It took decades of pestering, but golden-era hip-hop heads finally got their wish.
Nas and DJ Premier—two of the greatest artists to ever grip a mic or poke at an MPC—locked in for a full-length album. Light-Years is here, and its creators understand the weight of the expectations.
On one song, Nas compares the anticipation to that of Dr. Dre’s shelved Detox album. Elsewhere, he’s more facetious: “Almost 30 years, people won't leave us alone,” he raps on “Madman.”
The duo’s synergy has been obvious since the Queensbridge rapper’s 1994 debut, Illmatic, which features three pristine Preemo productions (the classic “N.Y. State of Mind” included).
From “I Gave You Power” to “Nas Is Like,” every subsequent link-up supercharged the demand for a joint LP. By the mid-2000s, fans were basically begging for it. When Esco and Premier shared the January/February 2006 cover of Scratch magazine, insisting recording sessions together were imminent, it seemed like this backpacker dream might come true after all.
And then... nothing.
Collaborations came to a halt. Schedules got tricky. Priorities shifted. But Nas found time to record Distant Relatives with Damian Marley back in 2010, then fed imaginations with his Ye-produced one-off (2018’s Nasir) and the six-album Hit-Boy run that began in 2020. Now, at long last, it’s DJ Premier’s turn to cook up magic.
Like the Mass Appeal-sanctioned Legend Has It... series this album concludes, Light-Years caters to listeners Nas once lovingly described as “trapped in the ’90s.”
There are odes to hip-hop’s foundational figures and elements, nods to beloved records of the past, and an abundance of Premier’s trademark scratches. But Mr. Jones and Preemo—now 52 and 59, respectively—are far removed from the men they were when this hype train first left the station. These days, Nas’ flexes include rundowns of his investment portfolio, and Premier has more than 35 years of mileage, most recently turning in full-length projects for Ransom and Roc Marciano.
There’s a lot to unpack with a project many believed would never happen. The question is: was it worth it? We wrestle with that and share other initial takeaways from Nas and DJ Premier’s new album, Light-Years.
Nas Leans Into His Role As a Hip-Hop Historian
Nostalgia has long been central to Nas’ artistry, but Light-Years pushes him deeper into a true historian role—not just reminiscing, but actively curating the culture’s lineage. Earlier this year, he pledged $1 million to developing the Bronx’s Hip-Hop Museum, and that preservationist instinct threads through the album.
You can hear it on songs like “Pause Tapes,” an ode to pre-digital beatmaking. Over a sparse drum loop and background static, Nas’ meticulous play-by-play somehow makes cassette dubbing sound cinematic: “Grab a piece of vinyl, drop the needle at the top/Listen for a beat to rock/90-minute tape, I got/Enough time, play it one time, four bars, press record/Then press pause/Then restart.” In an era where Timbaland is hawking artificially intelligent artists, Nas refuses to lose recipes.
Elsewhere, he names names. “Bouquet (To the Ladies)” is a breezy love letter to women who’ve made their mark in hip-hop, powered by gorgeous brass horns and bass strings. Nas shouts out Jean Grae and Bahamadia and Latto and Iggy Azalea. And more. It’s a modern echo of his 2006 track “Where Are They Now,” which revived forgotten MCs from rap’s early days.
He keeps that same archivist energy on “Writers,” tagging graf legends all over the track in tribute to “ghetto hieroglyphics.” Both songs are sincere and well-intentioned, even if, at times, they drift into a historical roll call that can feel more like a reading of liner-note thank yous than song lyrics. —John Kennedy
Nas Is Rapping Rapping
To the surprise of no one, Nas can still spit. His rhymes fold into each other like origami, and his knack for imagistic detail still hits. His syllables cartwheel. His metaphors consume. All that. When it comes to Nas, this is standard programming, but given that he’s now released six albums in five years, it’s also a feat of endurance.
He’s at his best with blissful reminiscences on crosswalk signs and dubbing cassette tapes that feel the most potent. For “Sons (Young Kings),” he turns local landmarks into a lucid glimpse into the past. “Never-ending nightlife, supermodel events, some art galleries/I can name some clubs that no longer exist/The Limelight, the Tunnel, and the Palladium/All night we stayed in 'em fly, wavin' the sky,” he spits over a track that sounds like nostalgia.
Reflective Nas is alive and well. Thriving. But sometimes, it’s just dope to hear him talk his shit, too. On tracks like “GiT Ready,” he collapses the distance between Nas of today and Nas of old, with sharp juxtapositions that lay out his evolution in 4K. “Serial investors, serial killer threats/Turn Ether to Etherium, y'all wanna bet?/I got a crypto key, it come with a password/Then I flipped that key, the digital cash work.”
Acrobatic and incisive, it’s dope enough to make an otherwise cringe phrase like, “Mr. Cryptocurrency Scarface” actually work.—Peter A. Berry
DJ Premier’s Production Is more steady than scintillating
On the album, Nas’ bars remain dexterous and Preemo’s beats remain regal. And yet the album’s production feels more competent than creative.
