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NAS & DJ PREMIER - LIGHT-YEARS (Official Discussion)

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The Predator:

--- Quote ---How Nas and DJ Premier Got the Last Say

Mass Appeal spent 2025 reminding the world why New York rap still matters. Ending the series with Light‑Years is their way of saying: the people who built the era get to tell you what it meant.



It is late autumn in New York, and there is a feeling in the air that doesn’t quite match the season. This is not the chill that sweeps through the avenues or the rush of tourists to Rockefeller Center. It’s the hum of elders stepping back into the studio with a steady stream of announcements and listening sessions rippling through social media feeds. You can walk past a comic‑book convention and glimpse Nas standing alongside Marvel artists, smiling under a logo that looks as if it were pulled from a Wu‑Tang album cover. You might scroll past a video of Slick Rick thanking Nas for giving him a stage at the Tribeca Festival, or catch a clip of Havoc of Mobb Deep explaining why he finally agreed to unearth Prodigy’s unreleased vocals. It feels like living in a city that is both returning to the 1990s and creating something that has never existed before.

From June through December 2025, Mass Appeal’s Legend Has It… series slowly unfolded, one record at a time. It began with Slick Rick’s Victory, his first album in 26 years. Then came Raekwon’s The Emperor’s New Clothes, Ghostface Killah’s Supreme Clientele II, Mobb Deep’s Infinite, Big L’s Harlem’s Finest: Return of the King, and De La Soul’s Cabin in the Sky. Each project carried its own weight: Big L’s record stitched together a 1990s freestyle with new contributions from Nas and Method Man; Infinite transformed Prodigy’s unreleased verses into songs that sound as if he and Havoc never left the studio; Cabin in the Sky turned grief for the late Trugoy into a meditation on the passing of time. The label said the mission as “preserving the past, celebrating the present, and pushing hip-hop into the future.” Watching these records arrive month after month created the sense of a shared universe—one that honors the Bronx and Harlem as much as it caters to a global audience.

That universe is about to close with an album that has existed as a rumor for nearly two decades. Nas and DJ Premier, the rapper and producer whose work on 1994’s Illmatic helped define the sound of New York rap, will release Light-Years this Friday. We do not yet know what the album will sound like, and for now, the tracklist is less important than what the project represents. In a rare interview, Nas talked about the series as a reminder of hip-hop’s pureness, saying that the 2025 run has felt “like 1995 all over again” on Rolling Stone with Andre Gee, while insisting that the music is forward-looking. The concept of Light-Years plays on that idea. A light-year is not a measure of time but of distance—specifically, how far light travels in a year. To observe a star many light-years away is to look deep into the past because its light takes so long to reach us. The title suggests that Nas and Premier are sending a signal across decades. The songs may originate in 2006 or 2024, but the moment of reception is happening now, at the end of a year devoted to letting New York’s elder statespeople speak.

From the outside, Legend Has It… might look like a resurgence from our pioneers, but its rollout reveals a deliberate narrative. Victory, the opener, reminded those who aren’t aware that Slick Rick’s storytelling remains unmatched despite its brevity. It included a short film produced by Idris Elba and appearances from Nas, Giggs, and Busta Rhymes, positioning Rick as an elder and a contemporary. Raekwon’s The Emperor’s New Clothes leaned into mafioso imagery and an updated sound with Swizz Beatz and the J.U.S.T.I.C.E. League. Ghostface’s Supreme Clientele II revisited a long-awaited sequel to his 2000 classic, with contributions from Nas, Raekwon, and GZA. Mobb Deep’s Infinite confronted death head-on by mixing Prodigy’s vocals into new productions by Havoc and the Alchemist. Big L’s Harlem’s Finest restored and enhanced archive recordings, including a freestyle with JAY-Z that many had only heard in grainy bootlegs, documentaries, or YouTube videos. De La Soul’s Cabin in the Sky used Trugoy’s voice to explore mortality and joy, flowering like a concert of old and new friends.

Each project invited Nas as a featured guest. He appears on songs with Big L, Raekwon, Ghostface, Mobb Deep, and De La Soul. This is not just cross-promotion; it is a way for him to stitch these stories together, to move between boroughs and scenes, to listen as much as he rhymes. Mass Appeal, the company Nas co-owns, supported these projects with infrastructure that older artists rarely receive. Slick Rick noted that Idris Elba created a space where he could step back into his artistry. Havoc of Mobb Deep said he chose to work with Nas because he trusted him like a brother. The project coincided with Nas pledging a million dollars to the Hip-Hop Museum in the Bronx and awarding $500,000 grants to pioneers like Kool G Rap and Grand Puba through the Paid In Full Foundation. An A&R from Big L’s estate said that in a culture where Black artists over 40 are often discarded, Nas insisted on celebrating them. Those acts of philanthropy and curation gave the series a sense of purpose beyond streaming numbers. When critics questioned whether there was a market for these albums, participants responded: This is about honoring a lineage.


So why does it make sense for Nas and Premier to close the curtain? Nasir Jones and Christopher “DJ Premier” Martin met in the early 1990s, when the producer visited Queensbridge after hearing Nas’s demo. Premier produced three songs on Illmatic—“N.Y. State of Mind,” “Memory Lane,” and “Represent”—each capturing the daily rhythms of New York life. According to Premier, Nas wrote his verses in one take, prompting the producer to find a sample that matched the intensity of his lyrics and scratch KRS-One’s vocals into the hook. The result, “N.Y. State of Mind,” became a defining track of the so-called golden era. Premier later produced “Nas Is Like” (1999) and “2nd Childhood” (2001), and he and Nas appeared on the cover of Scratch magazine in 2006, teasing a full collaborative album. The idea lingered. Fans asked about it at shows; Premier promised it would happen; Nas mentioned it on “30” with his 2022 album King’s Disease III. For nearly twenty years, the project was a myth.

