Tribe Called Quest Quotes

There is a way to read a poem, and then there is a way to allow the poem to exit the body and be read by everyone in the room.

And so it can be said that rap became political when the people making it needed it to be fed, and it became dangerous when those people being fed realized they had the power to feed themselves forever off the power they had.

When there is nothing to point to as an excuse for distance, the distance looms larger, more difficult to push.

I think, often, about love strictly as a matter of perspective. For some, it is something they are receiving from someone whom they might slowly be draining the life from.

To stay angry at someone you know will forgive your anger is a type of love, or at least it is a type of familiarity that can feel like love.

The things we do to stay close to the people we think will carry us through an entire lifetime...

I understand more clearly now what I didn’t understand then: how The Low End Theory isn’t only about that which cannot be heard, but it is also about society’s unseen, the people who exist but may be able to navigate an entire landscape as invisible, until some violence or some tragedy deems them less so.

It seems, Ms. Taylor, that we are nothing if not for our histories, and so much of mine is tied up in the business of ghosts. I don’t want to burden anyone, but I consider anyone who has lost someone my kin, because I think we are all faced with the same central question of how we go on. How we live the life that best reflects the people who aren’t here and are still counting on us.

Anger is a type of geography. The ways out of it expand the more you love a person. The more forgiveness you might be willing to afford each other opens up new and unexpected roads. And so, for some, staying angry at someone you love is a reasonable option. To stay angry at someone you know will forgive your anger is a type of love, or at least it is a type of familiarity that can feel like love.

The value of the tape was also the crafting of a mixtape. I am from an era when we learned not to waste songs. If you are creating a cassette that you must listen to all the way through, and you are crafting it with your own hands and your own ideas, then it is on you not to waste sounds and to structure a tape with feeling. No skippable songs meant that I wouldn’t have to take my thick gloves off during the chill of a Midwest winter to hit fast-forward on a Walkman, hoping that I would stop a song just in time. No skippable songs meant that when the older, cooler kids on my bus ride to school asked what I was listening to in my headphones, armed with an onslaught of jokes if my shit wasn’t on point, I could hand my headphones over, give them a brief listen of something that would pass quality control, and keep myself safe from humiliation for another day.

They are seeking a canopy of protection—from death, from shame, from guilt, from humiliation—in the group.[*] The quest is for everlasting life—a life seen in the ongoing life of the tribe, not the person. This is precisely the mindset John the Baptist bulldozed when he said, on the banks of the Jordan: “And do not begin to say to yourselves, ‘We have Abraham as our father.’ For I tell you, God is able from these stones to raise up children for Abraham” (Luke 3:8). The question is the same as it always was,

There is a way to read a poem, and then there is a way to allow the poem to exit the body and be read by everyone in the room. The way you, with impeccable rhythm, hung each bit of language from the lights in that room and let me see them, even with my eyes closed. There are beats that happen in between the breaks of words that I think most poets don’t tend to understand. There is a way for a reader to manipulate silence so that it is no longer silence but something drawing a listener toward a brief and breathless anticipation that, too, is a type of beat. We know how to read our poems, if nothing else. I say we and mean black people, sure. People who have, at some point, clapped on the two and the four. But you, especially, are carrying songs to the people.

But once we shut ourselves away, we soon discover that we are not as alone as we thought. We are in the company of the words of those who came before us, of other people's stories, other people's books, other people's words, the thing we call tradition. I believe literature to be the most valuable hoard that humanity has gathered in its quest to understand itself. Societies, tribes, and peoples grow more intelligent, richer, and more advanced as they pay attention to the troubled words of their authors, and, as we all know, the burning of books and the denigration of writers are both signals that dark and improvident times are upon us. But literature is never just a national concern. The writer who shuts himself up in a room and first goes on a journey inside himself will, over the years, discover literature's eternal rule: he must have the artistry to tell his own stories as if they were other people's stories, and to tell other people's stories as if they were his own, for this is what literature is. But we must first travel through other people's stories and books.

May we love our brothers, Tip. May we love them after they are gone, sure. But may we love them even when they fill us with rage, or even when we don’t speak to them for years, or even when we close our fists and our eyes and swing in their direction with all we have.

Or maybe I should say a few things that I “like like” In that same way that in the 7th grade I knew That there was a difference between how to like a sandwich And how I like liked Katie Elbin’s pale blonde pigtails. So..I like like Vietnamese Coffee and the long wait for it to drip Drops down into my clear glass coffee mug with penguins on it. I like like that the penguins playfully dance as the black of my coffee Meets the creaminess of condensed milk. I like like the way that Gatsby read when I was twelve And thought that Romanticism and the early twenties Would be as romantic in my early twenties. As if a field of daisies would be the same as the field of Daisy’s. However, I like like the melancholic tone of my chemicals as well When they become overly emotive. Haven’t you heard the news that we’re dead? Wouldn’t it be grand to go exactly as we planned? I like like wondering if wandering is a wanderlust Or just a wanderlust? I think this was address by a Tribe Called Quest But I’ve lost just who it is whom I was promised I could trust. I like like driving with a GPS Not playing it too close to the chest Or relying on all the Redbull and Slim Jim’s Which my passenger-self digests. And I like like a gentle sadness like a reminder I can feel The realizations that this is all just so ever gosh golly really real That my dream board has visions of what I can do And that what absolutely matters is only relatively true.

