Nas, "It Ain't Hard to Tell"

What is New York to a Midwesterner?

It is Chicago, I suppose, but first. It is the grandiosity of America’s origins – the slop and panic and freshness. The intentions of those things; the promise.

To me, New York will forever be the horn in “It Ain’t Hard to Tell.” There’s no crest which could extend higher; no sink to delve lower. Of the things about which Nas makes it hard to tell, hard to analyze, the feeling of New York, the oppression and freedom, is not.

Not when he compares his composure to a “sniper’s breath,” nor when he acknowledges that his “criminal slang” is like “a violin.” The New York of this song, and Illmatic in general, is sharp, and he’s on razor’s edge, living the contradictions. He speaks of his home, the Queensbridge Housing Projects, and, in so many ways, I can never hope to comprehend it; it is his story, not mine, after all. And yet, when he extols, almost in a pleading way, that his “vocals will squeeze Glocks,” we share our American identity. “Do you hear me, world?” He is calling out, as we all are: crackling, cutting – and silent.

He has all of the pop – “like Sly Stone in Cobra” – and repression – “delete stress like Motrin” – which we have come to embody. This is a song of surprising breadth, both in his intentions and egotism. He cavorts with Medusa; he dismisses (or perhaps compliments) Aesop; he compares himself to a Buddhist monk. Each chorus, a new identity. Each day, a new notion of self. It’s promising. It’s hopeful.

And devastating. His “mic check is life or death.” The masterful mixing and smooth sound is comparable to an “explosion.” Hell, his “raps should be locked in a cell.” Welcome to America. We, the people of death, the people of freedom. It’s so easy to tell, and it’s so hard.

Welcome to New York. Thanks, Nas.