John Berry: Wild Incandescence

Incandescent JB

When you start at a school in kindergarten, by eighth grade you pretty much know every single person. So when John Berry transferred in, I spotted him right away. The fact that he had orange hair spiked to a fare-thee-well and charisma that glowed even brighter didn't hurt. But he was so wildly incandescent that many of my schoolmates stayed away from the new kid. I was immediately attracted to him, though, and when I learned he also lived above 96th Street and loved music we were fully bonded. 

John's energy level was so high that I was kind of the straight man, off to the side: "John, are you sure that's a good idea?" I would sometimes ask him when he was about to do something crazy. But most of the time I just basked in the glow and helped pick up the pieces later. 

While we lived only a few blocks from each other, our environments could not have been more different. Mine was a mid-level doorman building where we had a classic NYC apartment on the 11th floor. John's father was renting a duplex loft in a unique old wood-frame building with a diner at street level. John's domain was the whole top floor (and the roof), and the whole space was packed with old stuff, some of which might have come with the place. Even so, I noticed his guitar the first time I visited. Of course, he played guitar - I should've known. 

At the time, I was coming off years of piano lessons and considering the trombone (thanks to Ska, The Specials and A Message To You, Rudy), but I knew a drummer that I thought might want to jam with John: Mike Diamond. Since they weren't friends yet, I hatched a plot to introduce them to each other at a Joe Jackson show, with The Members opening. I don't know how many phone calls it took to arrange but I got it done and we went to the concert. I made the introductions and we took our seats, John in the middle. As soon as The Members blasted into their first song, John was airborne, pogoing in his seat like a madman - as I expected. Mike, however, was taken aback. When John went to the bathroom, the future Beastie Boy leaned over to me and said: "I think this guy's insane!" I assured him that he was cool and not to worry.

Within days, John and Mike were jamming and I had decided to take up the bass. The Young Aborigines were born, so named because we were young and we associated the word "aborigine" with a primitivism that we aspired to have in our music, in addition to the influences of post-punk, disco, reggae and salsa. Listening now to the crude recordings I have, it is impossible to ignore the vitality of John's guitar, slashing at chords or picking haunted arpeggios. He liked a lot of heavy chorus pedal on his guitar, I think for the color it added to the sound. He was totally self-taught and brought the spirit of an action painter to every song.

John Berry, Mike Diamond & Me: the "original young aboriginals"

The band proceeded by fits and starts, never quite finding its place but schooling us all in how to be a group and making us a tight unit, one that we eventually invited Kate Schellenbach to join, to add "primitive" percussion. We got more serious, putting together a 45 minute set of challenging instrumental music (sometimes challenging our own instrumental technique!) that we tried to take on the road. But soon the siren call of hardcore was heard, Adam Yauch came on the scene, and the wheels of history began to inexorably turn toward Cookie Puss, Licensed To Ill, and world domination for the Beastie Boys.

John and I stayed close until I went to college and he began to drift a little, especially after he was cut loose by the Beastie Boys due to chronic lateness and heavy drinking. Frankly, I didn't think hardcore or hip hop was really for him, which was proven later by his turn to folk, country and Americana.

We lost touch until, like so many high school friends, Facebook brought us back together. He had an idea for a book about those early days and wanted to interview me, but it never happened. We finally connected at a show of his amusing and well-executed folk art, appropriately at a bar on Berry Street in Williamsburg. He was still the same John and we had a great time, playing songs from our iPods and talking about everything. But something was off. Occasionally, our conversation just...missed, derailed by non-sequitur. I couldn't tell if he was going deaf, or had had a stroke at some point, but I worried for my old friend. I was right to be concerned, as his illness was beginning to take hold. I never saw him again.

John and I spent hours and hours together, mostly playing music, seeing shows, or trying to make the Young Aborigines coalesce. One of my favorite memories had nothing to do with any of that, however, but rather took place when I invited Mike and John to come on a ski weekend in the Berkshires. We called it the "Fresh Air Fund" for Young Aborigines - not exactly politically correct, but blame it on our youth. On the way to the country, we stopped at a Four Brothers pizza restaurant and squeezed into a corner booth with my parents. While we were certainly boisterous, we managed to give our orders without incident, but when the waitress turned to go back to the kitchen, John got that light in his eyes, raised one finger, and said, "And a booty to go!" Mike and I almost died laughing. 

It was just another moment where John went just that little bit further out, past everyone's comfort zone, and into an ether of his own making. I guess he's there permanently now. So do something silly, play an out of tune guitar like you mean it, make the next person you meet your best friend, and get a taste of what it was like to be the man I called JB. While his light can never be extinguished, it's now up to us to reflect it back into the world.

