Nas's Illmatic Page 2

  It’s not just the live tigers, the multiple-set shoot, and the Jesus metaphor that send the video so far over the top. It’s the useless, self-important credits at the beginning, the Armageddon-like explosions on the streets of New York, and, most simultaneously hilarious and awesome, Nas and Puffy, hovering over it all on a grocery store overhang. Over the course of five minutes, the viewer must inevitably wonder how they got up there: was it a fire escape? Or were they lowered onto the awning with a crane?

  The song itself, though laced with some classically Nas couplets, was similarly packed with braggadocio, down to the bombastic “Carmina Burana” sample that gets smacked around by doom-saying bass and stunted drums. It was, like the Champagne attack that followed it, indicative of the culture out of which it grew, where hip hop was reaching unforeseen heights and most success was being viewed through a rosy fisheye lens (again thanks to Hype). If you had said “bling” on The Today Show, no one would have known what you were talking about. Jay-Z wouldn’t go “Big Pimpin’” for another year. “Me and Diddy, we started the bling thing,” Nas told an interviewer in 2006. “I called myself the Bling King. My whole thing was to put on the bigger chain, to ice out the stuff.”

  Out of context, Nas’s work on “Hate Me Now” seems wildly incongruent with his earlier output. The only conclusion most fans could arrive at was that the emcee had finally and completely Sold Out But within hip hop, Nas was moving with the times, reflecting reality—his reality—just as completely as he had always been. Though I Am …, like every Nas album, boasted some of the emcee’s best work—first single “Nas Is Like,” produced by DJ Premier, is still one of his finest moments—the one-two punch of that disc and the quick follow-up Nastradamus left many of his hardcore fans behind. For those narrowly focused, wildly loyal traditionalists, his new persona signaled the complete transformation of the last great torchbearer of the golden age of hip hop. Nas was more Judas than Jesus.

  Without knowing it, the plan had already been set in motion. In fact, in many ways, Illmatic, released five years before Nas was crucified, is the last gasp throwback, the end of the original hip hop era. Once Run DMC went global and hip hop began to get noticed, the traditional style of gritty drums, hard-hitting samples, and street-level rhyming found itself birthing styles that splintered off in new directions. Some were close siblings, like Public Enemy’s brand of confrontational, sample-heavy conscious rap and, further down the line, the smoothed-out jazz rap of the Native Tongues and Digable Planets. Other s were distant cousins like Teddy Riley’s New Jack Swing movement, or disowned children like pop act MC Hammer. But all struggled for the spotlight in the evolutionary race to the top of the charts.

  Straight elemental hip hop was still a powerful center of respect in the early 90s; groups like Showbiz and AG, Gang Starr, and Pete Rock and CL Smooth had hit singles and received national notice. But with a few exceptions (the Wu Tang solo records, Mobb Deep’s debut) this would all change months after Illmatic’s release thanks to one record.

  The Notonous B.I.G.’s Ready to Die was a new kind of crossbreed. Executive produced by Sean “Puffy” Combs (as he was then known), the album mixed the local reportage of Illmatic with pop hooks, party jams, and an arsenal the size of a small militia. Unlike NWA’s records, Biggie managed to be authentic and powerful without being confrontational. He was dangerous without being troubling, authentic without being unpolished.

  He was also, as Jay-Z would do with his later records, posturing, positioning himself as a larger–than-life figure that gave him the “rock star” mystique that would allow hip hop artists to cross over into mainstream culture. The real-life battle which turned tragic would only reinforce this image. Ready to Die, the infamous battle between Bad Boy and Death Row Records, and the subsequent deaths of Tupac and Biggie, would have effects on the hip hop genre and industry that are still felt today.

  Ready to Die had obviously been influenced to some degree by Illmatic,2 but Biggie’s album had such a huge impact that Nas could not be unaffected in turn. When he went to record It Was Written…, his follow-up to Illmatic, an album with limited singing and no female presence, he knew to court radio with Lauryn Hill singing the hook on “If I Ruled the World (Imagine That).” He even flipped the Eurythmics’ “Sweet Dreams (Are Made of These)” for one of his most awkward and yet successful singles, “Street Dreams.” It had only been two years, but there was a lifetime between his debut and It Was Written… It appeared then, and is only more clear now, that the time for a record like Illmatic had come and gone.

