Amai, das graaf!! (Wow, now that’s awesome!!)
My hip hop journey began in 1987, thanks to three rebellious young men and a plane that looked like it had been flown by someone who definitely shouldn’t have had a pilot’s license.
I was 12 years old when I first saw the Licensed to Ill cassette by the Beastie Boys: Graaaf!! (Awesome!!!). The cover? A jet crashing headfirst into a wall. Subtle? Not at all. But to a 12-year-old kid, it looked like the coolest thing ever printed. I didn’t even know what a Beastie Boy was, but I knew I wanted in.
Until that point, my exposure to hip hop had been pretty basic—occasional songs on the radio, maybe a music video on TV if I was lucky and quick enough to switch channels before my parents walked in. But that cassette? That was different. That was mine.
I popped it into my trusty boombox (which weighed roughly the same as a microwave), pressed play, and then… boom. The walls shook. My brain exploded. My parents may have cried a little.
It was loud, obnoxious, and completely brilliant. The Beastie Boys were yelling about brass monkeys, fighting for their rights, and generally behaving in ways my teachers wouldn’t approve of. I didn’t understand half of it, but I knew one thing: I had found my people.
That one cassette was like a gateway drug—except way cheaper and way louder. It kicked off a lifelong obsession. I started chasing more music, more artists, more noise. Of course, I didn’t have much money, being 12 and tragically unqualified for full-time employment. So I relied on birthday cash, pocket money, and the occasional “accidental” washing machine discovery of coins left in pants pockets.
Eventually, I got a job in a fast-food restaurant in the ’90s, and things escalated quickly. My favourite music store was right across the street. Coincidence? Fate? Poor financial planning? Who knows—but every pay check vanished faster than you could say “Yo, VIP, let’s kick it.”
Today, my collection has grown into a full-blown time capsule of hip hop history: thousands of cassettes, CDs, vinyl records, and enough magazines to wallpaper a small apartment. I’ve even started photographing concerts and documenting everything I can—because at some point, collecting became about more than just owning stuff. It became about preserving the culture.
But no matter how deep I go into the crates, I never forget where it started: a 12-year-old kid, a boombox, a jet-powered album cover and three rappers who sounded like they drank five cans of soda before hitting the studio.
And here I am, decades later, still chasing that same feeling.
#RIPMCA
Tom / Hip Hop Collector