The 500 - 123 - Run DMC - Raising Hell

I was inspired by a podcast called The 500 hosted by New York-based comedian Josh Adam Meyers. His goal, and mine, is to explore Rolling Stone Magazine's 2012 edition of The 500 Greatest Albums of All Time.

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Album #: 123
Album Title: Raising Hell
Artist: Run DMC
Genre: Hip Hop, Rock Rap
Recorded: Chung King Studio, New York, New York

Released: May, 1986
My age at release: 19
How familiar was I with it before this week: Quite
Is it on the 2020 list? Yes, at #209, Dropping 86 places
Song I am putting on my Spotify Playlist: Walk This Way

Album cover for Run-DMC's, Raising Hell.

Raising Hell was the third record from American Hip-Hop pioneers Run-DMC. It became their second of two records to make The 500 chart. Their self-titled debut at #242, and I wrote about it in October, 2023. In that post, I shared some information about their history and my earliest exposure to the hip-hop genre.

Album cover for Run DMC's self-titled first release.

Although Run-DMC had been recording since 1983 and began releasing albums the following year, my friends and I remained unaware of the trio until they swamped our radars with their genre-bending re-make of Aerosmith’s 1975 hard‑rock song Walk This Way. To say Run-DMC’s version took over the summer and early fall of 1986 would be an understatement. It was unavoidable. The track blasted from car radios and battered cassette decks slung over the shoulders of high-schoolers and pre-teens. It seemed to air on Canada’s MuchMusic television station almost hourly, becoming indelibly stamped on my memory. To this day, when I hear it I am transported back to 1986 when the song  became a significant piece of my mental soundtrack.

Album jacket for the single, Walk This Way, by Run DMC

With time and maturity, I can emphatically declare I now prefer the Run‑DMC version over the original by Aerosmith, although as teenagers my friends and I weren’t nearly so generous. We mistakenly believed the hip‑hop trio from Queens was “stealing” the earlier riff we loved.

As self‑styled rockers growing up in the predominantly white city of London, Ontario, we were generationally and geographically removed from hip‑hop. We didn’t recognize it as a rising art form, nor did we understand the concept, or legality, of borrowing and interpolating riffs and samples from the works of others.

As we edged toward our twenties, I think we felt a bit threatened, even left behind, by this new sound. To us, the song seemed as though Run‑DMC was trying to cash in on a great piece of someone else’s achievement. We considered it wrong and unfair. However, I would later learn that the “borrowing” is permissible and compensated.

A screen capture from the Walk This Way video. In the shadowy
background is Jason, "Jam Master Jay" Mizell. At front, from left
to right are Joseph "Run" Simmons, Steven Tyler, Darryl "DMC"
McDaniels and Joe Perry on guitar.

Truth be told, the picture does not reveal the whole story about the recording. Two members of Aerosmith – singer Steven Tyler and guitarist Joe Perry – actually needed a Walk This Way collaboration far more than Run-DMC. It would serve to revitalize their careers. In 1986, Aerosmith was struggling. Badly. By the mid‑’80s, the group were starting to be seen as washed-up, "has-beens". They were battling declining sales, internal instability, and addiction issues. Their recent albums were underperforming, they had lost cultural relevance, and the band was no longer a major commercial force.

Aerosmith's 1985 release, Done With Mirrors, was a commercial
failure for the once reliable group.

Conversely, Run‑DMC were entering 1986 on the verge of a historic breakthrough. They were already hip-hop’s hottest group, and culturally ascendant. They had strong sales from their first two albums – the aforementioned debut and King of Rock from1985 - had made them a global hip-hop phenomeno. Their third album, Raising Hell, was already shaping up to be a major success. Run‑DMC did not need rescuing and, rumour has it, they nearly declined the opportunity to record the Aerosmith cover.

Members of Run DMC and Aerosmith in the studio, on
March 9, 1986, when Walk This Way was recorded.

I've been trying to figure out why I now like the Run-DMC version of Walk This Way better, and I think it comes down to the guitar playing of Perry and the incendiary solo that finishes the five-minute song. Comparing the guitar solo in Aerosmith’s 1975 Walk This Way to Perry’s re-recording for Run‑DMC’s 1986 crossover smash is a bit like comparing two eras of music history.