  In fact, tightly constructed albums that focus on lyricism and simple and powerful beats and rhymes are almost always compared to Illmatic. Artists reference the record when explaining why they want their albums to be short, their guest appearance list even shorter. They say they want to project a unified sound, to present a realistic portrait of their existence. They say they don’t want filler, don’t want an album with the dance song, the love song, the compartmentalized song. When they say these things, they are speaking of Illmatic, but they are also speaking against the status quo. It is code for change in hip hop, for a revolution in thinking about success. Artists say these things often, but they rarely achieve success, commercially or critically. Certainly none of the albums that have been made in the Illmatic mold have been able to measure up to the original artistically, and even the gold standard itself didn’t actually go gold for two years-it took nearly ten to go platinum.

  Yet people continue to try because they understand that the album signifies an ending. Hip hop has evolved, and whether it is nostalgia or true knowledge of the right path, artists and fans alike are constantly questioning that evolution. Nas’s debut was the moment when it all seemed possible, when the Village Voice, in a review titled “Myth Making,” would cross their fingers and hope for a reemergence of New York, the New York where hip hop began and once thrived. Nas’s album was Grandmaster Flash’s “The Message,” where “thinking of cash flow, buddah and shelter/whenever frustrated, I’m a hijacked delta” sits in for “don’t push me cause I’m close to the edge/I’m trying not to lose my head.” His rapping style was born of Rakim, where “I got a craving like I fiend for nicotine/but I don’t need a cigarette/know what I mean?” becomes “the fiend of hip hop has got me stuck like a crack pipe.” He knew what came before him, and a reverence for hip hop history is something the emcee has maintained throughout his career.

  But this characterization of Illmatic ignores the album’s many innovations. If, looking back, the album seems like a dead end, it only takes a simple adjustment of the light for the album to seem like the polar opposite: a bright new beginning. “Nas was so young to be that lyrical. But he comes from an era of greatness,” Illmatic co-producer DJ Premier points out. “I mean, Rakim and Kane and G Rap and Melle Mel, he got to witness all of that come around.” At twenty years old, the rapper that released Illmatic was only a few years older than the genre itself. Listening to hip hop from the 80s is thrilling and liberating; there’s a sense of discovery in De La Soul, in Mantronix, in Stetasonic. In Illmatic, hip hop may be a savior, but it is also comfortable and effortless. It is all around you.

  This acceptance of hip hop as a given is perhaps the most convincing reason why the album sounds so fresh today. Even classic old school hip hop records like Eric B and Rakim’s Follow the Leader, which contain some of the greatest hip hop songs ever, can sound dated due to antiquated DJ tracks and awkwardly structured album cuts. Though the beats on Nas’s debut are perhaps most notable for being one of the first sets culled from an all-star New York lineup rather than a specific DJ or producer, the jazzy loops and gritty samples that populate the album are perfectly matched with their protagonist. Hip hop’s beats have evolved since then—the brittle abstraction of the Neptunes, the stutter-step backbone of Kanye’s sped-up soul, and the elementary Scott Storch keyboard licks come to mind first—but it’s not difficult to see any of these beats populating a modern-day LP.

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p; But Nas’s lyrics are where the true revolution takes place. Often considered a direct descendant of Rakim, Nas was in reality the first modern rapper. Rakim had already altered the dominant perception of what constitutes a recorded MC, but his style was essentially a response to the norm during the first generation of artists rather than a shift away from it. With a laid-back voice that was initially greeted with skepticism, Rakim established himself as an effortless lyricist; he didn’t have to try. All these other cats out here, they need to hammer home their punchlines, stomp on their choruses, but me, I’m gonna sit back and wait for them to come to me.3 He was, therefore, the first emcee’s emcee, the guy you had to pay attention to and know what you were looking at. It’s no surprise then that Rakim is still consistently regarded as the greatest emcee in history, and why Nas, like most rappers who value lyricism over style, is so often compared to him.