On one hand, Nas’ decisive baritone feels at home on boom-bap percussion; the crackle in his vocals is a natural neighbor to Premier scratches. At times, he sounds like vinyl itself. But on the other hand, Preemo’s samples are a bit sterile, with nothing capturing the nocturnal menace of a “Represent” or the understated whimsy of “Nas Is Like.” Instead, we get linear, nocturnal funk (“Madman”) and industrial cuts (“GiT Ready”) that sound like Preemo took his MPC outside and started cooking on the sidewalk (in a mostly good way.)
At their best, the beats give Nas’ stories a groundedness; the aforementioned “Pause Tapes" really does sound like it was made in a basement. It’s all very competent stuff.
But, the lack of extravagance lends itself to something steady rather than scintillating, and that lack of dynamism stands out even more when you consider the work of Nas’ most recent and frequent collaborator, Hit-Boy. Preemo simply doesn’t step into new spaces here.
No one expected him to reinvent the wheel, but for an album called Light-Years, you’d hope for more progression, steering Nas in new directions. —Peter A. Berry
The Sequels Are a Mixed Bag
Back in 2023, DJ Premier admitted he was nervous about revamping the beloved “N.Y. State of Mind” for a sequel on the 1999 album I Am.... Here, he takes a third stab at Nas’ signature hometown anthem (or fourth, if you include Alicia Keys’ 2003 homage “Streets of New York” with Nas and Rakim), and Preemo’s caution feels warranted.
“NY State of Mind Pt. 3” is built on a dramatic piano chop made to nod heads and scrunch faces.
But the Billy Joel-sampled hook loses its predecessors’ bite, and so do the verses. Nas acknowledges the distance: “I miss ’87/In Queens, was a teen then, a kid with a chain/Holding a pen and wrote pain/We'll never see this again.” He’s right. After two decades, you can’t just conjure up the street desperation that gave those earlier installments their intensity and urgency.
Other sequels land with Simone Biles’s grace, recognizing the rich legacies of past classics. “Sons (Young Kings)”—a sibling track to 2012’s “Daughters”—is an earnest meditation on raising boys. Instead of being overprotective, Nas reflects on the beauty and struggle of his own childhood and visualizes his son, Knight, one day jumping the broom. Meanwhile, “3rd Childhood” deviates from the premise of 2001’s “2nd Childhood,” which tackles arrested development in the ’hood. This go-round finds Nas toasting to graceful aging. He big-ups the aunties and uncs who are young at heart: “It's not how old you are, it's how you feel/Look here, I'm in my Air Max '87 still.” These songs feel like natural progressions in line with Nas’ maturation as a man and a lyricist whose wisdom and power of observation are as sharp as ever. —John Kennedy
Nas Once Again Embraces High-Concept Ideas
A concept record hates to see Nas coming. You can find these thematic songs sprinkled throughout his catalog, for better (“I Gave You Power,” an extended gun metaphor from 1996) or worse (that one time he narrated an entire song in the voice of Edward G. Robinson.) He packs in those concepts on several Light-Years tracks, tempering his ambition to keep things from flying off the rails.
With its swaying string orchestra, “Junkie” depicts an addiction Nas just can’t kick: his obsession with hip-hop. It’s a fun, low-stakes affair that rationalizes his prolific output at an age when most MCs are slowing down. Meanwhile, “Pause Tapes” and “Writers” fixate on analog production and graffiti culture, respectively.
But the standout is “Nasty Esco Nasir,” where our master of ceremonies steps into a time machine and pits his past personas against each other. On one side is Nasty, the teenage lyricist who went to hell for snuffing Jesus. The other is Esco, the mafia boss known to floss.
Yes, we’ve seen alter-ego tugs-of-war before: T.I. did it, as did Cassidy, Eminem, and others. But Nas’ theatrical plot ends with those older versions gunning each other down, leaving Nasir to make clear who he is and what he’s about in 2025. —John Kennedy
Was Nas & DJ Premier’s New Album Worth the Wait?
Whether or not Nas & Preemo’s belated joint album is worth the wait depends on your expectations. If you were expecting an album’s worth of “Nas Is Like”s, then you might feel a little let down. And that might be fair. After all, these are two of boom bap’s apex creators; when you think about dusty vinyls, multisyllabic rhymes and all that other stuff old heads love, you think Nas. You think Preemo. And you imagine them at their best. And they’re not quite there on Light-Years. But just because something isn’t the best thing ever doesn’t mean it’s not good.
Nas raps well and, conservative as he is, Preemo’s drums and scratches and samples conjure the pulsing, reflective atmosphere Nas looked to create. It’s cohesive and symmetrical. When the knee-jerk internet reactions fade, you’ll be happy to run this one back. You’ll be happy that you’re able to in the first place. Like the Legend Has It… series itself, the album is a celebration of rap legends—and their ability to still produce. And they did that.
So no, this isn’t Watch The Throne; this is two longtime collaborators commemorating their history with a low-stakes exhibition game. That should be good enough. But if you were expecting a championship, you might be disappointed. —Peter A. Berry