The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
Arts
Wednesday, February 13, 2019 — 5A
When I think of A Tribe Called
Quest, I think of my high school’s
art room. I think of the overflowing
cork board, pushpins doing their
darndest to tack down exceptional
student work and inspiration, with
a cardstock square print of the Beats,
Rhymes and Life cover hanging on for
dear life at the top left corner. I think
of playing “Oh My God” in the select,
seniors-only space that was the back
room (affectionately referred to as
“the closet,” because it wasn’t much
bigger) while we were painting the
annual homecoming mural. I think
of my classmate approaching me the
next day, gushing about Midnight
Marauders and asking for more
music
recommendations
similar
to it. I think about finally breaking
down the façade of my too-cool-for-
school art teacher when he regaled
the story of his first Tribe concert to
me.
When Hanif Abdurraqib thinks
of A Tribe Called Quest, he thinks of
his father’s reverence for jazz, sour
cherry candies he bought on a road
trip and Tony, the bootleg “CD Man”
in his hometown of Columbus, Ohio.
Abdurraqib thinks of a lot of
things I have never thought of,
but we are still united in the fact
that when we think of A Tribe
Called Quest, we think of a lot of
thoughts. Both him and I are self-
described ATCQ fans, and while
our backgrounds can’t be any more
disparate — Black boy from urban
Ohio who blossomed alongside the
golden age of hip hop and white girl
born and bred in varying suburbs
who rediscovered that era as the
internet made her more musically
conscious — this strand of fandom
has lassoed us together.
In “Go Ahead in the Rain,”
Abdurraqib threads together all
these thoughts using the keen needle
that is A Tribe Called Quest.
The
book’s
function
is
multifaceted:
a
history,
a
commentary, a love letter, a memoir.
It tracks the history of the Tribe
from its inception to its final bow,
supplemented with sketches of
scenes from Abdurraqib’s own
adolescence and grounded in the
American landscape at any given
moment. Take, for example, his
situating of ACTQ’s sophomore
album, The Low End Theory, in the
context of the Rodney King riots:
“Los Angeles wasn’t on fire yet when
(Low End) was being made or when
it was released. But it would be on fire
by the time the songs were playing in
heavy rotation across America … The
constant replaying of the footage
(of Rodney King’s beating) was
laying a new groundwork for rage in
communities miles away.” Low End
is an album undercut by “righteous
anger,” as Abdurraqib puts it, but in
his exhaustive profile of the group,
he never loses sight of the world
they moved with, and the world that
moved against them.
A Tribe Called Quest’s anger
on The Low End Theory was more
audibly weaponized by other groups
defining the rap game in divergent
ways, groups like Public Enemy
or N.W.A. That same anger was
channeled through Abdurraqib in
a heart-wrenching anecdote where
he punched his older brother, “not
because I wanted to hurt him, but
because I wanted him to imagine
a world in which I was unafraid
to
hurt
him.”
This
complex
interconnectedness is indicative of
how the book flows as a whole: For
everything A Tribe Called Quest did,
Abdurraqib has a story to tell.
And through the stories he tells
us, they live on through stories of
our own. In this regard the book
is timeless. There is no Midnight
Marauders without the legendary
cover art, a veritable who’s who
of rap in ’93. There is no Midnight
Marauders without young music
nerds like Abdurraqib, who would
complement his listens to the record
flipping the sleeve back and forth,
trying to correctly identify everyone
on the cover without peeking at the
cheat sheet on the back. There is no
Midnight Marauders if it doesn’t live
on decades later, in an unlikely high
school art room hundreds of miles
away from Linden Boulevard in New
York City.
This is not to say “Go Ahead
in the Rain” falls into a formula.
Abdurraqib does not spend the
whole time laying out a concise
compendium of the major players
in late ’80s and early ’90s hip hop,
nor does he spend the whole time
talking about his childhood attempts
to impress the
cool kids on
the bus rides
to
school
with his ever-
expanding
taste.
He
satisfyingly
swirls all these
parts into a
simmering
stew,
meant
for all to enjoy,
from
old
to
young, fan to
critic. Its taste
is irresistible.
No
two
people
will
have the same
experience
reading “Go Ahead in the Rain.”
You might have never heard of A
Tribe Called Quest before picking
up the book, or you might be so
well versed in hip hop history you
felt Abdurraqib’s version of it was
incomplete. No matter how you feel,
Abdurraqib makes you think about
your relation to the Tribe, however
idiosyncratic it is. He uses ATCQ’s
music as a springboard to uncover
an unsure truth behind their impact,
wonderfully juggling tons of golden
nuggets of supplemental information
while never losing sight of the task at
hand. Abdurraqib asks a seemingly
simple question — “Is there more
to A Tribe Called Quest than their
discography?” — only to stumble
upon a wealth of answers.
