Anniversaries: King’s Disease by Nas
King’s Disease succeeds by turning Nas’s gaze inward and backward, but not only that—it also pushes him just enough forward.
In August 2020, Nasir “Nas” Jones released King’s Disease, an album that, several years later, stands tall as a late-career triumph—arguably his most compelling work since 2012’s Life Is Good. Arriving after a tumultuous 2010s period, King’s Disease was Nas’s tenth studio album and a deliberate return to form, powered by a newfound chemistry with producer Hit-Boy. It’s a record that finds the Queensbridge legend sounding reborn: more measured and reflective in delivery, weaving together relationship advice and social commentary with the sort of earnest conviction and occasional contradictions that only Nas can pull off. In retrospect, King’s Disease marked the moment Nas shook off the missteps of his rushed 2018 Nasir sessions and embraced an organic creative freedom, resulting in a nostalgia-tinged yet contemporary work worthy of his legacy.
Hit-Boy’s role cannot be overstated, as his easy synergy with Nas banished the rapper’s notorious “bad ear for beats” and provided a focused sonic palette. On King’s Disease, there’s a newfound harmony between Nas’s lyricism and the instrumentals that was missing on some of his other albums. Hit-Boy’s production strikes a careful balance between modern sheen and throwback warmth, allowing Nas to sound contemporary without sacrificing his identity. The beats are stately but not stagnant, blending polished 2020-ready drums with flourishes of nostalgic soul and funk. Crucially, they inspire Nas rather than overwhelm him. Hit-Boy acquits himself pretty well as the resident producer by crafting backdrops that are engaging and diverse, from single-tracked piano loops to digitized snares, without devolving into the blandly prescriptive mood music that dragged down some of Nas’s past work. For perhaps the first time in ages, fans and critics could agree that Nas’s beat selection was enhancing his verses instead of undermining them.
The album’s intro and title track “King’s Disease” rides a lush soul sample as Nas sets the scene, defining the “King’s disease” as the ailments of success—complacency, ego, overindulgence—even name-dropping “gout, uric acid levels up high,” the affliction historically known as the “disease of kings.” Nas has long called himself a king, and here he’s both celebrating the spoils of his reign and examining the pitfalls that come with them. Over a mid-tempo, head-nodding beat that recalls the warmth of his 2012 work, he boasts (“I made the fade famous, the chain famous”) yet also alludes to personal turmoil like his falling out with ex-wife Kelis, making it clear that even a king bears scars. The tone is triumphant but tinged with vulnerability, a duality reflected in the album’s sound and content throughout.
Hit-Boy’s pictorial orchestrations give King’s Disease a cinematic feel, equal parts grand and intimate. Take “Blue Benz,” an early highlight driven by scintillating piano keys and chopped vocals. Nas plunges into Illmatic-esque storytelling here, reminiscing about 1990s New York with rich detail (from Jersey City madams to wild nights at The Tunnel club). The production mirrors the narration: elegant piano loops evoke vintage nostalgia, while crisp drums keep it urgent. Halfway through, the beat shifts into a smoother, almost “zen” breakdown, as if cruising in the titular Mercedes through memory lane. It’s a classic Nas street tale wrapped in Hit-Boy’s polished update of boom-bap, bridging past and present. Similarly, “Car #85” finds Nas in a reverie about carefree days riding a private car service through Queens. The track’s plush, rosy production (featuring R&B legend Charlie Wilson cooing background harmonies) deliberately nods to mid-‘80s/early ‘90s R&B-rap flavor. The drums are programmed to feel retro, and Wilson’s soulful melismas set a nostalgic mood. Nas’s verses here paint summertime scenes of “White Castle at midnight, fish sandwiches, 40 ounces and fistfights,” and you can practically hear the Koch-era New York ambiance in the beat.
The album’s lead single, “Ultra Black,” anchors the project in the present with a proud, unflinching celebration of Black culture. Over a warm, mid-tempo groove, Nas and Hit-Boy craft what feels like an update of the classic hip-hop black excellence anthem, unyielding and elegant in its simplicity. Hit-Boy laces the beat with a soulful bassline and sunny keyboards, even punctuating Nas’s lyrics with musical easter eggs (at one point, Nas raps “Rhythm and blues, pop, rock to soul to jazz”, and the track responds with a jazzy keyboard fill to acknowledge the lineage. Nas positions himself as, “unapologetically black, the opposite of Doja Cat,” a line that grabbed headlines for seemingly dissing the young rapper Doja Cat (He would later downplay it as a playful rhyme, but it nonetheless cast him as a defender of cultural authenticity in contrast to a newer artist criticized for not being “Black enough.”).
