Once, the Beastie Boys were merely a tabloid-baiting brat-hop group who, following a UK tour, became embroiled in the biggest pop scandal in years. So who would have thought that 20 years on, not only would they still be here, but that they'd be so vital?
For some it might have been the break-up of the Smiths; for others, the release of Guns n' Roses' hard-rock redefining Appetite for Destruction. For me, however, 1987, the year of Maggie Thatcher's third victory at the ballot box, was defined by three Jewish, middle-class hip-hop brats from New York.
The Beastie Boys - Michael 'Mike D' Diamond, Adam 'MCA' Yauch and Adam 'Ad-Rock' Horovitz - had issued their debut, Licensed to Ill, at the end of 1986, but the full effect of this incendiary collision between frat-boy humour, heavy metal samples and hip-hop posturing wasn't fully realised, in the UK at least, until the following year. Then, while on tour in England, the Beastie Boys became embroiled in the biggest pop scandal in years.
While the band's onstage antics - scantily clad go-go dancers in cages, giant phallic balloons, spraying the crowd with Budweiser - might not have helped their cause with the easily outraged tabloids, it was their offstage behaviour that really caught people's attention, and which saw the group being debated in parliament.
Having indulged in the routine rock'n'roll behaviour of trashing hotel rooms, spending nights banged-up and liberating bonnet ornaments from Volkswagens, it was when the group were accused of taunting leukaemia victims that the shit really hit the fan - one MP, Geoffrey Dickens, declaring: "I want these diabolical creatures banned from these shores."
While many bands would have crumbled under the strain of 24-hour vilification, returning home never to be heard of again, the Beasties proved their mettle. Displaying a similar savvy to those other musical chameleons - Dylan, Bowie and, yes, Madonna - Mike D, MCA and Ad-Rock went away and reinvented themselves in a way that no one could have predicted.
Curiously enough, the ace in their pack was the very element that was once considered their weakness. Displaying a devilish sense of fun has never gone down well with some critics, but on their monumental second album released in 1989, the Beastie Boys effortlessly managed to align humour with musical excellence. Although criminally ignored at the time, Paul's Boutique turned out to be one of the key releases of the 80s.
Jam-packed with samples, joie de vivre and enough funk to keep Sly Stone's afro in curls, the album - an open love letter to their hometown - ushered in the postmodern magpie tendencies of the following decade, and in time recast the group as arbiters of a very American kind of cool.
Along the way they, the Beasties have matured socially and politically, championing Tibetan human rights, being outspoken critics of the Bush regime and adopting a can-do attitude in the face of the perils of climate change (let's face it, they were the only thing worth tuning in for at the recent Live Earth fandango). But this has been balanced by adventures in fashion (street wear label X-Large) and publishing (Grand Royal magazine).
This week the group return to the scene of those skirmishes 20 years ago, to play three shows in London, before a headline performance at this weekend's Bestival. That one of their three dates in the capital will be an instrumental show dedicated to their recent funk-cum-jazz album The Mix Up (Thursday night's show at the Roundhouse) indicates that 25 years on, the Beastie Boys are still one of the most forward-thinking and innovative outfits around.