Since I didn’t live alongside A
Tribe Called Quest at their peak,
my fandom is one primarily defined
by wistful appreciation, delving
critically into their catalog for the
sake of my growth as a listener
and a scholar. I was overjoyed that
Abdurraqib introduced the mostly
chronological framework of the book
with a discussion of “Jazz (We’ve
Got),” my absolute favorite Tribe
song, and even mentioned a very
specific line from the song, one that
has stuck with him as much as it has
stuck with me since my first listen
years ago: “I
don’t
really
mind if it’s over
your head /
Cause the job
of resurrectors
is to wake up
the dead.” Yet
I was slightly
disappointed
he didn’t have
much to say
about
the
actual music on
their last and
most
recent
album We Got
It from Here...
Thank You 4
Your Service.
Much
like
Q-Tip’s bumbling road trip in the
“I Left My Wallet In El Segundo”
video and much like life, the book
is a meandering odyssey, one with
no clear end or beginning. It is
loaded with references, stories and
background information, but there is
no semblance of a traditional music
biography. The core communion
between the artist, the listener and
the world is the main narrative tool
that binds all these moving parts
together, but is perhaps only evident
to those who actively synthesize
their interest in the music with
what they are reading on the page.
How you feel if given an exit survey
might directly depend on your level
of familiarity with ACTQ.
However, it doesn’t matter if you
feel “Go Ahead in the Rain” was
encyclopedic or inadequate. What
matters is that it makes you feel
something, because the thing so
damn captivating about the Tribe is
their timeless capacity to touch us
any listener. A common criticism of
the group nowadays is that they are
corny, that it’s rap for your parents.
The irony is that this criticism has
been thrown at them for their entire
lifespan. I think that says a lot — A
Tribe Called Quest might not be for
you, but at least you tried to listen
to them, you had a clear experience
with them, be you mother, son,
father or daughter.
Celebrity deaths don’t usually
hit me hard, but the passing of
Malik Izaak Taylor aka Phife Dawg
challenged me in a way I was never
familiar with. He was a core fixture
of a group I immensely admired,
but never associated with anything
more than some damn good music
— the same music that I got everyone
bopping to in my high school art
room. Back in my advanced art class
senior year, we had free reign to
take on any project. To make sense
of Phife’s death, I decided my next
endeavor would be a tribute, a dual
portrait of Q-Tip and Phife united
in brotherhood. But because of my
misguided laziness and the reality
that deadlines are a fickle mistress,
I only ended up drawing Q-Tip solo,
and my tribute felt hollow.
I have always found myself
mesmerized by Q-Tip’s craft: I
had never felt the betrayal that
Abdurraqib felt when he learned
Tip was the most responsible for
Tribe’s inevitable break-up. On one
of those late nights painstakingly
sketching the countless strands of
straw composing his hat, Thank
You 4 Your Service dropped. I
immediately bought it on iTunes
(I know, something unheard of in
today’s day and age of streaming). I
needed to own this album: It wasn’t
enough to just look it up on Spotify,
a place where its continued existence
is not fully guaranteed. The greatest
impression I had after my first
listen was that the album is a bridge
between the past and future, life and
death. To Hanif, who never “wanted
another Tribe Called Quest album”
before “Phife died,” “it was even
greater than (he) could ever ask for.”
To me, it was the old guard’s way of
formally passing the torch to the rap
I grew up with, those like “Joey, Earl,
Kendrick and Cole,” as shouted out
on “Dis Generation.”
If I had to describe “Go Ahead in
the Rain” using only one Tribe song,
it would be “Black Spasmodic,” a cut
off the second half of Thank You 4
Your Service. Tip’s verse on the song
is very much trying to make sense
of Phife’s death, using his words to
summon Phife’s own spirit “through
mixing chords and boards and even
drum machines.” His verse ends:
“Live the Tribe principle of having
impeccable taste
Enjoy that breath like that one was
your last one left
If you don’t believe me, Tip, there’s
truly life after death
So refer to the Biggie covers and
shout out my Trini brothers
And please check in on my mother
Malik Izaak, call me shorty.”
It seems Malik’s death was
the impetus for Abdurraqib to
write “Go Ahead in the Rain,” his
way of making sense of it. We are
blessed with him giving the Tribe
everything he could, acting a lovely
curator and chronicler of all things
A Tribe Called Quest. Abdurraqib
reminds us that the soul of the group
was always one to be shared, then
and now, between Hanif and me,
through speakers in art rooms and
headphones on bus rides, to anyone
willing to hear.
With ‘Go Ahead,’ Abdurraqib never loses sight of love
CASSANDRA MANSUETTI
Senior Arts Editor
Suspended on top of a metal
ladder breaching into the ceiling
of the Newman Studio at the
Walgreen Drama Center, was
Theatre and Drama professor,
Tzveta Kassabova. “Can I just
drop this tire first? Before the
interview?” she called down
to me. “Of course! Absolutely!”