In April 2024, the myth became tangible. On the 30th anniversary of Illmatic, Nas and Premier released a single called “Define My Name.” The song revisits the origin of Nas’s name (“Nasir” derives from Arabic and means “helper” or “victorious”) and reflects on what it means to rap at 50. Premier’s boom-bap drums anchor Nas’s verses, and the outro features both artists promising that “the album” is coming. For those who have followed the duo’s partnership, the song is a nod to nostalgia and a promise.

Nas’s recent creative streak helps explain why Light-Years feels different from past speculation. During the pandemic, he and producer Hit-Boy released three King’s Disease albums and three Magic albums, a six-LP run, which is as an “unprecedented 2020s renaissance” for the rapper that’s multiple decades in his arsenal. The run won a Grammy and reintroduced Nas to a generation that may not have grown up with Illmatic. Nas even dedicated a song to encouraging his elder peers to get active with “1-800-Nas-&-Hit.” By the time Light-Years was announced, he had already proven that rappers in their fifties can evolve and experiment rather than resting on laurels. Premier, meanwhile, celebrated hip-hop’s 50th anniversary with an EP and countless DJ sets. The two artists appear energized, not nostalgic.

Importantly, the album is not being sold as a simple return to the 1990s. Nas has said that the series feels like 1995 but is “going forward” and that it carries “that feeling of urgency, that vibration, the celebration of life.” He has also explained that some ideas they recorded during earlier sessions will appear on Light-Years. The album includes recordings that date back to 2006 (allegedly) alongside recent sessions, and Premier has hinted that at least two songs originate from those early meetings. The very act of finishing such a project speaks to the rare ability of Black artists to circle back to unfinished dreams, to be granted the time and resources to deliver on promises delayed by industry politics or personal paths. In a genre that often discards its veterans, receiving the chance to complete an album after twenty years is itself a statement.

Because Light-Years has not yet been released, the column can only imagine its contours. The album title invites reflection on time and distance. A light-year represents the distance light travels in one year—nearly six trillion miles. Observing a distant galaxy means seeing light that left the object long ago; by the time it reaches us, we are looking into its past. Similarly, listening to Light-Years will mean hearing verses and beats that originated years apart. The track you might love most could have been drafted during the mid-2000s or a pandemic session. The album will collapse time, inviting the older and newer Nas fans to perceive 1995, 2006, and 2025 at once. When Nas references a memory, or Premier scratches a vocal, their light will have traveled decades to arrive.

Why does it matter who gets to frame the past, you may ask? Part of the answer lies in the way hip-hop history has often been written by outsiders or shaped by nostalgia that reduces the 1990s to a handful of canonical albums. Nas and Premier, like many of their peers, have watched their work become museum pieces even as they continue to record. In 2006, when Nas provocatively declared that “hip-hop is dead,” he received backlash from younger artists who felt he was dismissing their contributions. Since then, he has shifted from pronouncements to stewardship. By co-founding Mass Appeal Records and curating Legend Has It…, he has used his resources to make space for elders, to ensure that names like Slick Rick, De La Soul, and Big L remain in circulation. He has also channeled significant funds into institutions that will preserve hip-hop’s legacy. In other words, he is not only telling his own story but facilitating others’ stories.

The series also demonstrates that canon-building can come from within the culture rather than from corporate or academic institutions. Nas, Premier, and their peers chose to frame their contributions as heroic narratives by collaborating with Marvel Comics. At New York Comic Con 2025, the team unveiled a limited-edition comic in which Nas, Slick Rick, Big L, Ghostface Killah, Raekwon, Posdnuos, and Havoc become superheroes. Nas explained that artists are like superheroes because they help people get through tough times and “lift people up.” He and Mass Appeal partnered with Marvel not to chase cross-brand marketing but to tell their own stories in a medium long associated with mythology. The comic, like the albums, extends the narrative beyond music and reinforces the idea that these legends have powers worth celebrating.


Within the culture, the value lies not in chart positions but in the act of documentation. An A&R from Big L’s estate said that Nas’s dedication “matters” because it pushes against a culture that discards artists over 40. Havoc discussed making Infinite as a 21-gun salute to his partner. De La Soul used Cabin in the Sky to dance through tears and honor a brother. These acts resist the industry’s demand for constant novelty by insisting that what already exists still has value. They also remind younger artists that there is dignity in aging within rap, that your voice does not need to go silent after a certain age.

Nas and Premier have always reflected a particular New York rhythm. Premier’s beats are built from jazz loops, scratched hooks, and crisp drums; Nas’s writing anchors abstract reflections in concrete details. On “N.Y. State of Mind,” Nas described corners where fiends lean, and Sly and the Family Stone blares out of speakers. Premier recalls that he wanted the beat to match the intensity of Nas’s lines and that the track came together spontaneously. Their collaborations like “Nas Is Like” and “2nd Childhood” similarly capture the city’s mix of nostalgia and realism. Even when Nas raps about distant lands, his cadence feels tethered to stoops and street corners. Premier, a Houston native who made New York his home, understands how to translate those scenes into sound. Light-Years will likely continue this approach. The cover art released in November shows the two men in black leather with rope chains and Rolex watches, their jewelry catching the light. It’s a knowing image: part Dapper Dan styling, part sci-fi aura. They look like men who have traveled across time yet remain rooted in the city that shaped them.