Nas also proves that he can thrive in the musical landscape of the present. Nowhere is this clearer than on “27 Summers,” a brief but blistering banger that packs a tense, triumphant swell into just under two minutes. Over a surging trap-influenced beat, a first for Nas in such an unabashed form, he sounds energized and hungry. The effect is a bristling, celebratory track that feels like a victory lap. And rightly so—the title references the 27 summers since Nas’s 1994 debut, and here he is, still on top. Nas attacks the beat with tight, confident bars: “I’m in the good company of veterans/Thinkin’ back on 27 summers, that’s evidence”, he raps in essence, rattling off flexes about private island soirées “smokin’ weed in a tux, sippin’ Ricard… Premier movies with my man De Niro.”
These relationship songs indicate the album’s thematic duality: Nas as the wise king dishing advice, and Nas as the flawed man working through his advice in real time. Throughout King’s Disease, he often steps into an elder statesman role, offering nuggets of guidance to the next generation and his fans. “10 Points,” a late-album gem, epitomizes this mentor impulse. Nas delivers a list of principles, effectively ten points of wisdom, aimed at uplifting Black excellence and personal integrity. He stresses staying true to oneself and giving back to the community, citing how “Michael Jordan gives back and you didn’t know it, like LeBron does, but it’s seldomly shown,” reminding us that true kings contribute quietly. Nas has never shied away from social commentary, and on King’s Disease, he continues that tradition, though with mixed results. “Till the War Is Won,” for instance, finds Nas turning his gaze to the plight of Black families and, in particular, Black women. Over a somber, strings-laden beat (underscored by a gorgeous sample from Nicholas Britell’s If Beale Street Could Talk score), Nas delivers a heartfelt salute to single mothers holding it down and children growing up without fathers. He decries the systemic issues that lead to broken homes, at one point even raging at God in a rare show of vulnerability: “Why’d you take my mama, and not that foul father?”, referencing the loss of his mother and the contrasting life of his jazz musician father who famously lived a freer, globetrotting life.
Yet his messaging on “Till the War Is Won” isn’t without its rough edges. In the song’s final bars, after passionately urging men to step up and women to keep faith, he slides in a clumsy bit of equal-opportunity chastisement: “Women, stop chasing your man away; Men, stop acting crazy, chasing your woman away.” It’s a well-intended call for mutual accountability, but for some, it’s a reductive take that sidesteps the deeper reasons behind those fractured relationships. In light of the 2018 abuse allegations against Nas by Kelis, lines like these (and the song’s otherwise commendable praise of women) can feel defensive or conflicted. Nas wants to uplift Black women publicly, yet he’s carrying his baggage, and that tension seeps through. It’s the kind of contradiction longtime Nas listeners are used to: he can pen an empathetic ode to daughters (2012’s “Daughters”) while also lapsing into a bit of tone-deaf “as a father of a daughter” moralizing, or celebrate women’s strength one moment and then slip into a fleeting bout of slut-shaming the next. On King’s Disease, those contradictions are present but relatively subdued; more often than not, Nas’s heart is in the right place even if his wording fumbles.
Another socially-charged cut, “The Definition,” acts as a short, sharp snapshot of Nas’s state of mind in 2020. Over an eerie, mid-tempo beat, Nas muses about the chaotic political climate and the meaning of “king’s disease” itself. In a spoken intro and outro, Bronx rap legend DJ Brucie B defines King’s Disease as “also known as rich man’s disease…you ain’t gotta be rich to get it, just doing too much, you’ll get it.” Fittingly for an album so rooted in reflection, King’s Disease brings things “Full Circle,” literally. The track, “Full Circle,” is a posse cut reunion of The Firm, Nas’s ill-fated late-90s supergroup. Over a smooth, head-nodding beat that oozes mafioso nostalgia, Nas links up with his old comrades AZ, Cormega, and Foxy Brown for the first time in years. For any fan of 90s hip-hop, hearing Nas and AZ trading lines again is a jolt of adrenaline; AZ’s verse in particular, flowing with his trademark effortless precision, will send shivers down the spines of long-term fans. Cormega sounds hungry and poetic, finally appearing on a Firm project after having infamously been left off their 1997 album. And Foxy Brown arguably steals the show with a husky, braggadocious verse full of grown-woman swagger, reminding everyone why she was the queen of that crew. Even Dr. Dre pops in for a cameo in the outro, his unmistakable baritone closing the track like a curtain call for a class reunion.
