Evil Empire

Rage Against the Machine, 1996

This is a story about a kid trying to buy a CD with a parental advisory sticker.

After I got my license, I would find any excuse to drive somewhere. I loved driving to my local record store to browse the used CD section. Sometimes you would find a gem in those bins, but most of the time, you’d find the CDs that everybody bought, but nobody wanted. You know, Crash Test Dummies, Collective Soul, Gin Blossoms, REM’s Monster (for some reason). Love some of those CDs.

In the fall, when school started back, you’d always get introduced to new music from friends. One day after school, I was riding with a friend, listening to the radio, when I first heard “Bulls on Parade” from Rage Against the Machine’s Evil Empire. It was unlike anything I had heard.

Maybe it was the new sound system in his car. Maybe it was being a kid riding in the passenger side with the cool air blowing in through the open windows. Whatever it was, that song resonated with me—with its hard edges and bold lyrics. And Tom Morello’s guitar, what the heck was that?! This suburban kid was hooked—even if I didn’t completely understand the meaning of the song.

In the nineties, if you liked a song on an album, you had to buy the entire album. So it was always a gamble if you wanted to drop $14.98 on a CD—especially if you only knew one song. This time, I really didn’t care if I liked the other songs on Evil Empire. I loved “Bulls on Parade,” and I needed a copy of that CD.

There was one problem: Evil Empire had a parental advisory sticker, and I was only sixteen. And for some reason, my local record store was really strict on selling CDs with parental advisory stickers to kids under eighteen. Rightly so. But to an entitled teenager, it felt like they were infringing on my personal rights. Ah, youth.

One day after school, I decided to drive around and find a place to buy this album. I don’t recall the exact situation. I think Wal-Mart had the CD, but was very strict about selling CDs with the sticker. Or maybe they refused to sell the CD outright. In any case, Wal-Mart was out of the picture.

My friend told me to check out GrandPa’s because they didn’t care who bought CDs with the sticker. GrandPa’s was a discount store that went out of business in the late nineties. Coincidentally, I had only been to the store with my grandpa.

I had a good feeling that GrandPa’s was the place where I could spend my lawn-mowing money and finally get this CD.

When I got to the store, I passed the sportswear section, walked through the fishing lure aisle, and found the small music section in the back of the store. I went directly to the Rs, flipped through the CDs, and saw that caped kid on the cover. I grabbed the CD and walked up to the counter.

The guy at the counter wasn’t much older than me, so I thought my chances were pretty good. He scanned the CD, took my cash, and never asked my age. I felt like I had just done some spy deal and tried to play it cool as I walked out of the store.

I got into my car, unwrapped the CD, peeled that silver hologram sticker off of the case, and put Evil Empire into the CD player. (That, by the way, was connected to the tape deck by a wire). I also made sure to peel off the parental advisory sticker—just in case.

I started my mom’s car and pressed play. Then came that metallic opening riff of “People of the Sun.” Oh man, this was going to be totally worth the $14.98. I took the long way home that day, raging against the machine on the suburban backroads.