There’s a certain kind of magic in a laid-back beat—the kind that loops slow and steady like a daydream, crackling just a bit at the edges like it was pressed on dusty vinyl and left out in the sun. I grew up on the sounds of A Tribe Called Quest, Gang Starr, and Wu-Tang Clan—not just their words, but the way their music felt. The mellow jazz samples, the low hum of bass, the rhythms that never demanded your attention but welcomed you into their world like a well-worn hoodie. It was music you could breathe in.
That kind of sound taught me how to write—not to push, not to prove, but to vibe. And somewhere along the way, it taught me how to play Magic: The Gathering, too.
I’ve never been much for hyper-efficiency or cutthroat competition. When I shuffle up, I’m not looking to dominate the table. I’m looking to settle in. To let the turns unfold like verses, to build something weird and warm and a little bit offbeat. The same way a lo-fi beat floats under a verse, my decks aim to support the flow—not control it. Magic, for me, has always been about the feel. And that feel is rooted in the music that raised me.
This is a plea, to chill out sometimes.
Can I Kick It- A Tribe Called Quest
There’s something unspoken, almost sacred, about those nights around a kitchen table or tucked into the back of a game store—where sleeves are a little worn at the edges, snacks are within arm’s reach, and someone’s already making the table laugh before a single card hits the battlefield. The vibe isn’t about competition. It’s about presence. Just being there. Just playing. Just vibing. That’s the real win.
It reminds me of the feeling I get when I listen to “Can I Kick It?” by A Tribe Called Quest. That slow, looping bassline—borrowed from Lou Reed’s “Walk on the Wild Side”—gently walks you into the track like a friend welcoming you inside. It never rushes you. It doesn’t demand anything of you. It just offers the question: Can I kick it? And you can almost hear your playgroup answering back: Yes, you can.
That’s what Rule Zero feels like to me. Not a negotiation, not a pre-game lecture. Just an invitation. “What are we playing tonight?” “How silly is your deck?” “How broken is this combo, really?” It’s a casual rhythm we’ve developed over time. One person brings a janky tribal deck, another’s testing something new, and someone’s playing a mono-green pile because, quote, “it only wins if I get 12 lands and a squirrel out.” It’s never about optimizing; it’s about syncing up. Setting the tone. Building something together that feels good to exist within. Just like a good beat, it has to breathe.
Then there are moments mid-game that remind me of Wu-Tang Clan’s “C.R.E.A.M.”—a track that hits like a sudden boardwipe. It’s calm, confident, and steady, but it carries weight. You feel it in your chest. Someone at the table casts Cyclonic Rift at the perfect moment—not to flex, not to end the game—but because it’s the right call. And instead of groaning, everyone leans back and lets it ride. Someone lets out a “Dang…” and then, almost in unison, “Respect.” That’s a C.R.E.A.M. moment. Not because anyone’s chasing paper, but because the table’s harmony just shifted—and somehow, that’s the fun of it.
But the soul of it all? That’s “Electric Relaxation.” Smooth, warm, and endlessly replayable. The same way that song lets you melt into it, there are games that just flow—where plays feel conversational, where nobody’s counting turns or worrying about life totals too closely. You’re just in it together. A creature hits the board that no one expected—like someone slipping a clever rhyme into a verse—and everyone nods, not because it’s busted, but because it’s cool. A weird synergy triggers and suddenly the table erupts into laughter. These moments don’t happen in high-stakes tournaments. They happen in the late-night spell-slinging sessions, long after the sun’s gone down, when the music’s low, the drinks are cold, and the decks come out because there’s nothing else we’d rather be doing.
Playing Magic this way taught me that it’s not always about winning—it’s about connection. A chill game is like a freestyle session among friends. Someone sets the tone, someone picks up the rhythm, and someone else builds off of it. There are surprises, stumbles, and spotlights, but it’s never a competition. It’s collaboration. It’s love.
And yeah, I’ve played in high-pressure settings before. I’ve tuned decks and practiced lines and tried to outthink opponents. But nothing compares to those slow, soulful games with friends who care more about stories than stats. Who build decks because the idea of the deck is funny or beautiful or nostalgic, not because it’s top-tier. That’s how the best tracks from the 90s hit me—rough around the edges, imperfect, but honest. Full of character. Full of joy.
That joy—that relaxed, rhythmic, radiant joy—is what keeps me coming back. To the game. To the table. To the people who get it.
Of course, not every game is played around the kitchen table. Sometimes you find yourself sleeving up for a tournament. The energy is different there—narrower, tighter, humming with nerves and clipped conversations. Everyone’s got something to prove. And I’ll be honest: it took me a while to figure out how to carry that same easy rhythm into these sharper spaces. How to hold onto the joy without getting caught in the static of performance.
But that’s where the mindset really becomes a practice. It’s easy to be chill when everything around you is relaxed. The challenge is keeping the beat when the tempo picks up. That’s when you start thinking about artists like Nas—especially tracks like The World is Yours. That song’s got bounce and pressure and confidence, but there’s space in it too. It holds stillness inside its motion. It reminds me that being competitive doesn’t mean being cold. It means knowing your lane, staying grounded, and playing your own game. Whether I win or lose, I try to leave the table the same way I came to it: respectful, curious, and grateful to have played.