That city has changed. In 2025, New York hip-hop extends from the experimental flows of Fivio Foreign and Ice Spice to the introspective poetics of MIKE and Wiki. The clubs where Nas once performed are now luxury condos or tourist attractions. The sound of New York is no longer defined by one neighborhood or crew but by constant flux. Younger artists borrow from drill, trap, Jersey club, and West African rhythms. They use TikTok to break songs and collaborate with producers worldwide. For them, the golden era is either a childhood soundtrack or a myth. Legend Has It… arrives in this context not to freeze the past but to remind new generations that there are foundations beneath their innovations. When Nas raps alongside Fivio Foreign on “Spicy” or when he invites DJ Premier to scratch on Hit-Boy-produced tracks, he enacts a conversation across generations. Light-Years will likely continue that conversation by integrating contemporary references with the boom-bap vocabulary that shaped them.

Once Light-Years arrives and the Legend Has It series concludes, what happens next? One possibility is that this mode of storytelling becomes a blueprint for other cities. The Bay Area could imagine a similar series with Too $hort, E-40, Souls of Mischief, and The Coup; Los Angeles could center on DJ Quik, Freestyle Fellowship, and others (it’s wishful thinking). Another possibility is that younger New York artists, having watched the elders claim their narratives, will feel empowered to frame their own eras before someone else does. Already, rappers like Joey Bada$$ and A$AP Rocky have referenced their city’s history while forging new sounds. The presence of Light-Years may encourage them to look at the long arc of their careers and think about what they want to say at 40 or 50.

For hip-hop fans (unless you’re one of those who like to pigeonhole Nas into making another Illmatic again), the album offers a chance to consider how we relate to the music that raised us. Nas and Premier are not asking us to live in the past; they are inviting us to see how past and present coexist. When Nas says that 2025 feels like 1995 but is moving forward, he is describing a feeling many of us share when we revisit old albums with new ears. The noise of the New York streets, the smell of vinyl and incense, the crackle of a needle on a record—these sensations are still with us, even as we stream music through apps and attend album premieres via livestream. The legend is not an object locked in a museum but a story we can retell and reshape. Light-Years will not be the final chapter of New York rap, but it will stand as a statement that the people who built the era deserve to speak first when its meaning is debated.

The anticipation around Light‑Years is not just about hearing Nas rap over DJ Premier’s production again. However, that in itself is exciting, but nerve-wracking at the same time, considering the latter’s soundscape outside of producing three songs on De La Soul’s Cabin in the Sky. It’s about witnessing two architects of hip‑hop close a narrative they helped start. The 2025 Legend Has It series has shown what happens when you give elders the stage: you get albums that grapple with grief, rebirth and legacy; you get a philanthropic commitment to preserving culture; you get a universe where comic books, films and music intersect; you get a space where a song recorded in 2006 can finally see daylight next to a verse written last summer. When the album drops in four days, we will hear decades of light converge. Until then, the image of Nas and Premier standing with chains and watches glistening is enough to remind us that the era they built still matters and that they, not outside narrators, will tell you why.
--- End quote ---

Matty:

--- Quote from: .:Hercy Buggz:. on December 11, 2025, 02:17:53 PM ---This is like 15 years too late. Im a Preemo fan but his production is not the same anymore. Hopefully he will prove me wrong tho

--- End quote ---

pretty much. unfortunately the beats on here do indeed suck for the most part. Primo fell off.

Bossplaya369:

--- Quote from: .:Hercy Buggz:. on December 11, 2025, 02:17:53 PM ---This is like 15 years too late. Im a Preemo fan

--- End quote ---

This

astra4322:
This album is like Missionary - sequel to perfect debut. But def too late - still great albums.

The Predator:
For those not feelin the new Prem beats check out the mix in the spot, that be more to your taste.


--- Quote ---Nas & DJ Premier – Light-Years | Review



Light-Years arrives with the weight of two decades of conversations behind it. Nas and DJ Premier never promised this album, and over the years the idea shifted from rumor to myth. You would hear whispers in interviews, a hint in a bar, an anniversary teaser, a half-serious shrug from Premier on a podcast, then silence again. When the record finally lands, it doesn’t behave like a relic or a museum piece. It’s a working-musician album made by two men who refuse to act like their careers ended at a generational high point. That decision shapes the entire project.

What hits first is how stripped-down the record sounds. Premier doesn’t chase bombast or attempt to recreate his flashiest moments. The production leans on drums that knock with a blunt edge, sample flips that leave rough seams visible, and basslines that slide under the verses like foundations instead of decoration. The approach gives the album a basement-studio atmosphere: warm, rugged, unfussy. If the six-album run with Hit-Boy showed Nas thriving in bigger, brighter environments, Light-Years pulls him back into the narrow hallway where his voice fills the room on its own.

The record opens in a low gear. The first tracks feel like an engine turning over slowly, steady but not explosive. The opening track, “My Life Is Real,” kicks off with piano chords that loop steadily, creating a sparse backdrop for Nas to lay out his reality. He raps about truth-telling over drums that snap like concrete cracking under pressure. The sound pulls listeners into a reflective state, where success mixes with lingering scars from the projects. Premier keeps the mix clean, letting the keys breathe between kicks, which gives the verse room to build tension. Nas mentions departed figures like Polo and Big L early on, setting a tone of remembrance that threads through the record.

“GiT Ready” shifts to a funkier groove, with a Wilson Pickett sample flipped into a gritty loop. The bass drives forward, evoking New York streets at dusk—horns blare briefly, then fade to let Nas’s voice dominate. He details criminal pursuits tied to money, his delivery steady and measured, painting scenes of corner hustles and high-end escapes. The structure here relies on verse-chorus simplicity, but the mood darkens with lines about VVS diamonds and crypto deals, highlighting the grind’s evolution.

