfully facetious tone and precise comedic timing. Playing nearly every role in his tales of verbal and sexual dominance, Rick adds in high-pitched squeals for female counterparts, a squire's exaltations for "The Ruler's Back" and "boings" to accompany every implied boner and pelvic thrust. What may sound like a superficial gimmick actually imbues each chronicle with a sprightly tone, not far removed from a Benny Hill sketch, watering down the inherent offensiveness. He's also capable of leaving the role of comedian, dominating as a battle rapper or playing lovelorn child on "Teenage Love."

Despite the aforementioned token R&B track, The Great Adventures of Slick Rick embodies the 80's Def Jam sound profile. Hissy, low-tech 808 thump and clash are accompanied by kitschy game-show theme piano, a bevy of jokey sound effects and dexterous scratching (thanks Jam Master Jay). It's not hard to notice a certain propulsive chaos to the sound collage and atmospherics of early compositions from the soon to be dominant Bomb Squad, but Rick's personal handiwork splendidly accompanies his vocals, reacting to his punch lines and the creeping paranoia of his cautionary tales.

The finest of these parables is "Children's Story," which starts as a bedtime fable, but quickly devolves into a nightmare about the death of young crook who's more scared than dangerous. The fact that its empathy is untarnished by the wanton tone of the album is a testament to Rick's talents, making his derogatory remarks seem more like the work of a provocateur than an sexist. Whether you buy that argument or not depends on your ability to respect the craft over the content.

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.