I
exclaimed
in
response,
excited to be witness to a bit
of theatrical magic as a large
tire fell from the darkness
of the ceiling with a simple
flick
of
a
rope.
Tzveta
cheered in admiration at the
contraption having worked,
and went to hug her set
designer Niki White. With
less than a week left until the
opening of the devised show
“Murakami by the Sea,” the
entire studio was buzzing
with hands busy at work.
“And then I realized that
the deep darkness inside
me had vanished. Suddenly.
As suddenly as it had come.
I raised myself from the
sand and, without bothering
either to take off my shoes
or roll up my cuffs, walked
into the surf to let the waves
lap at my ankles,” are the
brilliant words of Haruki
Murakami,
a
Japanese
writer, whose short stories and
novels have influenced people
across the world. His writings
are the foundation of the
devised show “Murakami by
the Sea.” Tzveta Kassabova, the
director of the piece, speaks of
the visceral feelings that can be
found in specific moments such
as the ones Murakami addresses
in the above passage. “I find
it beautiful that sometimes
things happen in one moment.
You
don’t
even
necessarily
know how it happened but
you understand that singular
moment, made everything very
different.” In the rehearsal
process, Kassabova has been
working with the actors to
create life-altering moments
like these, on the stage. “A lot
of it is setting circumstances
so that something can happen,”
she began, “It’s a blank slate
starting from scratch. We all
(the cast and crew) read the
short stories and researched
images
that
we
then
can
create with. We started to play
improvisational
games,
that
set the structure for certain
moments to occur. Nothing is
forced in this, it just happens.”
A devised piece of theatre is
a process of theatre creation in
which the whole team: Actors,
directors, designers, etc. are
partaking in the development
of
the
show.
Sam
Dubin,
Sophomore BFA Acting major
and an actor in “Murakami by
the Sea,” explained what the
rehearsal process was like for
him: “We met a month before
we started rehearsals and the
entire cast and crew had dinner
together and talked about our
relationship to the text to begin
with
and
our
expectations
with the text moving forward,”
he explained. The rehearsal
process of a devised piece is not
the same rehearsal process of a
scripted play. There are no lines
given to actors to memorize
at the beginning, no character
objectives to configure. Actors
create the story with the rest
of the ensemble in the room,
during the rehearsals.
While this can be creatively
exciting, it can also be difficult.
Dubin explains the difficulties
he found during the process:
“It’s no joke that this can be
frustrating and most of the
time things don’t make sense
in our head,” says Dubin. “One
thing our dramaturge (Teresa
Kovacs) would say is that
there’s a human need to want
the questions to be answered.
She told us that we should enjoy
the questions we have and
allow them to push us forward.
Maybe we will find the
answers, but in away
our goal is to end
this
process
with
more
questions.
If
you give an audience
answers and you make
it easier for them,
it’s more likely that
they’ll forget about it.
Even if someone sees
‘Murakami
by
the
Sea’ and they don’t
understand
what’s
going on, it’s more
valuable
to
let
an
audience go and be able
to confidently say that
they’re questioning.”
Audience members
are
encouraged
to
enter into this show
not expecting to find
answers, but rather
new ideas and queries about life
to ruminate upon. “It becomes
a part of you,” Dubin says of
devising theatre. “You care
about it, and you put so much
of yourself into it, sometimes it
can hurt you, in a way. Seeing it
leave so quickly like that. It can
hurt you.” After this February
weekend, the actors will have
left the stage. The set will be
taken down, falling tire and all.
The stage managers notes will
be tucked away. But one thing
will always remain: what was
felt along the way. Moments
found on the stage that provoke
new emotions, new connections,
new questions, provide the
audience and creative team
alike, an opportunity to leave
the experience changed.
‘Murakami’ to be magical
COMMUNITY CULTURE PREVIEW
‘Murakami by the
Sea’
Th. Feb. 14 @ 7 p.m.
Fri. Feb. 15 @ 7 p.m.
Fri. Feb. 15 @ 11 p.m.
Sat. Feb. 16 @ 7 p.m.
Sun. Feb. 17 @ 2 p.m.
Walgreen Drama Center
Free
BOOK REVIEW
Read more at
MichiganDaily.com
‘Go Ahead
in the Rain:
Notes to a
Tribe Called
Quest’
Hanif Abdurraqib
University of Texas Press
Feb. 2019
Throughout the performing
arts, diversity initiatives are
beginning to take on historical
problems
in
representation
—
particularly
regarding
directors,
choreographers,
conductors
and
others
important to and yet removed
from
the
performance
process. This past weekend,
the
Department
of
Dance
demonstrated their dedication
to diversity with “Complex
Rhythms,”
a
multi-work
performance featuring three
works by women of color.