Then comes “N.Y. State of Mind Pt. 3,” the most anticipated moment for many listeners, and also the most loaded. There’s no way to recreate the chill and impact of the original or the pulse of the second installment. Nas knows that, and instead of chasing ghosts, he treats the track like a status report: the city changed, the streets didn’t, and he’s watching it from a vantage point earned by time, not hype. “N.Y. State of Mind Pt. 3” loops Billy Joel’s piano from the original, but Premier strips it down, adding sparse scratches that evoke wind through alleyways. Nas catalogs the city’s contradictions—Rikers Island, Michelin stars, chopped cheese—over beats that plod deliberately. The track feels contemplative, with Nas’s flow accelerating in spots to mimic urban rush. This third installment captures New York’s moral weight, where progress sits alongside decay.

The album starts measured, with these early cuts establishing a deliberate pace. Then “Madman” ramps up the energy. Premier layers eerie strings over rumbling bass, creating a tense atmosphere that suits Nas’s murderous narratives. The sound evokes a psycho’s whisper, with hi-hats ticking like a countdown. Nas switches cadences mid-verse, building urgency that propels the record forward.

From here, Light-Years gains momentum. “Pause Tapes” stands out with its experimental edge—Premier chops samples from old cassettes, mimicking the record-pause-repeat method Nas describes. The beat loops roughly, with vinyl crackle adding texture, evoking a childhood closet full of Johnny Taylor records. Nas recounts making his first beat, his voice warm yet precise, turning personal history into a rhythmic narrative. The mood turns nostalgic without indulgence, focused on craft as escape.

“Writers” blends funk bass with ambient swells, switching between weightless moments and rugged grooves. Premier’s production highlights graffiti’s role in Hip Hop, with scratches that mimic spray cans. Nas lists taggers like Taki 183 and Lady Pink, his flow dense and rhythmic, treating names as marks against erasure. The structure builds through verses that expand from personal tags to communal homage, creating a mood of defiant preservation.

“Sons (Young Kings)” samples piano delicately, fostering a tender vibe. Nas addresses fatherhood directly, wishing strong bonds and glory for young Black boys. The beat’s softness—gentle keys over subtle drums—matches the vulnerability in lines about weddings and flowers. Mood-wise, it conveys quiet power, with Nas’s delivery softening to emphasize guidance.

“It’s Time” incorporates a Steve Miller sample, twisting it into a funky meditation on time’s passage. Premier’s bass pulses steadily, while Nas explores concepts like quantum computing and market dips. The track’s structure circles back to choruses that reinforce urgency, with a mood that mixes ambition and caution.

“Nasty Esco Nasir” features strings over kicks and snares, where Nas dissects his identities—street, CEO, birth name. The production swells in phases, mirroring his career’s progression. Mood remains assertive, with scratches adding historical layers from Grandmaster Caz to Kool Moe Dee.

“My Story Your Story” brings AZ as the sole feature, echoing his spot on Illmatic. Premier crafts a slow bounce, with bass and keys allowing the duo to trade bars seamlessly. Nas and AZ share street memories and adult weariness, their voices interlocking like old friends. Lines about orgies and costs land with hedonistic bite, but the mood stays balanced between pleasure and restraint. In an era where albums often pile on guests until they resemble compilations, this choice keeps focus tight—just one collaboration amid Nas’s solo dominance.

“Bouquet (To the Ladies)” dedicates itself to women, from grandmas to artists like Sha-Rock and Ice Spice. Premier’s beat loops warmly, with Nas crediting figures like A&R Faith Newman. The structure lists tributes, but grounds them in labor’s impact, evoking a grateful mood.

“Junkie” crosses orchestral elements with boom-bap, portraying Hip Hop addiction. Nas admits dependence, describing morning rituals with music blasting. Premier’s drums pulse like a heartbeat, amplifying the confessional tone. The mood intensifies with lines about rapaholics and substance, turning metaphor into raw admission.

“Shine Together” promotes unity over easy gains, with Nas’s verses escalating in intensity. Premier’s production keeps it phenomenal, bass driving the message home.

“3rd Childhood” closes by questioning age limits in rap, referencing Ozzy Osbourne’s rebellion. Premier’s jazzy boom-bap supports Nas’s defense of continuity—scully hats, sagging jeans, registered Glocks. The mood affirms fidelity to origins, ending on a note of resurrection through legacy.

Overall, Light-Years embraces a back-to-basics approach that draws us in. Premier’s beats avoid spectacle, opting for straightforward boom-bap with a basement rawness—drums carved deep, samples flipped simply. This style pulls more than the gloss from Nas’s six projects with Hit-Boy, favoring grit that lets lyrics breathe. No skits or filler disrupt the flow; it’s pure tracks, clocking in at a lean 48 minutes. The throwback vibe honors Hip Hop’s history without sounding stale—samples nod to soul records, graffiti gets its due, departed peers receive shouts. Nas measures time’s pressure, from childhood signs to mogul moves, his voice mature yet passionate. Production accommodates shifts from arrogance to tenderness, with space between snares for clauses to stack. A few beats, like on “Pause Tapes,” experiment admirably, while others hit solid. The record interrogates what endures in a genre quick to discard. Nas positions the mic as a marker, tagging names before they fade. Premier’s restraint serves the writing, scratches fluent without flash. Light-Years exists aware of its delay, two veterans delivering with intent. Great effort, four stars. Favorites: “Madman,” “Pause Tapes,” “Writers,” “It’s Time,” “My Story Your Story,” “Junkie.”

8/10
--- End quote ---


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GQ interview, Nas name checks 'Writers' as his favourite cut on the album, made that one in the Bahamas...