There’s something poetic about keeping your heart soft in places that ask you to harden. That’s where I think of Troy by Pete Rock & CL Smooth. A track that’s full of memory and loss and love, but the beat rolls forward, smooth as silk. That’s the mindset I aim for in tough matches—grace in the face of variance. I’ve been combo-locked out of a game and still told my opponent, “Hey, that was clean.” I’ve stumbled on mana and still found a moment of beauty in the way someone else’s deck unfolded. It’s not always easy. But it’s honest. And it helps me walk away proud, even without a prize.
Because here’s the truth: even in the most competitive spaces, there’s still music playing under everything. There’s still a table, still stories being written, still human beings sitting across from one another hoping—if only quietly—that the game will mean something more than a win.
It’s in these moments I remember a song like They Reminisce Over You, that sweet, steady beat that feels like it was made for reflection. That’s what I carry with me. That reflection. That rhythm. That memory of late-night drafts and long summer games, of laughter so loud it scared the dog, of the moment when someone cast a spell that made the whole table go “wait—what?” in unison.
So I try to be that player. The one who brings the warmth in. The one who doesn’t tilt, who celebrates a clever play, who offers a smile and says “good luck” like they mean it. The one who makes the tournament feel, even just a little bit, like the basement sessions we all started in. Where the beat was good, the mood was mellow, and the love was real.
Because the vibe isn’t something you find—it’s something you bring. And when you bring it often enough, people start to remember. They start to play differently. They start to smile more. And suddenly, even under bright lights and high stakes, the rhythm slows down again.
And we’re just there. Together. Playing.
4th Chamber-GZA, RZA, Ghostface Killah, Killah Priest
And then there’s 4th Chamber.
It hits different. There’s a ritual to it—the haunting guitar loop cycling over and over, like it’s daring you to forget that something deeper is moving underneath. That track feels like a slow, deliberate spell. It doesn’t shout for attention, but it demands it. Every verse is sharp, focused, intentional. No wasted words. No filler. Just raw energy and control. GZA, RZA, Ghostface, Killah Priest—each one carving out their place over that relentless beat like players laying down land after land, planning turns ahead, navigating tension in real time.
When I play Magic, especially in longer, layered games, I feel that same pull. That looping pattern. Turn after turn, decision after decision. It builds—quietly, then powerfully. The table’s quiet for a while, just like that opening minute of the song. People are thinking. Holding back. Waiting for the right moment. Then someone breaks the silence with a play, like RZA’s verse kicking in—sudden, striking, full of intention. Maybe it’s a combo piece. Maybe it’s a surprise counter. Maybe it’s a bluff that works. But it grabs the tempo like that gravelly bassline that rises just enough to remind you it’s in control.
There’s a rhythm to this kind of game. A momentum that’s less about speed and more about presence. You’re not just watching your cards—you’re feeling the energy of the table, the way everyone’s decisions echo off each other like verses in a cipher. Each player bringing their voice to the beat, waiting for their verse, not to win the song—but to belong to it.
4th Chamber doesn’t ask to be liked. It dares you to keep up. But it also teaches you something about space, about listening, about what’s not said. That’s how I want to play. With the kind of focus that isn’t aggressive, but attentive. The kind of deck that doesn’t need to be flashy to be strong. The kind of presence that holds the table in tension, not because I’m dominating—but because I’m dialed in. Because I respect the rhythm.
A game like that can feel almost spiritual. Everyone locked into the same beat. No one rushing. No one forcing the play. Just movement, and patience, and the quiet understanding that this—this—is why we love it. Not just for the outcomes, but for the process. For the build. For the way it feels to be there.
4th Chamber reminds me that there’s beauty in the long game. In holding your line. In choosing your moment. In letting the loop do its work until it’s time to rise.
That’s what it all comes back to, really.
Whether I’m in a quiet room with old friends and sleeves that stick from overuse, or at a noisy event hall with the clatter of dice and the smell of fresh cards in the air, I’m still chasing that same feeling. That steady beat. That grounding rhythm. The one I learned from Tribe and Wu-Tang and Nas—not just in the songs, but in the spaces between the songs. In the flow. In the patience. In the play.
Magic, at its best, isn’t about dominance. It’s about dialogue. About sitting across from someone and saying, “Can I kick it?”—and meaning it. About bringing a deck that tells a story, one that unfolds turn by turn like verses on a track. About understanding that every game is a new composition, and every table is a studio.
And just like my favorite records, the best games don’t fade because of how they ended. They stay with me because of how they felt. Because of what they sounded like, emotionally, in that moment. Because of what they reminded me about being human—imperfect, creative, collaborative, surprising.
So that’s how I play. That’s how I write. That’s how I listen.
Laid back. Low pressure. Vibing only.
Because the world gets loud. But here—between beats, between turns—I can find the quiet. And sometimes, if I’m lucky, I get to share that quiet with someone else.
And that’s everything.
The Ravnican Reading Nook 
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