JB on the mic, reading poetry

Related Post:

Adam Yauch Remembered: A Tale Of Two Bassists

All Photos (c) 2016 Jeremy Shatan

Onstage And Off At MCA Day 2015

The Beastie Caddy

It's been three years since Adam Yauch aka MCA was felled by cancer in his prime, ending the active career of the Beastie Boys and breaking the hearts of friends and fans. Since then it's become clearer that I'm on the periphery of two tightly knit but exclusive groups - that of the band's inner circle and that of their dedicated fans. 

In the case of the first group, I know where I was and what I did in relationship to the rise of the Beasties. Even though I did not continue a professional career in music or photography - the two fields that tie me to their trajectory forevermore - the fact remains that I was present at the creation and even had a small hand in what proceeded. But even so, it's not as though I've broken bread with Ad-Rock or Mike D in this decade, or even this century. 

In the case of the second group, though I've loved a lot of their music, I will never be as big a fan of the Beastie Boys as some of the wonderful people I've met (mostly online) in the last four years. For one thing, it's hard to be a "fan" of someone you know as well as I knew Mike D. For another, I grew up in the same cultural milieu and have a shared affection for much of the music and some of the pop culture detritus that provided the foundation for the Beastie universe. While I didn't really feel Licensed To Ill, when I first heard Paul's Boutique I felt a certain familiarity with all the pieces they were pulling together and its genre-blending style jibed with my own listening habits.

While this betwixt and between feeling can be confusing at times, I have never felt ambivalent about attending MCA Day. I'm deeply offended by what happened to Adam even though I know cancer has no agency. I feel the same way about my son and my close friend Stephen, who both died in 1999. So I've wanted nothing more than to show my face at the event that sprang up spontaneously in Adam Yauch's memory the year he died and that has continued ever since. Even so, due to scheduling conflicts I was not able to get there until this year, the fourth annual. 

I don't know what the earlier years were like but what I found at Littlefield this year was a complex and heartfelt day of events run by Mike Kearney and a group of dedicated volunteers. There was already a good crowd when I arrived, some milling around outside, admiring the extravagantly decorated Cadillac parked out front, and some inside looking at MCA-inspired art and listening to a Nepalese hip hop duo. 

I had just greeted a few familiar faces when artist Andy Katz grabbed me and introduced me to Kearney. I had agreed in advance to say a few words to the crowd about the early days and apparently my time slot was coming up. I followed Mike backstage and met Jim Shearer, who was doing video of the event. He filmed me answering a few questions about the Young Aborigines and the Paul's Boutique album cover shoot.  

While the Nepalese rappers finished up, Mike asked me add my signature to some posters that would be given out to volunteers. Though this kind of request is always strange to me, I complied for the same reason I always do: maybe it will make someone happy. 

Then it was my time to go on stage. I spoke off the cuff so what follows is a paraphrase of what I told the audience. 

"Every universe has a Big Bang so maybe the Big Bang of the Beastie Boys universe is when I introduced Mike Diamond to John Berry." Then I showed them the visual aid I had with me, which was a  Pete Frame-style "Rock Family Tree" titled Young Abs & Stims. John Berry and I had drawn this out together in 1981, trying to wrap our heads around all the interconnected bands and side-projects in our circle of friends. 

Apologies To Pete Frame

I pointed to the top, where the Walden Jazz Band resides on the tree. "This is where Mike and I first played together. I played piano (not well) and he played drums. We had two songs. When John Berry told me he played guitar, I put them together. At first, they didn't like each other much but I told them to stick with it. I was planning to learn trombone [the Ska-revival was in full effect] but soon realized it would be too hard to play. They already had guitar and drums so I took up the bass and we formed the Young Aborigines."

I then described the 100th St. loft where John Berry lived with his father. Since his father wasn't around much it was the perfect place to rehearse and hang out. "Gradually," I continued, "We sort of began to collect people. Even though John's loft was far uptown, it became the place to hang out after a night at the clubs. There were some people who stuck around, though. People like Kate Schellenbach, who became the percussionist for the Young Abs, and Jill Cunniff, who ended up forming Luscious Jackson with Kate and others.

"Adam Yauch was another one who stayed. Right away I could see he was different. He was somehow more mature. A deep thinker. He could be a wild man but when you sat and talked with him, half the time your response would be: 'Hm. I hadn't thought of that.' We were both bassists in different bands with the same other people - an odd situation, but I never felt competitive with Adam."