--- Quote ---Nas and DJ Premier Finally Locked In for a Full Album
The legendary rapper and producer talk about teaming up for Light-Years, a project fans have been clamoring for since the mid-'90s.




Any objective rap fan of a certain age approaches legacy albums like Nas and DJ Premier’s Light-Years with learned skepticism. For 30-odd years, rap was exclusively a young person’s game, defined by brief, powerful peak runs of dominance. The genre is now comfortably middle-aged, as is a large contingent within its fan base. Like old comic-book nerds before them, old rap nerds have become a class of noisy, obnoxious cultists whose buying power the culture has belatedly recognized and now caters to with price-gouged vinyl reprintings and button-up shows at prestige venues and designer-collab merch and every so often, even new music. In a country with little left to look forward to, the nostalgia market is booming.

Mass Appeal’s “Legend Has It” initiative was both aligned with rap’s fan-service era and distinct from it—seven 2025 albums bringing dormant legends out of various states of semi-retirement/convalescence to deliver albums torn from the imaginations and groupchat arguments of fans who had all but given up on their possibility. Many of those fans, accustomed to overpromised and underdelivered pipe dreams, scanned a lineup that included new material from Slick Rick, Ghostface Killah, Raekwon, De La Soul, Big L, Mobb Deep, and Nas with DJ Premier, said “Sounds great,” and began holding our breath in unison.

Mass Appeal was spun off from a graffiti magazine named after a Gang Starr song in the mid-‘90s, then revived in the early 2010s, after it was purchased by Nas and an investor group who’ve used the brand as foundation for a full-blown media company that includes a television and film production wing and a record label. During this period the outer-borough native also “decided” to amass generational wealth, moving beyond the parameters of what is possible within the rap celebrity-brand space by launching Queensbridge Ventures, a full-fledged VC firm with a portfolio that boasts a ridiculously high slugging percentage, including timely investments in Ring, Dropbox, Coinbase, SeatGeek, Lyft, and Casper Mattresses, among other timely calls. Nas is now a restaurateur (he's an investor in Simon Kim's restaurants Cote and Coqodaq) and recently won New York rap’s late-capitalism Super Bowl by helping bring a $5 billion casino expansion to Queens (and beating out a splashy, ambitious bid from an old foe in the process.)

So there was cause to doubt the commitment and sincerity of the “Legend Has It” series—or to fear it was little more than a now-rich guy’s vertical-integration vanity project. Now that the album cycle is complete, your mileage with the resulting albums may vary, but the commitment, the thoughtfulness, the execution can’t. Each effort got a proper rollout, live events, vinyl pressings, and budgets that allowed for star-studded features and production rosters, and each one got a verse from Nas. There was a limited-edition series of comic books starring each artist that was featured in the series; a pop-up merch shop on Howard in Tribeca is open through the holidays. It was clearly a force-for-good passion play that paid proper respect to these legends and presumably netted them a check as well as a few more well-deserved flowers on several decent-to-very good albums.

But Nas saved his best surprise for last: the long-gestating Light-Years. Nas and DJ Premier—the producing half of Gang Starr and a legend who moved from Brooklyn to Houston as a teenager in the ‘80s—have enjoyed a Kurosawa-Mifune-level creative partnership that’s defined several decades of a particular brand of thinking-man’s pop rap. What they’ve had since 1994’s Illmatic is the type of artist relationship that barely exists in rap anymore—the marquee beatmaker routinely reuniting with a rapper to grace them with one surefire smash single per album. For almost as long as Nas and Preemo have been working together, dorks on the rap internet have been speculating and wishcasting a full Nas-and-Premier album, applying the transitive property that if they could only lock in for a sustained long play, the union that brought us shit like “I Gave You Power”, “2nd Childhood” and “Nas Is Like” would obviously produce the greatest album ever made.

Light Years is not quite that, but 31 years after “N.Y. State of Mind,” it’s frankly stunning that Nas and Preemo have delivered an album eligible for this many superlatives. It’s the hungriest album ever made by a rapper with a nine figure net worth. The best rap album ever made by a 52-year-old. The best 18th album (and that’s only counting Nas solo efforts, not including collab albums like The Firm and Distant Relatives) ever made.

Light Years is a backward-looking, multi-faceted homage to the elements and architects of hip-hop and Nas’ own personal and professional history. It literalizes the mission of Legend Has It as a conservation project. Preemo scratches in Guru and Rakim and re-flips Marley Marl (and/or Erick Sermon’s) classic flips of The Steve Miller Band’s song about the relentless passage of time; Nas shouts out the late Ego Trip founder and former Mass Appeal creative director Sacha Jenkins. There’s a new installment of “N.Y. State of Mind” complete with a Billy Joel intro, the only feature is a reunion with Nas’ longtime associate AZ. Nas opens the album by bringing us back to the passenger seat of Preemo’s MPV, when the producer would pick Nas up for the Illmatic sessions, ferrying the 20 year old prodigy to the studio to make history.

This isn’t a novel concept. Legacy rap is frequently a self-congratulatory game of replaying old beats and remembering some guys. But the album resists the trap of the Adidas and Kangol cosplay this subgenre often settles for. It’s one of Nas’ most conceptual efforts since 2006’s double-album creative-writing workshop Street’s Disciple; its 15 tracks look at history from novel angles, breathing new life into old subjects. It leverages nostalgia for bygone eras to advocate for what made and makes, say, graffiti special and why it still matters (“Writers”). Songs like “Welcome to the Underground,” “Pause Tapes” and “Bouquet” have a reverent urgency that is typically drowned out with backpacker tropes and clichés whenever GOAT rappers return to the church of old-school religion.