Joe Perry (1986)

The original Perry guitar solo on Walk This Way, found on Aerosmith’s Toys in the Attic (#229 on The 500) is longer, looser, and unmistakably rooted in the band’s  blues‑rock swagger. It has a raw, improvisational grit typical of their mid‑’70s peak. By contrast, Raising Hell producer Rick Rubin has said  the Run‑DMC version needed a tighter, more streamlined solo. It had to be "one that could live inside a hip-hop arrangement without derailing its rhythmic momentum."

Album cover for Aerosmith's Toys In The Attic record. (#229 on The 500).

And that intentional refinement wasn’t accidental. Rubin pushed Perry hard during the 1986 session. As Rubin recalled, Perry’s first attempt didn’t cut it. Rubin told him directly that he didn't think it was great. Punctuating the criticism by saying; "I feel like you could do better!’’ It was only after that blunt assessment that Perry delivered the final take, one that was shorter, sharper, and engineered to serve Rubin's radically new context.

Rick Rubin (1986).

From Perry’s perspective, the collaboration was far more than a re‑recording session. He later described the remake with Run-DMC as “a high point” for Aerosmith and “an artistic spark” during a period when their career had stalled. Perry’s solo wasn’t just a performance; it was part of a cultural moment that helped relaunch Aerosmith and blasted hip-hop into the mainstream. Well, not the mainstream of my teenage circle of friends. It would be some time before we came around to accept...and now love...the collaborated version between two future Hall of Fame groups.

The 500 - #167 - Master Of Puppets - Metallica

I was inspired by a podcast called The 500 hosted by Los Angeles-based comedian Josh Adam Meyers. His goal, and mine, is to explore Rolling Stone Magazine's 2012 edition of The 500 Greatest Albums of All Time. 

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Album: #167
Album Title: Master Of Puppets

Artist: Metallica

Genre: Thrash Metal

Recorded: Sweet Silence Studios, Copenhagen, Denmark

Released: March, 1986

My age at release: 20
How familiar was I with it before this week: Fairly

Is it on the 2020 list? Yes, at #97, rising 70 spots
Song I am putting on my Spotify Playlist: Master of Puppets

In the summer of 2024, I penned a lengthy post about Metallica's Black Album (#255 on The 500) in which I sketched out a brief history of heavy metal -- from its founding in late-’60s heavy blues, through its commercially successful glam rock phase in the ‘80s and into the arrival of Metallica in 1984.

In that post, I recalled my introduction to Metallica in 1987 when I was working at Fluffy's Pizza with a devoted headbanger named James Fast. James worked in the kitchen and, at first, I was a delivery driver. We both worked late into the night, especially on weekends, often finishing our shifts at 3:00 a.m. Those long hours were ballasted by caffeine, cigarettes and music. The stereo system in my car (a 1981 Chevette) was in overdrive, and James had his portable cassette player blasting away at the back of the kitchen.

We quickly connected over a shared love of Rush, Iron Maiden, Queensryche and Judas Priest; however, my tastes skewed toward more progressive rock sounds (Genesis, Peter Gabriel, Marillion, Yes) and James liked his sound louder and heavier. Among his favourite bands were the Danish Black Metal band Mercyful Fate and Metallica.

Metallica in 1987 (l-r) Kirk Hammett (lead guitar), Lars Ulrich (drums),
Jason Newsted (bass) and James Hetfield (guitar, vocals).

James tried hard to make me a Metallica fan, sharing stories of their epic performances and regularly sharing cassette tapes of their albums. These included their most recent work, Master Of Puppets, which I could listen to  during deliveries. I didn't mind the music. The songs were high energy and aggressive and that helped keep me awake as I drove around, squinting for street names and house numbers during late night deliveries. In a time before Satellite navigation and on-screen mapping apps like Waze, I relied on a well-worn map that I kept stuffed in the glove compartment. It had been folded and unfolded so many times it was hard to read the street names obscured in the creases.

The approximate delivery area I served, with Fluffy's Pizza Springbank located
on the map with a red star.

Despite James' best efforts, Metallica didn't stick – just another band that I "didn't mind" but too indifferent to commit time or money. Eventually, though, I was won over and Metallica songs are now scattered through my workout playlists.