Then I told the story of how I returned from vacation and was showing off my new thumb technique, popping my bass like an amateur Larry Graham. Adam came right over and said "Wow - you figured out how to do that! What are you doing, exactly?" He absorbed everything I showed him and saved it for a future that was at that time unknown. 

"We all know what happened next," I continued, "Global stardom, the number one debut album in Columbia Records' history, world tours, etc. Because  of that I didn't see any of them for some time. Eventually, Mike and I got back in touch and began having lunch regularly. It was at one lunch, at Jerry's on Spring Street, that Mike brought up the album cover. His brother and I were teasing him for not knowing who Gustav Klimt was when he told us that they had a great idea for the second album but had no idea how to make it happen. 'What is it?' I asked. 'We want to do a 360 panorama of an intersection on the Lower East Side,' he told me. 'I can do that no problem," I responded. 

"And so we did it. I rented equipment, hired an assistant, and met them at the appointed time and place. The most amazing part for me was after we had set everything up, taken a Polaroid for exposure, and it was time to take the actual pictures. I crouched under the tripod in the middle of the street with the cable release in my hand and called 'Action!' I watched in amazement as my friends began jumping, running, skating, just going nuts. I think that's when I realized they had become performers, and very good ones at that."

I felt it was time to finish so I concluded by saying, "I hate what happened to Adam, but if that's what had to happen I'm glad we can all be here together to deal with it. Thanks to all of you for coming and to everyone who made this day happen."

With Chris Whitaker

I left the stage, shook some hands, and realized I was starving. I went to get a quick lunch and returned to Littlefield, where I relished the opportunity to meet in person several people I only knew online. One of these folks was Chris Whitaker, who for the past year has been working on an incredible 16 foot long, four panel oil painting of the Paul's Boutique cover. He and his family had driven to Brooklyn from Detroit to display it. I heard other stories of long journeys as I mingled, like the man whose sister drove him from  New Orleans to celebrate his 50th birthday at MCA Day. 

Chris Whitaker's Incredible Painting

Over the course of the afternoon we heard from Unlearn, a Rage Against The Machine cover band who also did a smoking cover of Sabotage, and Cey Adams, who was the art director at Def Jam for years and has some stories. DJ Hurricane was in impressive form, both on the decks and on the mic, performing Elbow Room and Stick'Em Up, two of the best songs from his slept-on 1995 debut, The Hurra. Coming full circle, his DJ was the son of the late Jam Master Jay. Hip hop truly is forever. 

The performance highlight for me was when Darrell McDaniels, otherwise known as DMC took the stage. This is when I became a pure fan, reveling in his storytelling and nimble rapping. I shouted along to Walk This Way like everyone else and jumped around when he joined forces with Unlearn for It's Tricky, connecting to the anarchic spirit that had given birth to Licensed To Ill - maybe for the first time. 

Smartphone Pandemonium For DMC & Unlearn

DMC was gracious to all as he left the venue, posing for many pictures. When I got my chance, I introduced myself and said "Even though I was on that stage a few hours ago, when you were up there, I was a pure fan. I still have my 12" of It's Like That - that song blew our minds!" 

It's Like That - And That's The Way It Is

It was that kind of a day, where people gave me a high five for coming and bringing them closer to the roots of this thing, and where I had the chance to express gratitude to DMC, Hurricane, and others for doing the same. I was handed phones to take pictures of fans with Glen E. Friedman - a moment with at least a small freight of irony - and posed for photos with others. 

The ongoing vitality of MCA Day not only here but in Chicago, LA, Brazil, and elsewhere, proves that the legacy of the Beastie Boys is alive - and even growing, judging by the amount of kids at Littlefield. In the end, Yauch had the last word. As I walked back to the subway, trying to sort out all that had transpired, his wonderfully raspy voice echoed in my mind: "On and on and on and on and on..."

Gorgeous Artwork By Andy Katz

You might also like:
Adam Yauch Remembered: A Tale Of Two Bassists
Still Luscious

Adam Yauch Remembered: A Tale of Two Bassists

The last time I saw Adam Yauch was at a Beastie Boys concert in August, 1998. Mike D. had offered me tickets partly because we were old friends and partly because he knew I could use a good night out as my 19 month old son had been diagnosed with a malignant brain tumor just five months before. And the time before that likely had been in 1989 when I photographed the Boys for the Paul's Boutique album cover. So we were not close, but we had a history, and when I walked into the cinder-block backstage area at what is now the Izod Center, he greeted me warmly, introducing me to his wife and making me feel welcome. My sister had been to Nepal recently so we talked about Nepalese tea and I wished him well with his quest to help the Tibetan people. Onstage, they rocked the house and lifted my spirits. Adam had become an accomplished bass player by then and I couldn't get enough of his raspy voice and witty words.