As important as any concept song or subject matter on the album, Nas consistently switches up flows and cadences, the number-one pitfall of older established rappers on projects like these. I was a fan of his King’s Disease trilogy with Hit Boy, but he sounds reinvigorated by Preemo’s production here, finding specific pockets and time signatures and varying his flow on the level of bar to keep the listener engaged. Somehow, Nas and Preemo are in conversation with the recent Clipse reunion and A Tribe Called Quest’s improbable comeback masterpiece in 2016, long-gestating rap projects that manage to answer the bell and satiate their fans’ impossibly set expectations.

It’s a reminder that throughout his career, Nas has been a Scorsese, not a Tarantino. He’s never been precious about his catalog. He’s a studio rat and a worker who has never stopped working because while it’s been a long time since he’s needed to rap as a job, he’s motivated by love for the game. His longest break over three decades was a six-year sabbatical between his Here, My Dear—2012’s Life Is Good—and 2018’s Nasir, part of Kanye’s insane Wyoming EP project. Since 2020 he’s only been responsible for six albums, a body of work that would constitute an entire independent discography for some, working constantly through this “Old Master” era in a state of prolific productivity even as he has simultaneously successfully transitioned to full-blown mogul and tripled his net worth.

Who knows whether Light Years will stick in a cycle-mad culture that has lost basic object permanence—but it should. It’s work worthy of more than our respect, faint praise, and a few courtesy spins. It's the best album of Nas’ late period by a considerable margin, and it’s all the more incredible because of its context and the precedent it defies. It was a pleasure talking over Zoom to DJ Premier (who was in Prague on a European tour with Alchemist) and Nas (from an undisclosed location) in an attempt to get to the bottom of how they pulled it off.

GQ:Right before we got on this call, it occurred to me that, in a way, you both collaborated with D'Angelo, because “Devil's Pie” was on the Belly soundtrack. I was just wondering if you had any thoughts or reflections in light of his recent passing.

DJ Premier: He and I were longtime friends, because not only were we labelmates, we had mutual friends in Virginia that we knew. So when I heard D'Angelo was joining Gang Starr at EMI, we were already cool. We were happy just to now be labelmates and see each other.

D was always like, "Yo, man, when I get my stuff going, I'm going to make sure you do remixes and this and that.” And it was just small talk. But then when it came to the first album, he wanted me to remix “Lady”, which I did. AZ had just signed to EMI as well. And he had the Do or Die album coming. So they were like, "We want AZ to be on the remix, so once D'Angelo's starting to die down, AZ is popping." And he was brought into the fold because of Nas. So it all worked, made sense.

And then when he started working on Voodoo, he used to call me and be like, "You got to hear what I'm working on. This new album is real different. I'm on some deep, spiritual shit. But it's going to be raw, and uncut, and hardcore. And I want to get a couple of rhyming joints on there. I got Red Man and Method Man. And I need just some hard hip hop from you.”

Just by coincidence, Canibus and I were working on a track, but it didn't work out at the time. I was leaving and he said, "Yo, I'm at Electric Lady [Studios]. What you doing?"I said, "I'm just leaving a Canibus session, but I'm about to head home. There was a beat that I was working on he's not going to use." And he said, "Let me hear it.” I'm like, "Nah, it's on some real raw hip hop shit." He said, "I still want to hear it. Bring it over." And I went over there and played him “Devil's Pie,” and he was like, "I want that. I'm going to turn that into something crazy."

When we were making the song he was like, "Yo, I got to go deal with my trainer in the other room because I'm about to do a video to that drum beat that Questlove was recording. I'm going to look naked in the video." And I'm like, "What?" He said, "Yeah." He said, "So I got to go work out in the other room. Just go ahead and lay everything down." Obviously that video, “How Does it Feel”, became monumental.

And then Lyor Cohen came through and said, "There's this movie called Belly with Nas and DMX, and we want to put “Devil's Pie” in the movie." And D'Angelo was like, "Nah, I don't want to put it in a movie because I'm about to put my album out, and I want it to rock for that." And he was like, "Well, let me show you a snippet of the movie. And then let me show you where we want to put the music in the scene." And so we watched it, and me and D'Angelo looked at each other like, "Dude, that shit needs to go in there." And that's how it got in the movie.

Nas: He was a pure artist. The world took a major loss when we lost D'Angelo. When we heard “Devil’s Pie”—when we was working on the movie, we heard that we were going to get it. Hype Williams was talking about this D'Angelo song produced by Premier. And I thought it wasn't going to happen. I was like, "No way, that's too good to be true." Everybody that was involved with the film was waiting to hear this song, and it blew us away.

Especially coming off of Brown Sugar, I would imagine it would be hard to envision that combo on paper. Like, "Is he going to make a song that would make sense in a movie like Belly?" But it's perfect.

Premier: And like I said, for us to see the scene that they wanted to put it in, mixing all the work together, packing it up to go get their flip on, we was like, "Damn, it just totally fits. Hype obviously, he had a vision.

Your working relationship is probably hard for a lot of younger rap fans to understand, because it doesn't really exist anymore. You don't see these decades-long partnerships between an artist and a producer who aren’t in a group together or teaming up for a one-off album.

Premier would just come on every Nas project with one monster beat that would often become a huge deal. What makes this creative partnership work so well?

Premier: For me, it's always fun because we always hit the nail on every record. It always sounds like us, like what's expected. It's always another good one that lands in the mix of all the other songs he may have on the albums that he puts out.