I have to give Metallica and James their due. Master Of Puppets is an important record and considered by fans and music critics to be a highwater mark for Thrash Metal -- hailed for its strong lyrics, technical excellence and influence on the genre. The guitar riffs are relentless and the lyrics tap perfectly into teen-age anger, conspiratorial curiosity, rebellion and angst.

A 500 Podcast guest and Metallica fan, Joe Manganiello, aptly described the record as containing "muscular poetry", touching on themes of addiction, anti-war, religious corruption and corporate exploitation. It also delivered  a powerful instrumental inspired by H.P. Lovecraft's cosmic horror series, The Call of Cthulhu. In view of those laudatory comments I wonder why the teen-age version of me didn't like the record more.

Cthulhu (The Old One) creature from H.P. Lovecraft's mythos.

Perhaps I'll check in again with my friend "Jimmy Quick", as I like to call him. We have remained in touch over these past 40 years. He works as a sound engineer on television productions and is still a fan of Metallica. I'll have to let him know his late night, oven-side persuasions finally worked.

The 500 - #218 - The Queen Is Dead - The Smiths

I was inspired by a podcast called The 500 hosted by Los Angeles-based comedian Josh Adam Meyers. His goal, and mine, is to explore Rolling Stone Magazine's 2012 edition of The 500 Greatest Albums of All Time. 

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Album: #218
Album Title: The Queen Is Dead
Artist: The Smiths
Genre: Indie Pop, Jangle Pop, Post Punk
Recorded: Three Studios in England (London, Surrey, Manchester)

Released:  June, 1986 
My age at release: 20
How familiar was I with it before this week: Not at all

Is it on the 2020 list? Yes, moving up 105 places to position 113
Song I am putting on my Spotify Playlist: Frankly Mr. Shankly

In my mid-teens, I experienced an existential crisis that redefined me and how I saw the world. A specific moment is difficult to pin down, but I can identify some key events that served as the impetus.

• The death of my grandfather, "Pop". He was the first of my grandparents to pass and we had built a strong relationship throughout my childhood.
• A high school course on The History of Art from Prehistoric Man to the Romantic Age, which was taught by Mr. Rick Woods -- who remains one of my favourite educators. "Woodsy" organized a class trip to Italy attended by 30-plus students, including me, during the March Break of 1982 -- a mind-blowing experience.
• I also found "my tribe" -- that group of friends with whom you connect perfectly and who accept you for who you are. I detailed this in my Jethro Tull blog-post in December, 2021.
• Finally, reading Douglas Adams’ novels, particularly The Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy series, bent my perspective toward the ridiculous and the philosophic concepts of nihilism and cosmic insignificance -- a path toward the tenets espoused by Schopenhauer, Nietzsche, Camus, and reinforced by the absurdity of the Monty Python’s Flying Circus films and television episodes I had grown up loving and was now old enough to understand.

• 

Change is tough. It is particularly hard when that change pushes against the values, beliefs and traditions of your family. Consequently, I knew it broke my mother's heart when I announced that I no longer believed in God. Prior to age 17 I was devout, attending St. Anne's Anglican Church in Byron with her weekly. I was also a "server", helping the vicar (Canon Pinkney) with the Sunday Communion Service, and a proud member of S.T.A.Y. -- The St. Anne's Anglican Youth group. Granted, the ratio of males to females in that group was about 1:10 – so, there was certainly an additional hormonal agenda behind that membership.

St. Anne's Anglican Church in Byron (London), Ontario.

In retrospect, I could have been kinder and more gentle with my declaration of atheism. Sadly, like many teenagers, I delivered the news with sledgehammer subtlety. Truth be told, I was really transitioning to agnosticism. I appreciated the "historical evidence" of Jesus and had not abandoned the positivity of his teachings. However, I could not be convinced that mankind could fully understand the complexity of the universe and distill the truth about it all. Additionally, I could not reconcile the paradox created by multiple faiths; each by virtue of their own doctrines and claim of exclusivity in the god(s) department. At best, only one of the 4,000 recognized faiths on our planet could be right. That's not taking into account the vastness of our universe and the chances of intelligent life on other planets.