Our history, if presented in a manner appropriate to Behind The Music could consist of me railing at the camera that Adam had wrecked my band (The Young Aborigines) and helped the Beastie Boys rise from its ashes. But it wasn't like that. The Abs consisted of myself on bass, Mike Diamond (drums), John Berry (guitar) and Kate Schellenbach (percussion). We played an un-categorizable mash-up of post-punk, dub, and what we called "primitive" music. It was mainly for fun but we had some ambitions. My journal from 1981 mentions contact with the manager of the Bad Brains and a constant attempt to play in front of people. In the end, we only played two shows, and the joke was they were both on the same night.

Adam came to our crowd through the NYC hardcore scene, which Mike, John and Kate had grown increasingly attracted to. Though we were a tight-knit bunch of (mainly) upper-Manhattanites, the guy from Brooklyn with the wicked sense of humor and a wild streak was soon one of us, he fit right in. Adam respected what I was trying to do on the bass and was open to suggestions about the instrument. At the time I was taking lessons with a guy called David and Adam considered learning from him as well. My diary also notes that I brought Adam to David's loft to buy his first Fender bass.

While I was blown away by the Bad Brains (I must have listened to their ROIR cassette every day for a year), I was not much of a hardcore fan and the idea of playing that kind of reductive music did not fit with my omnivorous musical appetite. This led to to an unusual situation, with Adam and me playing in completely different bands with the exact same people, sometimes even rehearsing on the same day. Mike would get up from the drums and move to the mic; Kate would leave her hodgepodge of percussion and slide in behind Mike's kit; I would unplug my bass, and Adam would plug his in. John would keep his guitar, likely watching with a crooked grin and running his hand through his excessively pomaded hair. Sometimes I hung around and tried to add something but usually I would cut out home. My biggest contribution musically was probably the time I showed Adam how to use his thumb to slap the bass, a la Larry Graham. It had taken me almost a full summer to refine the technique and he was impressed.

The B. Boys and the Abs continued their parallel lives until around May of 1982, when the latter, without a thriving scene to support it and a confused musical approach, faded away into the ether. However, now that Adam is so tragically, heartbreakingly and unbelievably GONE, I find myself thinking more about the spaces in between. Like the hilarious night a passel of us crashed at Adam's Brooklyn brownstone, getting no sleep at all as we tried to fit five people in one bed. He was obsessed with the phoniness of advertising and kept us in stitches with his impressions of how poorly the media portrayed the way people behave.

In September 1981, a few days before I took the pictures included here, Mike and I headed to Central Park to go boating. No doubt this excursion was prompted by the fact that Yauch had a job at the concession and could hook us up. We might have put his job on the line as I tried to teach Mike to row, something for which he showed absolutely no aptitude. The three of us just broke out laughing after we finally got the boat back to shore.

We all had a lot of energy, and watching Adam bounce around on stage in old clips on YouTube reminds me of the night he got "nicked for acting like an ape on [the] subway," as I wrote in my diary. The cops gave him a warning and we continued on to see the Bad Brains at A7. Soon the Beasties were opening for the Brains and headlining their own shows.

Then came Pollywog Stew, Cooky Puss, Adam Horovitz, and, most improbably, global super-stardom. When the Licensed To Ill era was happening I was sort of amused by the whole thing, but also disgusted by the casual misogyny and bored by the brutish, frat-boy friendly beats. The success of that album kept Mike and the boys out of town for quite a while but we reconnected after things died down, leading to my agreeing to use my photo skills to make their dream of a 360-degree album cover a reality. While we careened around the city between locations, they played me some rough edits of the Paul's Boutique material and I turned to Mike and said, "Now, this I like!" The smorgasbord of sounds took me back to our listening sessions, when the Gang Of Four could be followed by Michael Jackson, Bob Marley and some old record from the 1920's.

They were on their way to becoming the hipsters hipsters as the world knows them today, and while I didn't always go for everything they did, I knew there was no compromise in their pursuits, within the Beastie Boys or otherwise, and I respected and admired Adam's work as an activist and filmmaker.

Even though I spent a lot of time with Adam in 1981 and 1982, we were really only acquaintances. In the end, I think his death felt like such a crushing blow to me for the same reason it did to many who never even met him: he was one of us, he fit right in.

My heart goes out to his wife and daughter, his parents, and his brother Beasties.

Note: All photos, and photos within photos, copyright 2012, Jeremy Shatan