After all the reminiscing, advising, and celebrating, Nas saves one of his strongest statements for last. “The Cure,” the penultimate track (and true finale before an upbeat bonus cut), is King’s Disease’s lyrical peak and emotional core. In many ways, it is the cure for any doubts about Nas’s prowess in the 2020s. Over nearly four minutes, Nas goes for broke with no hook, just pure bars—reflective, sharp, and increasingly intense. Hit-Boy’s production mirrors the song’s concept of healing and transformation. It starts sparse and somber, a simple loop without a drumbeat as Nas begins an introspective verse. For the first minute or so, he raps “keeping time without a snare,” effectively doing a tightrope walk without percussion as backup. He sounds world-weary yet wise, speaking on the lessons life has taught him: “Life is school for the soul, and I’m in lesson seven already…Everything from sexy to deadly, I done been through that.” Then, halfway through the track, the magic moment happens. Nas pointedly commands, “Roll the credits,” and as if on cue, Hit-Boy flips the beat, where the lights go up, the drums kick in. A soulful vocal sample swells (fans have speculated on its source, noting it gives the section a triumphant, almost gospel-like urgency). Suddenly, Nas is in attack mode, the stark urgency fully unleashed.
King’s Disease plays like a victory for Nas—not a loud, boastful victory, but a hard-won and reflective one. If Life Is Good in 2012 was Nas’s mature masterpiece confronting mid-life realities, King’s Disease nearly a decade later is the reaffirmation that Nas can still hit those heights when inspiration and execution align. The album was widely hailed as Nas’s finest work in years, with many calling it his best since Life Is Good, although he has made stronger albums since then. Hit-Boy’s soulful yet fresh production freed Nas to be fully Nas: nostalgic raconteur, conscious elder, flashy don, and introspective poet all at once. The album flows well, giving us vintage storytelling on one track and contemporary swagger on the subsequent, heartfelt confessions, followed by wise counsel. Even its flaws, a chorus that’s a bit too pop, a line that might raise an eyebrow, feel genuine to Nas’s persona. He has always been an artist of complexity and occasional contradiction. We hear a man who can admonish younger rappers for chasing trends in one breath and then hop on a track with drill newcomer Fivio Foreign (the bonus cut “Spicy”) in the next, just because he can. Nas’s confidence carries these moments; he knows exactly who he is, and at this stage, that’s all that matters.
Is King’s Disease Nas’s greatest album since 2012? Nope, because despite earning his long-overdue Grammy win, the album’s success also launched an unexpected late-career run: Nas and Hit-Boy would quickly churn out a sequel, King’s Disease II, in 2021 (and later King’s Disease III), proving the first installment was no fluke. But even with those strong follow-ups, King’s Disease retains a special aura. There’s a celebratory first-flame quality to it—the sound of an all-time great rediscovering his groove and enjoying the process. You can sense Nas’s artistic liberation in these songs. Compared to the heavy guiding hand and rushed schedule of Nasir, King’s Disease sounds like an artist let out of a cage—Nas takes his time, relishing each verse, stretching out over beats that bump and breathe. His delivery is more measured and ruminative, as the question posits, but that measured approach feels like a man settling into his royalty rather than resting on laurels. There’s hunger in Nas’s calm; even when he’s laid-back, there’s purpose behind it.
King’s Disease succeeds by turning Nas’s gaze inward and backward, but not only that—it also pushes him just enough forward. It’s an album where the king surveys his kingdom, acknowledges the disease of ego and complacency that could fall him, and then proceeds to cure himself through honest expression and collaboration. Several years on, King’s Disease holds up as a glowing chapter in Nas’s legacy, proof that a true king of hip-hop can stumble, heal, and return sharper than ever, crown still firmly in place.