My monarchist mother's heart was further battered as I learned more about history and became vocally critical of the British Royal Family. I had, until high school, been a product of an education system that celebrated everything colonial and downplayed (or outright eschewed) the impact colonialism had on indigenous populations.

Which brings me to this week's record, The Queen Is Dead, a 1986 masterpiece from Manchester quartet The Smiths, the title song parodying the media’s fascination with the British Royals. For those of you who have followed me on this journey through The 500, you will know that I became a reluctant convert to the post-punk sound of (lead singer) Steven Morrisey and his backup band comprising Johnny Marr (guitar), Andy Roarke (bass) and Mike Joyce (drums).

The Smiths are (l-r) Roarke, Morrisey, Marr and Joyce.

In January 2019, when I wrote about their self-titled debut record (#473 on The 500) I began my post with the words: "I hate The Smiths."  By May, 2021, when my pal Steve Monaghan was a guest blogger for album #369, Louder Than Bombs, I was starting to soften my stance. By the time I got to #296, Meat Is Murder, in October, 2022, I had been won over by the sound of the backing band, particularly the guitar work of Marr. However, the vocals from Morrissey just didn’t land for me.

Morrissey (2005)

This week, that changed. I was missing out on a critical piece of information that has been staring me in the face the whole time. Not only is Morrissey well read -- a trait I had recognized in his earlier lyrics -- he is also funny. In fact, the more I dug into the lyrics of the album's title track, The Queen Is Dead, and the nine songs that follow it, the more I recognized a kindred spirit. Morrissey seems to be a bit of an absurdist and nihilist who, despite the fame and wealth he had achieved, recognizes the cosmic insignificance of it all.

A quote from the animated series Rick and Morty, which
also revels in the absurd comedy of nihilism.

Looking back, I should have been a Smith's fan in my teens. Morrissey's clever wit would have fit in better with my juvenile temperament and childish grasp on history and philosophy. As I near 60, I still grapple with the same existential issues. However, I have learned to shut my mouth more often -- recognizing that I don't really have the corner on any truths when it comes to complex issues like faith, the monarchy or colonialism. I simply look to learn more.

As I write, I have a commitment to accompany my 84-year-old mom to the Anglican cathedral tonight. The new rector, Kevin George, is to be installed as Dean of Huron and my mother is excited I am sharing this spiritual event with her. I am delighted to attend – it's a small bit of penance for the know-it-all teenage prat who lived under her roof in the '80s. We survived my existential crisis and all. At least I didn't bring a record titled The Queen Is Dead into her house.

The 500 - #219 - Licensed To Ill - Beastie Boys

I was inspired by a podcast called The 500 hosted by Los Angeles-based comedian Josh Adam Meyers. His goal, and mine, is to explore Rolling Stone Magazine's 2012 edition of The 500 Greatest Albums of All Time. 

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Album: #219
Album Title: Licensed To Ill 
Artist: Beastie Boys
Genre: Rap Rock, Hip Hop
Recorded: Chung King Studios, New York City, NY

Released:  November, 1986 
My age at release: 21
How familiar was I with it before this week: Quite

Is it on the 2020 list? Yes, moving up 27 places to position 192
Song I am putting on my Spotify Playlist: No Sleep 'Til Brooklyn

I love novelty songs -- those catchy humorous ditties that often parody popular culture. Humorous titles first appeared on my radar in 1976 when K-Tel records released two compilation novelty albums consisting of 48 songs -- Goofy Greats and Looney Tunes. When I was 11, my friends and I were easy marks when the commercials began airing on kid-friendly afternoon television. Within a few weeks, my pal David McNeilly owned copies of both.

The albums contained songs that had hit the charts in the ‘50s and ‘60s. Some even held the #1 spot, including Yakety Yak, My Ding-a-Ling, Itsy Bitsy Teeny Weenie Yellow Polka Dot Bikini and, of course, the perennial October favourite, The Monster Mash, by Bobby “Boris" Pickett and the Crypt-Keepers. The successful novelty song trend continued through the ‘70s and ‘80s as I began to develop my musical tastes. However, by the time Rick Dees landed at  #1 with Disco Duck in 1977 and Joe Dulce's Shaddap You Face became one of the biggest hits in Canada in 1981, I was starting to outgrow this often rudimentary form of comedy. Not only had my comedic tastes advanced, so had my understanding of music.