Another night, under the moonlight, she speaks to me. The language appears to me- as a dream in a dream. Asked to carry forth with a vision, a great path is presented. The waters to get there are not easy. I navigate, I asked and I doubt. 'Oh, but I must doubt the doubt, just as our great Maharishi had said.' She says, 'you are in the water, flow- swim through it and soon, yes very soon, you shall be freedom horse and you will meet the great wise tree.' I continue feeling strong, growing in courage, I navigate the waters. I turn around to see- Oh, my journey Soul and friend is there- A little behind; yet, navigating as I am. Can I do it? Images of things and people- once known, situations once scorned. I float past deeper into the vast. I reach the edge of a great cliff- great glowing waters appear- I jump. No thoughts are there. I fall into the depths of the waters. What if I don't resurface? Will I have air to breathe? I appear above it all. To my right is the grandest of trees. So strong, yet so soft and tender- I rest. Looking back to everything else- to the Soul waiting above at the water's edge I cry out, 'jump'. Silence. The journey must continue. The path is clear. The doubts have faded. The Soul is healed. My guides and ancestors ride with me as I am now freedom horse. The call is answered. The tribe awaits. We dance upon the water.

Joshua called all the tribe leaders for a meeting the next day. Achsah followed Caleb and watched as the captains gathered around Joshua. As usual, she stood in the shadows. Standing on a small platform, Joshua told the leaders of Israel that while still in the plains of Moab on the other side of the Jordan, the Lord had told Moses to tell them that after crossing the river into Canaan, they were to drive out all the inhabitants of the land. “God wants you to destroy all the carved images and idols,” he said. “He wants you to demolish all the high places as we take possession of the land.

There are not enough roses in the world for me to lay at the feet of this impossible group, but I hope this effort counts. I hope Phife can see all of us still trying, from wherever he may be. I hope Q-Tip knows that he’s done something great. I hope when the time comes for the generation after mine to talk about what’s real, they’ll pull a Tribe CD out of their pockets, worn down from a decade’s use and perhaps an older sibling. I hope they’ll put it in a CD player and let a room be carried away.

Or maybe I should say a few things that I “like like” In that same way that in the 7th grade I knew That there was a difference between how to like a sandwich And how I like liked Katie Elbin’s pale blonde pigtails. So..I like like Vietnamese Coffee and the long wait for it to drip Drops down into my clear glass coffee mug with penguins on it. I like like that the penguins playfully dance as the black of my coffee Meets the creaminess of condensed milk. I like like the way that Gatsby read when I was twelve And thought that Romanticism and the early twenties Would be as romantic in my early twenties. As if a field of daisies would be the same as the field of Daisy’s. However, I like like the melancholic tone of my chemicals as well When they become overly emotive. Haven’t you heard the news that we’re dead? Wouldn’t it be grand to go exactly as we planned? I like like wondering if wandering is a wanderlust Or just a wanderlust? I think this was address by a Tribe Called Quest But I’ve lost just who it is whom I was promised I could trust. I like like driving with a GPS Not playing it too close to the chest Or relying on all the Redbull and Slim Jim’s Which my passenger-self digests. And I like like a gentle sadness like a reminder I can feel The realizations that this is all just so ever gosh golly really real That my dream board has visions of what I can do And that what absolutely matters is only relatively true.

It’s hard to innovate the new when thousands of voices are still singing along to the old. They

To be aware that your presence in a space is political is to sometimes assume and take on the responsibilities that come with that presence, whether or not you feel as though you should have to.

This is the thing about history and people who come from a people who have had it taken from them. They know if they don’t protect what they can, there will be nothing to pass on to their children.

It is one thing to throw your hands in the air and say “the world is burning again, oh the world is burning,” but to see a people fight for access to clean water in the face of a very particular American greed is haunting.

The divide between that which was commercial and that which was “real” seemed larger, and what was real didn’t always sell, so there was pressure from both sides of that divide: be real enough to stay underground, or go pop enough to get money.

I suppose there is something to be missed about a print magazine breaking big news. I’m not sure if that could happen now.

later fight to unlearn—from the right to the left. I think there is a very particular mercy in being born to a woman who writes, or at least to a woman who sees a world worth writing about.

There is plenty out there worth doing alone, but for everything else, there is a need for your people. It would behoove you to have a crew.