27 Years Later: I can never truly understand Nas’ Illmatic

My friend and I walked into the venue excited to attend Nas’ Illmatic Anniversary Tour back in 2014. We were 20, restless, and avowed Illmatic fans who listened to the New York MC back in high school with zeal in our hearts. We observed the crowd, talked about how we were one of the younger audience members (that’s a lie, we talked about how old everyone was), and told ourselves we were true budding hip-hop connoisseurs. Moreover, we thought we truly understood what Nas was talking about, even if our middle-class Asian-Canadian backgrounds couldn’t get any further from his life as a black teenager living in New York City projects.

To experience is to understand, but to experience someone’s art provides a look into that person’s world and perspective. As Fran Lebowitz says of books: “A book is not supposed to be a mirror. It’s supposed to be a door.” The same thing can be said of music, especially in hip-hop.

Nasir bin Olu Dara Jones, who was around 20 when he started recording his seminal debut, managed to articulate his complicated life story over Pete Rock and DJ Premier’s artful boom baps. Back then, gang bangin’ and living in poverty in Queensbridge seemed to be the life set out for him and his peers. He dreamed of making it big but had to overcome the obstacles of living in the systems that dominate our lives. He spits on “The World is Yours”: “Dwellin’ in the rotten apple you get tackled / Or caught by the devil’s lasso, shit is a hassle.”

Every song felt familiar but personal when I first listened to Illmatic back in high school. I started envisioning what it was like to live in the margins of New York City — the struggle, the hustle, and the ascension into making it big from the streets.

As a Canadian immigrant who was fortunate enough to have parents pay for his university education, I didn’t have to resort to grinding on the streets or watch my friends suffer from the endless violence from the police. Nas might have been bequeathed with a budding hip-hop scene in Queensbridge, but he still had to make his way through the ghetto, where “Each block is like a maze / Full of black rats trapped” (“N.Y. State of Mind”).

Nas’ poetry can feel journalistic, only with the added despair and braggadocio: “I saw friends of ours — crackheads who were hustling for us then — being choked to death right in front of us by the police bringing them in their own van.” says the emcee In an interview with Vibe magazine for Illmatic’s 10th anniversary.

Lamentably, the stories of Illmatic are still being played out and continues to be told by rappers of today. Kendrick Lamar’s Good Kid, M.a.a.d. City is another brilliant example of a debut masterpiece that portrays life in marginalized communities through the lens of a determined individual. As we continue to consume more art — whether, through film, tv, or music — we gain access to others’ identities. These identities may not align with our worldview or beliefs, but having an invitation into theirs’ allows us to exercise our empathy muscle.

As someone who grew up with privilege, I will still never truly understand Nas’s lived experience, but I can at least learn from his music and his art.

Nowadays, the line “Life’s a bitch, and then you die, that’s why we get high / ’Cause you never know when you’re gonna go” feels anthemic in a time of uncertainty and dread. Nas never meant to have those lines become universal, but that’s the beauty of engaging with music. We can borrow certain lines and phrases and experience them in our own ways. Even if those experiences couldn’t be farther apart, we can appreciate what’s been shared with us.