Vol. 8: A Misunderstanding with Nas
“The stories we keep are rarely the ones we expected.”
Subscriber Note:
I included a photo of the signed cover in today’s email.
It was July 22, 1996. I was a huge Nas fan.
Two years earlier, Illmatic had completely changed the way I heard hip hop. I was actually waiting on the new Beastie Boys album at the time, but about a month before that came out, Nas pulled me in instead.
I had heard one full Nas song before the album dropped, along with a couple guest verses on Main Source and MC Serch songs. I liked what I heard, but I was not expecting what Illmatic delivered. The lyricism. The storytelling. The way every beat felt like it belonged there.
DJ Premier, Pete Rock, Q-Tip, Large Professor and L.E.S. all brought their “A” game. Nas did the rest. It was one of those albums that felt important right away, even before the rest of the world fully caught up.
So when It Was Written was released in 1996, the anticipation was different. The expectations were high. And that’s probably why I found myself lined up for over two hours on Yonge Street on a warm, dry Monday, instead of sitting in my college classes like I was supposed to be.
I bought It Was Written on vinyl that morning for one reason: to have Nas sign it so I could frame it and let it live on my wall forever.
Before I even entered the line, I made the purchase. Fresh vinyl in hand. No backup plan. This was the mission.
When I finally reached the front, I realized something. I was nervous. Not “meet a celebrity” nervous. More like “meet a hero” nervous.
I stepped toward the table and handed him the record. He looked at it and said:
“You like this sh*t right here?”
I don’t know if it was nerves or if I genuinely didn’t process what he said, but I responded:
“What’s that?”
He repeated it. Same question.
“Ahh, yeah. I love it!” I said, already feeling the moment tilt slightly off-center.
Then he asked my name.
“Ryan.”
I watched him press a gold marker down on the cover and start writing. The kind of writing you can’t interrupt because the marker is already moving.
He handed it back and I read it:
“Brian, stay real my brotha!”
My stomach sank. Brian? No chance I could let that slide. Not after two hours in line and skipping class for this.
I blurted out:
“No. It’s Ryan.”
He looked at me with his eyes half-closed and red.
“Ryan?”
“Yeah.”
For a second, I imagined the clean solution. Someone behind the table grabs a new copy. He signs it properly. Everyone wins.
That is not what happened.
I watched him take the marker and scribble out the B. Then he turned the i into a y and made it work.
Not a redo. Not a replacement. Just a live edit.
That cover still lives in a frame on my basement wall today. But it doesn’t look like a clean autograph. It looks like I found somebody else’s signed record and tried to make it mine.
There’s probably no value in it.
Still makes me laugh.
Listen to the Volume 8 playlist: