A Tribe Called Quest's People's Instinctive Travels and the Paths of Rhythm

Shawn Taylor

• Publisher: Continuum
• Year: 2007
• Print ISBN: 9780826419231
• eBook ISBN: 9781441118448
• Edition: 1
• Topic: Media & Performing Arts
• Subtopic: Music History & Criticism

One of the finest hip-hop albums ever made, A Tribe Called Quest's debut record (featuring stone-cold classics like "Can I Kick It?" and "Bonita Applebum") took the idea of the boasting hip-hop male and turned it on its head. For many listeners, when this non-traditional, surprisingly feminine album was released, it was like hearing an entirely new form of music. In this book, Shawn Taylor explores the creation of the album as well as the impact it had on him at the time - a 17-year-old high-school geek who was equally into hip-hop, punk, new wave, skateboarding, and Dungeons & Dragons: all of a sudden, with this one album, the world made more sense. He has spent many years investigating this album, from the packaging to the song placement to each and every sample - Shawn Taylor knows this record like he knows his tattoos, and he'sfinally been ableto write afascinating and highly entertaining book about it.

Fourteen

April 17, 2006, 3:45 PM: Trial 2

Even after all these years, the galactic soup/space baby sound still, kind of, unnerves me. Not in a bad way, but I am just so confused as to what the intro to People’s Instinctive Travels and the Paths of Rhythm is trying to convey. What the hell does it mean? Is it some cryptic Afro-Futurist message or is it just a sound that Tribe thought was ill so they added it to their album?

Listening to the intro is akin to heading down a road at a particular speed, but when “Push It Along” hits, it’s like changing directions a whole lot faster than one would want. Musical G-forces all in your face, pushing your consciousness back, priming your body for the big takeover. The intro was the artillery, used to soften us up, and “Push It Along” is the first wave of the infantry, storming the beach.

And the number one song that you can put on at some loft party, get everyone’s heads bobbing, but is still mellow enough so that no conversations have to be interrupted is? “Push It Along.” Gentle, jazzy drums, chill bass and assertive but not intrusive horns make this the song to start your iPod-deejayed party. Aside from it being a fairly decent party starter, the message of it is still worth listening and ascribing to. The whole notion of options is something that is sorely missing in hip-hop. Most hip-hop message music concretizes the world, I mean, if people are multimillionaires and are still extolling the virtues of hood life, there is something wrong. Any antihood lifestyle choice is cut off due to it not even being presented for the listener’s consideration.

If you can’t pull it

All you have to do is

Push it along.

Even though the advice is rather juvenile, it’s still good advice. Being able to recognize that you have options and then being able to act on them is a skill that many more people need to develop. I feel that this song is exemplified by how sonically different People’s and Tribe’s second album, The Low End Theory sound. Tribe was going one way, trying to pull up the rear guard of the Native Tongues family, and then on their second album, they decided to push past boundaries, boundaries imposed on them by themselves, record companies and their audience.

While People’s starts off with the “what the hell?” sound of the cosmic baby floating in the galactic, soupy waterfall, The Low End Theory kicks off with the tribal war drums and grinning bass lines of “Excursions.” The song begins at a simmer; foot and finger taps and slight head nodding. Then at, 00:29, the beat takes over and you are possessed. The drums, which were on the low, decide to make themselves known to our ears. It is such a glorious transition, so much more skillfully done than the change from the space baby stew to “Push It Along.”

It seems that the time spent between their first and second albums, Tribe got sick of pulling and figured that pushing it along would make for a much better album. And by pushing, they created one of the best hip-hop albums ever. This, plus People’s, makes Tribe two-for-two. Both albums are part of the hip-hop canon, but Theory handily—in the opinion of many critics and fans—overshadows People’s, which is too bad. Theory may be the start of Tribe’s foray into boom-bap, head-rocking beats, but it is the introspection, innocence, exuberance, awareness of more than just the hip-hop world and their confidence and pride in their Afro-geekiness that—in my humble, yet biased opinion—makes People’s the better album. And it is songs like “Luck of Lucien” that place Tribe’s first joint on a pedestal.

I can’t help but reflect on my family every time I hear “Lucien.” My immigrant experience is once removed being that I am American born, but I am still aware of the precarious cultural tightrope that immigrants (especially black immigrants) feel. They don’t want to be associated with American blacks because American blacks seem to not respect what they have. They take this country’s bounty and relative abundance for granted. But then the American-born kids of black immigrant families are caught in the middle of their mother’s/father’s land and America. And you know what? America wins just by the virtue of proximity.

Why would I want to adhere to the mores of some faraway land when I can just assimilate and make friends outside of my cultural group? But trying to fit into American blackness isn’t as easy as it may seem. And it is this point that “Lucien” makes mad clear.

At about 2:46, Lucien tries to pick up on a girl. His advances are rebuffed when she tells him that his accent is not sexy. A few seconds later, Lucien proclaims: “I’m sexy and I’m French / Everybody loves my accent / Yes.”

All of my cousins were surgical with their accents. Many of their accents were prominent, but when it came to getting laid, the accent became a superpower. It was as if they had some type of adjustment lever: 1 = vocal honey to catch horny flies; 5 = American enough to weasel their way out of trouble with law. Being able to feign innocence through the judicious use of the English language is a talent that many black immigrants cultivate.

“Lucien” is more a lecture, a slight admonishment, than a traditional song. With the bouncing yet forward-moving beat, it is easy to imagine Tip trying to warn Lucien of the perils of American life. The tune reminds me of a Saturday morning children’s television show theme song. When the song kicks in, I can picture a whole division of multiculti “Sesame Street” or United Colors of Benetton children dancing harmoniously in some picturesque field of clover. But when it is discovered that some of the kids have non-American accents and others are demonstrably American, a disconnect happens and the show is cancelled. And it is this cultural disconnect that happens between Tip and Lucien. They both are black but one sees the world, America, from the point of view of a jaded veteran while the other sees it as the land of opportunity. If you really want to see the message of this song in a completely different light, take a listen to “Luck of Lucien (Main Mix).”⁷ It changes from a cultural boundary crossing to a heavily testosteronic, Euro come on.

It’s mostly the same lyrics, but the beat would sound more at home in some annoyingly of-the-Eastern-European-moment discotheque in Prague instead of the streets of any of the five boroughs. It’s sleazy, creepy and—if applied that way—could reinforce every “all immigrants are horny” stereotype. It hooks you with Lucien trying to pick up on a girl and then the thrumming drum comes in, then the handclaps and then vocals and additional sounds arise, and this goes on for quite awhile. Then, at 1:09, it sounds as if steam-powered robots are having sex in the VIP room. The song gives me such a visceral sensation—it actually makes me feel kind of violated—but it has grown on me over the years. A funny thing is that this song, albeit a poor example of the dance music form, helped me to get over my rather strong dislike of dance music. I put it on at a house party, and everyone looked at me, guilty looks on their faces, as they glided out to the dance floor and undulated their bodies to the beat.

“After Hours” embodies a human’s place in the sonic cityscape. We go about our business, loving, buying groceries, crossing the street and many of us cannot perform any of these actions with a completely clear head. Besieged by a host of wouldas, shouldas, couldas, the rhythm of our exterior lives crosses the threshold into our interiors, effectively rending our attention from the moment. But there are those times, times exemplified by “After Hours,” when we just are. Everything seems to work out right. It is as if we become pillars of temporal continuity, temples of synchronous existence—we vibe with our environments and chosen activities in ways that are rare but welcome. Some call it flow, others call it synchronicity, it’s that state we reach when, no matter the obstacle, shit just works out for us. One date turns us down, but we don’t even trip because our black books are full of willing and eager potentials. We hit all of the green lights on our way home from work. You smile at someone and by the reaction on his or her face, you know that you’ve just made their day. It’s outwardly projected assuredness; you’re the shit and everybody (even the universe) is aware of it, and this is what “After Hours” is for me: a bit of perfectly matched and encapsulated time and it is also Tribe’s most confident song.

If “After Hours” is that perfect night out, “Footprints” is the preparation for that night. I always thought that it should have come before “After Hours,” because where it is placed, it seems like a backward step. Not in a negative way, but “Footprints” is that song you put on to get yourself ready to tackle the city. It is well placed as a bridge between “After Hours” and “I Left My Wallet in El Segundo.”

The first song was a kick-ass night out while “Footprints” is the recovery and strategy session for another urban mission, and “El Segundo” is the result of all that strategic planning. Me and my boys used to call road trips “missions.” We would get into someone’s car, pick a cardinal direction and just roll out. We would have these wild adventures. Whether it was seeing a lady shoot all manner of projectiles from her vagina or seeing people coax their dogs into fighting, we saw a whole lot. Probably way too much for a handful of teenaged-multiculti-pseudo-wild boys with severe misfit leanings should have ever seen. I’m pretty sure that, during some of our more intense missions, we saw some things that have stained our psyches with no hope of ever getting them clean. Yeah. It was like that.

I would like to dedicate this song, “I Left My Wallet in El Segundo,” to my man Big Gordon. This was his favorite hip-hop song and, if he were alive today, he’d talk your ear off about the merits of the lyrics, the beat and the overall message. I really hope that, wherever he is, he is on a mission. Big Gordon: 1972–2002. Peace, man.

While he loved the original “El Segundo,” I don’t think that he would have appreciated the 5:53 “Vampire Mix.” He was not a huge supporter of dancehall or anything else that even remotely sounded like it, and he also wasn’t too fond of Phife. So needless to say, this song would not have made his top-ten list. This is one of those remixes/alternate takes that really have no reason for existing and also cause you to question the motives of the band.

I happen to be a huge reggae/ska/dancehall fan, but the Caribbean form is ill applied here. Isn’t it an odd feeling when you are so sure that your musical heroes could do no sonic wrong, but then they put out something that is truly wack, and it feels as if you’ve just been ripped from the warm cocoon of righteous music? This is exactly how I feel about the “I Left My Wallet in El Segundo (Vampire Mix).” But the feelings go in the opposite direction when I consider Pubic Enemy.

Hands down, this is my favorite song on the album. As a regular or message track, it is unfuckwithable. The music sounds like you are entering a forest glen, populated by little perverted fairies that trap you in their ring and tell you sexual cautionary tales. Imagine Shrek directed by wayward members of Planned Parenthood. Maybe it’s because Tip starts the song on a fairytale motif, but I cannot get over the perverted fairy image. Juxtapose this with the deluge of pimp, ho and cheating tales that infest much of black popular music and it makes me wonder if “Pubic Enemy” needs to be released every few years, just to remind people that the crotch-rotters are still out there, no matter how big the rims on your car. People better recognize.

After all these years, it still strikes me funny that an STD song precedes the best hip-hop love song ever recorded: “Bonita Applebum.” The intro—sounding like Prince in his Camille mode—sets off the whole joint, letting us know that what we are about to hear won’t be a typical hip-hop song:

Do I love you?

Do I lust for you?

Am I a sinner because I do the two?

Can you let me know?

Right now, please?

Bonita Applebum?

This is one of the best examples of post-adolescent lovesickness ever recorded. The chorus is plaintive but with a charming dash of persistence. “Bonita Applebum / You gotta put me on / Bonita Applebum you gotta put me on.” With just a minute change in his inflection, Tip manages to sound both like a nerd and a streetwise b-boy. This song influenced groups as diverse as (I hate to even type their name, but …) the Black Eyed Peas, Mos Def (homeboy is criminally underrated)—without “Bonita,” there may have never been a “Ms. Fatbooty” or any other hip-hop song about chasing an ethnically ambiguous neighborhood hottie.

The song starts off innocently enough with Tip probing Bonita’s defenses, and by each subsequent lyric he has to spout, her mack-daddy tolerance must be pretty high. Then, for the rest of the song, Tip ups the verbal ante with a few choice phrases, starting at 1:47: “38-24-37 / You and me hon / We’re a match made in heaven.” And then at 1:57: “I like to kiss you where some brother’s won’t”; and again at 2:18: “Satisfaction? / I have the right tactics / And if you need them / I got crazy prophylactics.” Went from innocence to freakdom in a matter of minutes. So, either Bonita is succumbing to Tip’s street-nerd charms or he is being a typical dude and pressing the issue in a way that is honest, but may not be too appropriate. In the “Bonita Applebum (12” Why? Edit)” the situation is changed from what is most likely a schoolyard, park or some other daytime, public place to right smack in the club. Same lyrics, but just a slight change in effects on the vocals and different music make this alternate edit seem a bit more sleazy and desperate and, unlike the original, we are keenly aware that Tip has scored due to the sex-gasm samples that assault our ears. Still funky, though.

But my all-time favorite version is the “Hootie Mix.” The music is just so ill and wholly appropriate for the new interpretation of the song. Using the Isley Brothers’ “Between the Sheets” (1983)—popularized by the Notorious B.I.G.’s braggart, party and bullshit track, “Big Poppa”—we catch Bonita and Tip a few years later as he’s still trying to get put on. But this go-round is a bit different. Instead of being a lovesick fool, Tip is supremely confident in the man he has grown into. Aside from the original words of the chorus, there is the nearly dismissive addition of: “Go head with yourself.” This time, Bonita is the one who is missing out.

Tip is the man now and Bonita has turned into a weed-smoking fiend who has lost the virtue she possessed during the first recording of the song. Tip explains to her that if she had kicked it with him from the get-go, she would have been saved from her current existence. The words are arrogant, but delivered in such a way that Tip believes what he’s saying and makes sure that Bonita also understands the truthfulness and conviction of the game he kicks. Either as a ray of hope or a slap in the face, Tip illustrates just how far from her current situation he can take her. Hell, he may even take her to El Segundo, where he first lost his wallet. Listening to the original and then spinning this, I really saw just how versatile and daring Tribe was. To be able to rework what is arguably the most popular song from People’s and turn it into a continuation of a classic song/theme, that’s pretty ill for some new cats. “Bonita” can be seen as the end of side one, which was a combination of establishing the group’s identity and the exploration of their philosophy and social issues. Side two starts with another classic track: “Can I Kick It?”

I have such a difficult time listening to what was once one of my favorite cuts, due to Marky Mark’s unholy use of Lou Reed’s “Take a Walk on the Wild Side” (from 1972’s Transformer). That assault on the public consciousness damn near ruined my capacity to remain in love with this song. When I hear Tribe rhyming, all I can see is “Marky” Mark Wahlberg squirming like a Vaseline-filled condom atop a washing machine, attempting to leech every ounce of cool from black culture.

The beat is cool and the guys seem to be having a good time. They aren’t saying much and it is hopelessly dated by Phife’s Dinkins as mayor line, but for some reason that I cannot understand, for a time, this song—after “Description of a Fool”—was a high-water mark for me. It is one of the few songs on the album on which Phife sounds accomplished and Tip earns his future name of the Abstract: “Like a box of positives / It’s a Plus / Love.” That line gets me every time.

If the song had to be boiled down to a couple of themes, they would be wordplay and lyricism. Hearing the joint, it sounds like being a part of a cipher, a group of emcees rhyming together, trading verses like Pokemon cards.

There is a remix (“Extended Boilerhouse Mix”) but it doesn’t do much to enhance the experience of the song. There is a segmented skit woven throughout—including an amusing Lady Miss Kier (from Deee-Lite) vocal stab—that portrays A Tribe Called Quest as an earth-shattering, Beatlesesque supergroup that has come to diddle teenaged girls into a frenzy. Even if you are a serious Tribe-head, this remix is not essential.

One of the better things about Tribe, especially during their genesis, is that they capture moments and recontextualize them. “Youthful Expression” vacillates between an interior monologue and a guided tour of the life of an early 90s young black male. We hear the frustrations of being young in a big city with nothing to do, and then a bar later we hear how this kid makes a dollar out...

Table of contents

• Cover Page
• Title Page
• Contents
• One
• Two
• Three
• Four
• Five
• Six
• Seven
• Eight
• Nine
• Ten
• Eleven
• Twelve
• Thirteen
• Fourteen
• Fifteen
• Sixteen
• Twenty Questions with Bob Power
• Outro
• More praise
• Footnote
• Copyright Page