My toddler is running around the house like a lunatic, hot off the candy train after his Valentines Day-care celebration. “Brew! Breeew!!” he shrieks. He wants the broom. Of course he wants the broom. It’s the only thing available to him that isn’t a toy. He tries to crawl up my leg while I get dinner ready. When that doesn’t work, he belly-downs on the floor and does his best performance of crybaby.
Alexa, play A Tribe Called Quest.
Da Booty comes on. My mind starts to clear. My spirit picks up. And before I know it, I’m dancing around the kitchen, all thug-life. Picture the most awkward white girl scene ever, then add a Plated subscription to it, and you get me.
This is my life…to music.
Da Booty – A Tribe Called Quest
A Tribe Called Quest has been a staple in my music collection since my teens. They’ve been present for many moments of my life. I remember having college parties where I would only play their A Love Movement CD, which lead to making some great friends on the commonality of music. When I meant my husband, he learned quickly not to call my music bluff when I could name all the members in A Tribe Called Quest, and followed it up with, “Rest in peace Phife Dawg.” He just looked at me, almost crosseyed, purely bewildered.
But the most memorable was when I was introduced to A Tribe Called Quest. I was a junior in high school, living in a town where the human/cow ratio was probably 1:2. The gravel road I lived on was so poorly maintained, I once watched our school bus crash in front of my house during a particularly icy winter. The closest person my age was a good 3 miles down the road, and you’d make the haul, on foot, just to have someone to interact with.
Have I made it clear I grew up in the sticks? Do you need more? Okay, last one – My neighbor used to shoot his rifle from his bedroom window, and once yelled at my sister and I to get inside the house because he almost mistook us for deer.
You may be wondering how an oldschool New York City hip-hop group made it into my music rolodex. Well, on those days I wasn’t watching our school bus crawl up the steep incline to my house, I watched a rusty sheet of metal on four wheels blaze up it and come to a screeching halt in front of me. It was my ride to school.
Eric and Danny, brothers, lived several miles away, further tucked into the country, and they were kind enough to pick me up along the way. Eric was in my grade and newly licensed. He had a love for music. Played the drums. Supped up his car with a nice speaker system. And in-between Sublime CD’s, he’d pop in A Tribe Called Quest.
The thudding bass of their beats made the whole car shake, and we’d whip around the twirling roads of our town, half the time going double the speed limit, none of the time staying in our lane. It was the perfect time at act like an immortal, and the perfect music selection to get you in that complex. We felt like the shit. We smoked cigarettes. We skipped first period to roll up to Eat n’ Park for some grilled stickies a la mode, Tribe cranked up full blast. In our minds, we owned that town.
And to this day, whenever A Tribe Called Quest comes on my iPod, I instantly get that feeling of immortality. I can only thank God their songs are short, because by the end of it, I typically have myself talked into a complete career change.
So I tip my hat to them for the inspiration, and the balls, they give me. And to tie this article up nicely, I’ll end with a question: What is it that everybody has, that some pirates and thieves try to take?