The evening spanned four
works: “7 x 12 And A Little Bit
of Cha-Cha,” “Studio A, will
you die with me?,” “Prelude,
Fugue, and Riffs” and “Shelter.”
Two of the works, “7 x 12 And
A Little Bit of Cha-Cha” and
“Prelude, Fugue, and Riffs”
were choreographed by SMTD
professors; the other two were
by guest artists.
The evening opened with
Professor Robin Wilson’s “7
x 12 And A Little Bit of Cha-
Cha,” featuring the music of
Marwan Amen-Ra, Alina Moor
and SMTD Lecturer of Jazz &
Contemporary
Improvisation,
Marion
Hayden.
Though
it began with singing and
limited movement, the work
quickly morphed into a vibrant,
colorful display. The dancers
wore simple costumes of bright
and solid colors. The cast of 12
traversed the stage from left
to right, sometimes diverging
into smaller groups and solo
moments.
At one point, the ensemble
began walking repeatedly across
the stage. As they continued
walking, their motions went
from
simple
to
expressive,
elaborate to profound. Motions
that once represented walking
began to represent dance. This
was my favorite moment of the
work, the moment at which
human aspects of the elaborate,
eye-catching
choreography
became apparent to me.
The second work, “Studio
A, will you die with me?,” was
a solemn, thought-provoking
meditation on race. As the
choreographer described in the
program, “‘Studio A, will you
die with me?’ is a fire ritual that
works to disrupt the anti-black,
heteronormative and capitalist
structures that live within the
fabric of Western dance studios
and dance curriculums.”
The work began with a long
blue sheet being drawn across
the front of the stage and giant
metal racks with candles on
them being placed in the back.
This blue sheet was quickly
covered in miniscule sparkling
objects that I can only assume
were
stones.
The
dancers,
wearing
neutral
grey/green
clothing, moved slowly across
the stage. After a little while,
they put on sparkling masks
that all but completely obscured
the facial region.
This, combined with the
dim lighting, made individual
identities all but unidentifiable.
And while one member of
the ensemble performed an
impressive
and
elaborate
dance, the others moved slowly
and deliberately, their lack of
motion perhaps representing
more than their motion.
The
finish
was
truly
unforgettable.
The
music
ended, the cast pulled off
their masks and the audience
sat in rapt attention. As the
ensemble cleaned up the cloth
and wheeled off the candles,
the audience sat in silence,
processing
the
poignant,
complex work that had just
occurred.
The
third
work
was
“Prelude, Fugue, and Riffs”
by Professor Bill DeYoung. It
featured a recording of Leonard
Bernstein’s “Prelude, Fugue,
and Riffs” by the University
Symphony Band conducted by
Professor Michael Haithcock.
The set was magnificent,
containing individual points
of light and grey rectilinear
shapes mimicking an urban
skyline on a starry night. The
dancing, much like the music,
reflected big band jazz taken
to a hectic, almost frenetic
extreme. Piercing jazz lines and
frantic blues riffs were matched
with busy ensemble motions
and energetic solo moments.
The dancers’ stamina was on
display, as they managed to
maintain for ten minutes what
few could for one minute.
After a short intermission,
percussionist
Marwan
Amen-Ra
returned
to
the
stage accompanied this time
by
Professor
(and
in
this
instance
narrator)
Robin
Wilson for Jawole Willa Jo
Zillar’s
“Shelter.”
Wilson
and
Department
of
Dance
Chair, Anita Gonzalez, were
both part of the original 1988
performance, a performance
attended
to
address
“the
suffering
and
isolation
of
homelessness”
according
to
dramaturge Efe Osagie, who is
a Michigan in Color editor for
The Daily. The work had been
modified following Hurricane
Katrina to address those made
homeless as a result of this
storm; this was the version of
the work being presented.
The performance was simple,
yet profound. As Wilson read
simple poetry and prose, the
percussionist and the dancers
evoked the struggle of these
people. It was mournful at
times, violent at others. It built
to great heights, with dancers
convulsing on the ground as
the
percussion
aggressively
beat time. And it traversed
considerable
lengths,
the
deliberacy
of
motion
never
ebbing though the intensity
waned.
Though it ostensibly lasted
over twenty minutes, it was
engaging to the point where I
lost track of time. It was a fitting
end to the night and a stunning
testament to the works of those
outside the traditional canon
of Western dance, particularly
women of color. It was both
a reminder for the need to
increase the diversity of the
performing arts and an example
of the amazing work being done
by those within the canon.
‘Complex Rhythms’ stuns
COMMUNITY CULTURE REVIEW
ALIX CURNOW
Daily Arts Wrtier
SAMMY SUSSMAN
Daily Arts Wrtier