A Tribe Called Quest - Can I Kick It?

An entire generation of a certain age knows the answer to this question.

“Can I kick it?”

Yes, you can.

By the time A Tribe Called Quest dropped their astonishing debut album in 1990, People’s Instinctive Travels and the Paths of Rhythm, hip hop had already scared the hell out of white America. You had N.W.A. rolling like a hurricane of righteous fury, Public Enemy sounding the alarm for revolution, and a whole lot of people clutching their pearls, thinking, “What’s going to happen to our children?” Their kids were busy rewinding tapes and trying to figure out how Chuck D got his voice to sound like God during an earthquake.

But Tribe? Tribe wasn’t trying to shake the system or burn it all down. They were too cool for chaos. These were the kids at the party leaning against the wall, making sly jokes, and dropping knowledge while everyone else was too busy trying to look hard. Q-Tip, Phife Dawg, Ali Shaheed Muhammad, and Jarobi White brought something the game hadn’t really seen before: an almost spiritual chill.

Tribe took jazz and soul samples and built an entirely new world out of them. This vast, swirling bouillabaisse of rhythm and melody found new life in their capable hands and allowed us all to explore deeper grooves and potential. Their music had an ease, a flow, that said, “We’re here to have a good time, and you’re welcome to join.”

A life filled with fun, that's what I love
A lower plateau is what we're above
If you diss us, we won't even think of
Will Nipper the doggy give a big shove?
This rhythm really fits like a snug glove
Like a box of positives is a plus, love
As the Tribe flies high like a dove

-Q-Tip, Can I Kick It?

And that’s the thing: Tribe never felt the need to strike an intimidating pose. They weren’t out to prove how hard they were or how many gold chains they could wear before their necks snapped. Instead, they were more like the hip-hop equivalent of a Zen koan. Q-Tip’s voice was a warm, guiding light, smooth and conversational like he was pulling you into a secret world. Phife Dawg was the street poet, the everyday man who turned mundane observations into bars that stuck with you for days. Together, they were a perfect balance, yin and yang in Adidas tracksuits.

Hip hop in 1990 was already diverse. Run-D.M.C. had kicked open the door years earlier, and groups like De La Soul and The Jungle Brothers were carving out their own unique lanes. A Tribe Called Quest was the crown jewel in the Native Tongues collective. Their sound was a cocktail of head-nodding beats, introspective lyrics, and melodies that stuck to your ribs.

Can I Kick It? is an invitation. It’s Tribe looking you dead in the eye and saying, “Come with us. Let’s vibe.” And that vibe was universal. The song samples Lou Reed’s Walk on the Wild Side, a track that’s already iconic in its own right, and Tribe flips it into a groove so smooth it could make a Baptist preacher nod his head. They were building bridges — across genres, across cultures, across whatever nonsense was supposed to keep us apart.

It wasn’t just about the beats and the rhymes either. It was the ethos. Tribe had a way of making you feel like you were part of something bigger. They weren’t just performers; they were your older siblings, your wise cousins, the voices in your head that reminded you to stay grounded. In a world that was starting to worship materialism and bravado, they offered a different gospel: one of authenticity, joy, and love for the craft.

Boy this track really has a lot of flavor
When it comes to rhythms, Quest is your savior
Follow us for the funky behavior
Make a note on the rhythm we gave ya
Feel free, drop your pants, check your hair
Do you like the garments that we wear?
I instruct you to be the obeyer
A rhythm recipe that you'll savor
Doesn't matter if you're minor or major
Yes, the Tribe of the game we're the player
As you inhale like a breath of fresh air

-Phife Dawg, Can I Kick It?

Their contemporaries were no slouches, either. De La Soul’s 3 Feet High and Rising was an experimental masterpiece, and The Jungle Brothers were blending hip hop with house music in ways that felt like the future. Then you had Gang Starr doing their jazzy thing, Eric B. and Rakim redefining what it meant to flow, and Ice Cube dropping the kind of solo work that made your speakers smoke. Tribe fit into this pantheon not by competing but by carving out their own lane.

Think about it: N.W.A. was the soundtrack of the revolution, Public Enemy was the megaphone, and Tribe was the meditation afterward. They reminded you to breathe. To laugh. To not take everything so damn seriously all the time.

But don’t mistake their light touch for a lack of substance. Songs like Bonita Applebum and I Left My Wallet in El Segundo are fun, yes, but they’re also deeply poetic. Tribe could talk about love, loss, and life with a finesse that few others could match. And when they got serious, as they did on later albums like The Low End Theory and Midnight Marauders, they didn’t beat you over the head with it. They made you think. They made you feel.

Their influence is undeniable. Without Tribe, would we have acts like The Roots? Kendrick Lamar? Tribe proved that hip hop could be intellectual without being preachy, soulful without being corny, and fun without being disposable. They were the bridge between the old school and the new, between the boom bap and the backpack, between the art form and the culture it came from.

Listening to Can I Kick It? now, decades later, it’s impossible not to smile. It feels like a time capsule and a time machine all at once. You can play it for your parents, your kids, or that friend who still insists on calling rap “a phase.” It’s timeless.

So, can you kick it?

Yes, you can.

And we all should. Because if Tribe taught us anything, it’s that music isn’t just something you listen to — it’s something you live. It’s a rhythm, a path, a journey. And Tribe was our guide, showing us the way, one beat at a time.