  Nas filled the hole that Rakim had created by rendering the traditional style of rapping irrelevant. Most importantly, Nas started a revolution in multi-syllabic rhyming that continues to stand as the major signifier of quality rapping. Rather than punch home his couplets and leave it at that, Nas placed multiple rhyme schemes within each line, stretching out his words’ versatility until it could be difficult to see where each bar ended and the next began. Lines like “peoples are petrol, dramatic automatic fo’-fo’ I let blow and back down po-po then I’m vexed so” are filled with slang, metaphors, and personal examination. Though artists had used this effectively before, most notably rappers like Rakim and Big Daddy Kane, Nas uses it so consistently throughout Illmatic that the standard was definitively established, and the next few years of pure hip hop saw every emcee of any ambition to greatness adopt the method.

  The establishment of poetic standards within hip hop was one of the major reasons Illmatic is a hinge upon which hip hop history swings. “I feel like Nas is just like how Rakim was,” emcee/producer Q-Tip (who produced “One Love”) says, reflecting on the importance of Illmatic. “You had rap before Rakim, like, you could do Rakim A.D., you know what I’m saying? There was rap before Rakim and rap after Rakim. So he’s like, when it comes to lyricism and when it comes to influence, if you’re drawing that analogy, he’s like Elvis, you know what I’m saying? And in terms of the innovation of what he did, Nas is like Dylan. And it’s like, after that, Nas just took it and just defined it like it’s still happening. Everybody’s influenced by him. He said [on 2001’s “Ether”] ‘name a rapper that I ain’t influenced.’ He influenced everybody. From me to Jay-Z to Busta Rhymes to Eminem to 50, he influenced everybody with that album.”

  But apart from these technical issues of delivery and lyrical construction, Nas brought something entirely different to the table. It was impossible to separate Nas the rapper from Nas the person. On Illmatic, Nas often reverts to battle rhyming; in fact, the very first lyrics of the album are “rappers I monkey flip ‘em with the funky rhythm I be kicking.” Yet each moment seems connected to the overall presentation of a young man growing up in the projects. The album is cinematic in the most natural ways, from vivid details to arcing verse and storylines. It’s clear then why Nas’s performance seems as different from that of Rakim or Run DMC as Marlon Brando’s in The Godfather seems from Jimmy Cagney’s in White Heat. Just as film actors in the 1930’s didn’t yet know how to adjust their stage presence to the screen, hip hop emcees were still trying to translate the energy of their live performances onto wax. Nas was showing everyone the way.

  This cinematic bent was represented not only in Nas’s tone, but in his persona. Executive producer MC Serch explained the difference between Nas and arguably his two biggest influences, Big Daddy Kane and Rakim: “Kane and Rakim always rhymed in the first person. Both of those emcees were emcees that rhymed their reality. Nas was able to take you out of his reality and put you in the reality of other elements. He is able to transcend himself and become a vessel of thought, as opposed to his own reality.” This distinction goes a long way towards explaining Nas’s ability to extend his career both artistically and commercially past the sell-by date of most rap stars. Without this unique skill, no matter how talented you are lyrically, how long can you succeed simply talking about yourself?

  As important as how Nas rapped was what Nas was rapping about. Or rather, how Nas framed what he was rapping about. At the height of his fame and glory, Chuck D famously called hip hop “the Black CNN.” Though it might more accurately be called “the Black E!” these days, Nas was one of the first emcees to depict the dark side of the black American experience without resorting to didacticism. He created a work of art and a snapshot of history which did not empower righteousness or further street legend. Life was hard, “simple and plain.” There is little moral condemnation in Illmatic, but even less glorification. Through all of its complexities, the album is built out of the basic building blocks of life in the projects.