Nas: When I first heard Gang Starr, I just loved it. And I'm like, "If I get a chance to rap on this production, then I'll be heard. You'll be able to hear the real me." Preem opens up the whole stage for you to just walk out there and grab the mic. So once I got that, I was like, "Okay, got that session with him." From the first session, I knew it was on, no looking back.

And through the years, all the other stuff he was doing, I'm a fan of his, he's not missing a beat. Every record is crazier than the last record. So when Group Home came out, he hooked up his homies with a classic. This dude, he's the guy, he's him. So it's like, you always want to get back in the studio with Premier. So I couldn't wait to really sit down. I knew we had to clear our schedules, which is impossible. But we finally did because it's so important to us to tap in and do what we do, man.

Do you think doing an album cycle with Hit-Boy—locking in with one producer for several projects—helped get you in the headspace to go through with this?

Nas: I think it prepared me for it. But before working with Hit, me and Premier was trying to put this thing on the calendar. And then in that time, when we couldn't get it together, I got with Hit. And at first, me and Hit were planning on just doing a couple of songs. And we just caught a vibe. And we just started going, song after song after song. And once we did it, it was just so right. We just felt like instantly, "We got to do this again." And it just became a thing where this magic happened.

People have been asking for a joint Nas/Premier project as far back as I can remember. Do you remember the first time you talked about it, or realized fans were clamoring for it?

Nas: Well, that is a while back. I think you're right. I think you're right. Because, I think when we did the second album, people wanted more of that formula. They wanted the producers that worked on my first one for a joint project too, and of course Premier's name was coming up. But Premier was on the second album and then the third album. And I think it started even before Nastradamus, which is crazy, I think it's always been that way.

Premier: Nas and I always have had great records on every album that I've ever been on. Out of the Illmatic producers, I was still continuing to work with him on other albums. So it was just about, when is the right time? And I know back when the Scratch Magazine cover was out [in 2006], we really wanted to start then, but it just didn't work out schedule-wise for either one of us. I think the event that finally put it in motion was on his 50th he said, "Yo, bring me a couple of beats for my birthday."

What was the recording process for the album? Were you guys in the studio together?

Premier: Yeah, but different studios. We had started back when [Mass Appeal’s project] Hip Hop 50 was about to come around. But we're just dicking around. He and I maybe did two or three songs. I gave him maybe 10, 12 beats to start with. And as we finally started to get together and really be together on the regular, it was like, "Man, all those going in a vault. We need to start with some new ones."

So everything was made on the spot, which is generally how I do it. But I've never gone to so many different studios. I'm used to just being at one location. I had just moved to a house in Jersey. Never planned on moving to Jersey. And I wasn't set up acoustically and everything. And starting off, I was like, "Yo, Nas, can you come to my house and let me just start there, so I can try to get my ears tuned to my room?" And he came to my house and we started recording there first, in the basement with my engineers. Then we'd go to Jerry Wonder's studio, Wyclef’s cousin. Then we went to Hit Factory. Then we went to Manhattan Studios.

Then halfway through Nas was like, "Yo, man, we should just get away and go to the Bahamas." And I'm like, "I don't want to travel." And then I thought about it. And I remember I texted him and said, "You know what? I'm going to the Bahamas." He goes, "Yes!" We went to the Bahamas and did a big chunk of the album there. And from that point, we stayed locked in all the time. It never stopped. It just kept going.

He had to go back and finish the Nas Tour, and we were still locked in. He had to do the orchestra shows in Vegas. And still. We were locked in from the Bahamas, man. The vibe was just so dope. He’d be in one room writing while I’d be in the other room finishing another beat to play for him. We were just in a groove and it stayed like that to the last record that we chose to put on the album.

So thematically, this album has its eye on the historical record, on the history of rap and why it still matters. How did you settle on that as the focus of the album?

Nas: I think it’s a reflection of the conversations that me and Premier have in the studio, outside the studio. It's always like, "Did you see this Run DMC video? Remember that jacket? Remember that rhyme? Remember that album cover, and the artwork, and the graffiti on it? Do you remember the first time? We’re always looking back and talking about the things we liked coming up, talking about our lives and how we’ve embraced the music throughout our lives, I think it bled into the songs. I think it was like that, because it's who we are naturally. We’re junkies.

Premier: When we did the Tribute to Jam Master Jay at the BET Awards, DMC gave us the hats, the Stetson Hats, and said, "Y'all got to wear these when y'all go on stage." And I wear that hat on so many different occasions. It just puts me in the right frame of mind of what the sound of this should be like. Because we represent the purest form. A lot of people don't represent the purest form. We represent the breakers, the MCs, the DJs, and the writers. So the fact that we repped that and we've never changed from that, we're good.

Nas: That's why we're light years ahead, a trillion miles away, five trillion miles away, because sticking to that was the inception of this whole art form. Coming in as the MC, doing what's not trendy, doing what's new, doing what's fresh in the Bronx, Queens, Brooklyn, Harlem, and Houston, and the world, everywhere where young people are, who are starting trends, and setting stuff off, hip hop was set off. It was the futuristic sound. It was light years away, man. And we're just catching up. And it's forever, man. The sound is going to be raw, man. It's got to stay raw.

“Nasty Esco Nasir” is a fascinating song and concept. Nas, did you just alter your voice organically to do that? Was there any studio trickery you used to pull that off?

Nas: Thanks, man. Nah, it was all me, no effects or anything.

Premier: It fucked me up. I was like, "Damn, you sound like Nasty Nas!" The young kid. I didn't know he was going to do that type of a record. But he explained what it's going to be. And then when I heard it—Esco sounds like cool Esco. And then the Nasir he is at this time in his life, I was blown away when he finally played it for me.

