Dancing with the Boys

Before the next song, MCA announced, “OK, now…we do this at every show, so here goes: I want this girl to come up here,” and pointed at me!

It was 1987, I was 17 years old, and the Beastie Boys' album _Licensed to Ill_ was hitting its peak. My friend Nikki and I snagged two tickets to the sold-out show when they came to San Francisco. I remember dressing to kill that night, 1980s style, in a tight tank top, cropped Levi’s jacket, pegged stretch pants, and high-heeled ankle boots. My hair was permed, poofed, and ready to party.

Fishbone opened the show. As Nikki and I squeezed to the front of the stage, we touched each of the performers as they drew near. We stayed there between sets, determined not to give up our hard-earned proximity.

Once the Beastie Boys came on, the place went wild, everyone bum-rushing the stage. Nikki and I were pinned and not going anywhere—so much for toilet breaks! Fine by me, as I was super-psyched to hear all of my favorite songs live.

I noticed other women giving various personal articles (necklaces, bras, etc.) to MCA and Ad-Rock as they bounced across the stage. Realizing that I didn’t want to be overlooked, I gave MCA a gold “coke-fairy” earring. He took it from me and held it briefly to the light while rapping “Brass Monkey.”

Before the next song, MCA announced, “OK, now…we do this at every show, so here goes: I want this girl to come up here,” and pointed at me! Before I knew it, I was grabbing his hand, but I couldn’t budge. Then Ad-Rock came over with two security guards, and all four of them plucked me from the crowd.

In a moment of panic, I realized that my pants were coming off as I was being pulled on stage. Luckily, I managed to grab hold of them at the last second, so I didn’t land up there half-naked. So there I was, onstage with the Beastie Boys! The bright lights blocked out the audience, but I could hear my friend Nikki yelling from below: “You bee-atch! I fuckin' hate you!”

Next, I heard MCA saying, “Holy shit, this girl is fuckin' tall!” I noticed that I am indeed taller than all three Beastie Boys, the “slut in the cage,” and several of the security guards. At this point, the Beasties launched into “She’s on It.” So I danced like fool onstage with my all-time favorite band, singing along with every word.

Afterward, security guards pulled me offstage, but I chose to jump into the audience, in fear of being sent out a side door and to the back of the crowd. Later, I questioned that split-second decision—maybe I would have been led backstage, where I could have hung with the Beasties post-show. I never will know.

The next day at school, word got out that I was onstage with the Beastie Boys. All of the guys said, “She’s cool!” and all the girls said, “She sucks—I hate her!” But I didn’t care, because I'd had my 15 minutes of fame, and relished every second of it.

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