  Because of this realism, Nas was no longer a rapper on Illmatic, He was playing a role, even if it was himself. By constructing this persona, Nas not only laid out his own career for the next decade-plus, but the careers of dozens of other rappers that were able to use their considerable skills to develop similar personas—perhaps most notably the laid-back gangsta persona of Jay-Z. (It’s no wonder that Nas has constructed an aura of mystique around him that has made access to him difficult and knowledge about his day-to-day life so hard to come by; he has a reputation to uphold. Like Bob Dylan, he wants to let the work speak for itself.) The combination of this matter-of-fact delivery and quiet confidence has permeated every level of hip hop. His brazen ambition has become a road map for every rapper that hopes to reach an artistic peak. It seems right that Nas would make Illmatic at the age when maturity begins to turn boys into men. This was, in many regards, the first album of the rest of hip hop’s life. “Illmatic’s effect on hip hop was the same as how everybody switched from gold to platinum,” rapper AZ says of the record’s impact on New York streets in the mid-90s. “It was historic.”

  So how can an album be both an end and a beginning? Though it might be difficult for a newcomer to understand the powerful respect for tradition behind Illmatic considering the until-then-unheard-of title, the most basic of listens can take away the essential touchstones of hip hop from the album. Nas speaks of finding work, producing art, building and keeping friendships. He also speaks of smoking weed, shooting guns, and having sex. The beats, though remarkably consistent and unforgiving for their time, are nevertheless technically conventional loops, made by instantly recognizable names who have, particularly in the case of DJ Premier, instantly recognizable sounds.

  Yet beneath this fundamental listen is life itself. Here is a young black man growing up in the inner-city, struggling between the naiveté of his age and the unflinching reality of his experience; fighting for his life amidst death and destruction; representing strength in the face of overwhelming structural power; dreaming of wealth in daily poverty; believing in an ultimate answer when only emptiness greets him. These are concepts that are often expressed with common signifiers, signifiers that frequently seem to contradict one another . But it is these concepts which fan out over forty minutes in such a way that Nas’s life (whether it be Nas the rapper or Nas the character) can be seen in its full spectrum.

  By assuming, then, that Illmatic can be more than just ten songs that represent the culmination of hip hop’s adolescence, the listener has opened up to the possibility that a work of art, like a person, need not be just one thing. Nas’s debut challenges that notion as well as anything; fittingly, it achieves this feat as simply as possible, by offering nothing more than an honest account of a New York life that began on a late summer day in Brooklyn.

  Chapter Two

  Youth/Experience

  “My soul’s been rapping since the first man walked in Africa,” Nas told Rolling Stone in May of ’94, right after Illmatic dropped. “At night, my spirit still goes hunting down there.” That may well turn out to be true, but the body
he inhabited at the time was much younger. Born in Crown Heights, Brooklyn to Charles Jones III (aka Olu Dara) and Ann Jones, Nasir bin Olu Dara Jones arrived on September 14, 1973. An Arabic name, Nasir means “helper” (sometimes “supporter” or “protector”). Nas would not live in Brooklyn long; before he was old enough to attend school, the family had moved to the Queensbridge housing projects in Long Island City, the westernmost section of the borough of Queens.

  The development, named after the Queensboro Bridge above which it is located, is the largest such project in the United States, built in 1939 by the government which made it a point to prevent the housing from becoming attractive to people who would other wise pump funds into the private housing market. Consequently, amenities were limited and certain cost-saving touches were woven into the operational fabric, including elevators which only stopped at odd numbered floors.

  The buildings themselves are similar to the failed projects that jut out of inner cities throughout America, constant reminders of an other wise forgotten branch of political vision that erroneously believed flexibility and individuality could be sacrificed at the altar of societal convenience and efficiency. A band of red runs all around many of the buildings about four feet off the ground, with other s colored a fading brown, unifying the 96 buildings that make up the project, as if one needed an indicator that these crumbling monoliths were something different than their surrounding buildings.

  At ground level, standing along the perimeter, the buildings look older, smaller, and yet more welcoming than their subsequent counterparts, the giant multi-floored boxes that litter the skyline. In comparison to those towering relics, Queensbridge’s buildings are a mere six stories: they could be any other apartment complex in the heart of a city. Just a block south of the buildings stands the bridge the projects are named after. Unlike many notable hip hop neighborhoods in New York, e.g. Jay-Z’s famed Marcy projects in Brooklyn, which essentially exist in an entirely different world than Manhattan, midtown is directly across the water, the Empire State Building hovering in surprisingly close proximity.