As a kid, two groups were seemingly responsible for the bass thumping treble ranging from my brother’s clock-radio speakers: Wu-Tang and Beastie Boys. The boroughs of NYC are a world away from NE PDX, but by the time I visited the City in college, indelible rap lines buried deep in my temporal lobe came to life, as foreign streets somehow felt familiar. And previously in high school, as the first gulp from my inaugural Brass Monkey made its way along my throat lining, a similar paradox: “this shit tastes exactly how I knew it would.”
It’s interesting how events, words or smells evoke childhood memories. Some make you happy, some make you sad and some make you smile and tear at the same time. The latter proving my sentiment upon reading of Adam Yauch’s passing. Cheers MCA, I got the bottle and this Brass Monkey is to you.