Album cover for Joe Dolce's Shaddap You Face.

The first time I heard Beastie Boys, the American hip hop/rock group from New York City, I thought they were a novelty act. The song, (You Gotta) Fight For Your Right (To Party!), hit local radio stations in the spring of 1987 and climbed the charts quickly. It was actually the fourth single release from their debut album Licensed To Ill. The previous three singles, issued before the album was released, had failed to crack the Top 100 in Canada and had performed only slightly better in the United States.

Album cover for the single release of (You Gotta) Fight For
Your Right (To Party!).

I dismissed the song off-handedly when I first heard it. It was an obvious parody of the hard-rock party culture prevalent in the '80s. It was certainly poking fun at the glam-metal rebel party anthems of the time, including Twisted Sister's I Wanna Rock, Poison's Nothin' But A Good Time , Motley Crue's remake of Smokin' In The Boys Room or Turn Up The Radio from Autograph.

Album cover for Twisted Sister's I Wanna Rock.

I suppose, as a long-haired hard-rock devotee, I also took some offence. Beasties’ Fight For Your Right seemed like a swipe at fans of the hard-rock genre. It was fairly common at the time for the media to distill the metalhead to an unfair stereotype – a low-intelligence, grubby, head-banging moron perpetually intoxicated and with little ambition or few prospects. While this generalized view had some merit, most of the metal fans I knew were intelligent, well read and artistic, with the same penchant for libation and celebration as other cliques -- the preppies, the jocks or the punks.

A stereotypical 80s metal/hard rock fan.

If you’d asked me in the spring of 1987 to define Beastie Boys and their seemingly omnipresent hit, Fight For Your Right, I would likely have shrugged them off as a one-hit wonder. I figured that, by that summer, they would be relegated to the "where are they now?” file occupied by the aforementioned novelty artists, Joe Dolce, Rick Dees and Bobby “Boris” Pickett.

Album cover for Monster Mash, by Bobby 'Boris' Pickett 
and The Crypt-Keepers.

I was wrong. Beastie Boys followed up their initial success with three tremendously catchy numbers, Brass Monkey, No Sleep 'Til Brooklyn and Girls. By the summer, I had reluctantly accepted that the band was here to stay and, slowly, I was won over by the trio's tongue-in-cheek blend of hip hop, rock and comedy.  

Mike "Mike D" Diamond (), Adam "Ad Rock" Horovitz and
Adam "MCA" Yauch.

I may have been late to the "party", but I wasn't alone. Licensed To Ill became the first rap album to top the Billboard chart and the second, after RUN DMC's Raising Hell (#123 on The 500), to go platinum. The record also enjoyed overwhelming critical acclaim. Slant Magazine called Licensed To Ill the "Best Album of the 1980s" saying:

"Rife with layer upon layer of sampling, start-stop transitions, and aggressive beats, it helped transform the genre from a direct dialogue between MC and DJ into a piercing, multi-threaded narrative" and "helped set an exciting template for the future".

I'll happily admit I was wrong. Beastie Boys were not a flash-in-the-pan novelty group destined for the discount record section. But neither was I entirely inaccurate. By 1989, with the release of Paul's Boutique (#156 on The 500), the trio from Manhattan had reinvented their sound and image. They continued to grow and innovate, releasing seven platinum-selling albums. Eventually, Fight For Your Right was dropped from their live set-list.

Beastie Boys perform in 1987.

The group revealed that Fight was intended to be a send-up of Frat Boy Culture (not heavy metal devotees). They were frustrated that it had become an anthem for the same individuals they were parodying. Mike D. later said:

“The only thing that upsets me is that we might have reinforced certain values of some people in our audience when our own values were actually totally different. There were tons of guys singing along who were oblivious to the fact it was a total goof on them. Irony is often missed.”

One-off performances of Fight dotted their live performances in the early ‘90s. But, by the 1994 Lollapalooza festival tour Beastie Boys retired the song for good.

Lollapalooza Tour Poster (1994).

I really liked where Beastie Boys took their career after Licensed To Ill. I'll try to explore that in a little over a year when we get to Paul's Boutique.