I heard it and I was like, "Damn, I can't believe they used AI!" Because I wasn’t sure it was possible otherwise. I’m glad to hear that was all natural. I had to ask, because I’d guess other people might think the same.

I read in an older interview that you both had some concepts that you've been holding for years for this album. Did that manifest or did you end up throwing everything out and starting from scratch?

Premier: “Pause Tapes.” We talked about that for a long time. But he's been like that. When Illmatic had just dropped, he said, "When we get back together and work on my next album, I want to do a record where I'm like a gun."

Nas: “Pause Tapes” was the one we was really talking about for years and years, man. Yeah. But also, “N.Y. State of Mind Pt. 3.”

Premier: That one I did not want to approach. I didn't even want to do [part] two, and he convinced me. Nas has a way of convincing you to do shit. And he knows I'm very headstrong and just stuck in my ways. So even when we did [part] two on I Am, I was like, "Nah, man, we can't ruin the first one because so many people love the original." He's like, "Nah, you can do it." So when he said three, I'm like, "I don't have any ideas to even go there for a three," but we got it.

What are your favorite songs off the project?

Premier: Definitely “Pause Tapes." “Writers”—I can't wait till all the graffiti writers hear that record. It's going to definitely touch them, how Nas approached it. He took his time with it. That was done in the Bahamas.

I love “Bouquet,” to all the sisters. And I'm a mama's boy, so I love the approach. I love “Sons” because, obviously, “Daughters” was a great record. I love what he did with that. I only have a son. It got me emotional. I don't really get emotional on music, really. But just the way he just expressed it, just the way he described him, and his brother, and his dad, and his mom, even, in the lyrics. And it's like you see every step of the record, the way he says it. And it applies worldwide to everybody. So it's an emotional record. It's definitely going to be understood by everybody that is a fan of Nas.

Nas: He was telling me that when we was in the studio, he was just like, “Man, this tugs at the heart,” both of us having sons. And I played it for my boys, one of them got that feeling, too. It was emotional. And I felt that when I was writing it. So that's one of my favorites.

But my favorite on the album, I think, is “Writers.” That one is important to me. It’s me coming up, trying to figure out how to be a graffiti artist halfway. But I was nowhere near graffiti artists. I would just find cans on the ground. And attempt to steal a can from a store, until they put locks on it. So that takes me back to the good old days, when it was raw. New York was raw. The world was just going through some metamorphosis. And my introduction to the art and seeing it all over the buildings and stuff, it was just like, "Wow, these are people who are faceless. Some of them are ghosts, or myths." So I was tapping into that.

And the beat has so much, it's so heavy. It feels like that time in the train yard, late '70s, but it feels like now, it's in your face and music is crazy. And what he's scratching, Rakim and Pharcyde, it just flows.

That one really spoke to me, as a guy who got arrested for tagging a relay box in Park Slope with a fat Sharpie 20 years ago. What did you write?

Nas: I used to write Kid Nice. Before I was Kid Wave, I was Kid Nice. I would go back and forth with those names.

Do you know if any of those tags survived? Is there anything up somewhere that a historian could track down?

Nas: I saw most of the stuff I put up go away fast. It's been gone, within the first year of me putting it up.

None of it even made it out of the 80s?

Nas: Definitely not.

Now that this iteration of the Legend Has It series is ending, any reflections?

Nas: I knew that, coming after all the other albums, it was in the back of my head, I can't disappoint. I can't disappoint the guys. Because they put their art, their heart and soul into the music. Slick Rick—it was just such an honor to be in his presence, and do a song with him, and have his stamp on us, to have him leading us. We all learned from him.

Releasing Raekwon’s Emperor's New Clothes and Ghost’s Supreme Clientele 2 was a dream come true. Havoc being this insane madman as a producer and MC was just out of this world. And then, of course, rest in peace Prodigy. Just hearing his voice—we'd been waiting for that for so long. And Big L was a really beautiful thing, because he's someone that we should never forget. It's unfortunate that he's not here. It's unfortunate that Prodigy's not here. And Trugoy from De La. De La’s album—to me it's a Picasso, man. It's a work of art on all levels. And then hearing what Premier did on De La's album, I was telling Premier—the way he works with artists, he really knows how to design the type of shit that you want, he perfectly tailors the situation for you.

So coming after all of that, I had to remind myself, "Yeah, me and Premier's doing this for me and Premier." But also being a part of Legend Has It, I wanted to make sure we didn't disappoint. And I’m just happy to reach that point with my brother Premier, man, because it's been a long time coming. So we're finally here.

Premier: Yeah. We text each other, just randomly, “YO, WE GOT OUR ALBUM!!!” All capital letters and exclamation points.
One of my favorite videos ever in the history of the internet, Preem, is the one of you driving and singing along to “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald.” That song turned 50 years old a couple weeks ago. Could you briefly speak to your history with it?

Premier: Oh, that was with Brady Watt. The first record I ever heard from Gordon Lightfoot was “Sundown,” which is a big record in Texas. But with “The Edmund Fitzgerald”—Brady Watt is one of my artists, but he had cancer, and it was during the pandemic, so he needed to go do chemo. And it happened to be right near the studio where we were recording, where we started the Nas records at. So I was like, "Yo, man, why don't you just move in with me and I'll take you to chemo while I go record and work on stuff." Because he's going to be weak. And a lot of times he just can't stand up. The chemo beats your ass.

And I put him on to that record and he just loved the guitar chords and the way Gordon Lightfoot sang it. And we used to play it so much. He was like, "Yo, we should film us singing this shit!" And we put it on, filmed ourselves and we're like, "If we post this, people going to bug out." So every year, he does an anniversary post of us singing it. Because we really know the words. And it is a dope song. You can't front on it.

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