What is happening for Nasir Jones right now comes just once in a lifetime. The man known as Nasty Nas, Escobar, Nastrodamus and, most often, simply Nas is at a point on his extraordinary, fascinating timeline where he can see the entire story with utter clarity and gratefulness. He’s finally able to celebrate the good and the bad, to look forward and smile at whatever ills or blessings are coming his way. Gone are the Queens MC’s days of wallowing or identity crises, which found Nas continually claiming to be each of the very different men attached to the aforementioned aliases. Nas–the re-purified, found-again street poet and representative of whatever proves true and real at the given moment, the culmination of years of reinvention, experimentation, misfire, discovery, and innovation, the final, fully fledged man–has arrived.

This sentiment, one of acceptance of life’s up and downs, and the tone of culmination, permeated Nas‘ most recent studio release, his 10th LP, Life Is Good. The concept seems to have then seeped from the album into Nas’ approach to live shows, or perhaps this is just how he sees all aspects of life at this point. Either way, Nas gave Governor’s Ball the entirety of himself: all the energy he had on that particular night; each and every side he’s so impressively rendered throughout his career. Backed by the absolutely masterful DJ Green Lantern, a thunderous full band of drums, bass, keys, organ, horns, a rather out of place but nonetheless rocking guitarist, and a syrupy-sweet R&B singer, Nas set out to give the audience a show worth remembering–a full picture worth absorbing and reflecting upon.

The set opened with the fittingly reflective and epic “No Introduction”, which also served as Life Is Good‘s opener. Though Nas’ mic volume was a little low, the energy of a man finally grasping the entirety of his vastly rich story and, of course, of J.U.S.T.I.C.E. League’s knocking, emotional beat took hold of the audience. From then on, Nas and co. never let up. Playing for a crowd that was roughly three-fourths Illmatic fans and one-fourth “Daughters” fans, Nas faced the challenge of connecting with multiple generations at once and properly doing justice to his own 19 year body of work. With grace and skill, Nas slalomed through styles and themes while still managing to mostly go album-by-album. After a few tracks from Life Is Good came the requisite Illmatic classics, then a heavy dose of It Was Written, followed by dashes of Gods Son, Stillmatic, and even a couple Purple Tape cuts. Seamlessly weaving together the songs either through the vibe of the beat or through off-hand remarks that cleverly linked to a song’s title or topic, Nas explored his many areas of expertise. For “Cherry Wine”, he was a ladies’ man, for “NY State of Mind”, he was a stickup kid again, for “Smokin'”, he was a ganja-headed mafioso, for “Hate Me Now”–which is far more visceral and infinitely more enjoyable live–Nas was a fuck-the-world rebel. He occupied each of these roles on Randall’s Island not in the over-reaching, erratic fashion that brought about harsh criticism for several of his post-Illmatic releases, but in a more comfortable, knowing, and commanding fashion. Either Nas finally believed and felt himself to be all of these things at once, or was able to see, in the rear-view, the way in which he had been all these things, then contextualize it in a manner that felt justified, earned.

Nas’ mission wasn’t only to exhibit his songwriting range or the illustrious depths of his career, however. A self proclaimed “pretty mature…(I think I’m mature)” man, Nasir wanted to share the spotlight and pay some dues during his hour-and-a-half headlining set. To educate the crowd in the origin of their favorite tracks and in his influences, Nas arranged for the band to play a few bars of raucous funk before Green Lantern let “Nas Is Like” loose, which proved a fitting buildup. The best use of this trick was when the ensemble played the chorus of Phil Collins’ “In The Air Tonight”. For one, this was the best use of Nas’ R&B singer, who he indicated to be a relative of the late Nat King Cole. The man of average dress and butter-smooth vocals shined during that brief moment in a way that was far more fitting than his overdone addition to “The World Is Yours” (though he did do a great job on “If I Ruled The World (Imagine That).” Most importantly, however, this served as the perfect tension-building intro to perhaps Nas’ most dynamic song, “One Mic”, which to features a prominent sample of the Phil Collins’ own classic. “One Mic”‘s exaggerated, sweeping peaks and valleys felt, somehow, grander, more chilling, more inspiring live, with a vast majority of the crowd not only rapping along, but shouting the words as if they’d written them themselves, as if they were the passwords to salvation–particularly “Pray God forgive me for one sin / matter fact maybe more than one”. Putting “One Mic” in the context of the Phil Collins’ chilling hit added unexpected reserves of power to the night’s most powerful song.

The night’s undisputed singular highlight accordingly celebrated Nas’ longevity and multifaceted artistry. Around the middle of the set, Green Lantern dropped “Stillmatic (The Intro)”– which is, aside from the demolition display “Ether”, Nas’ certified mid-career comeback moment–which Nas began to rap with a serious spike in energy. As soon as he reached the early pivotal bars, “They thought I’d make another Illmatic, but it’s always forward I’m movin’, / never backwards, stupid: here’s another classic,” Lantern cut the beat and dropped “Book of Rhymes”, to initial confusion and then elation from the audience. After running through a few bars of “Book of Rhymes”, Nas again paused and rapped, “Here’s another classic”, as Green Lantern dropped “Represent”, which Nas and Lantern only let run through the opening hook before, together, shouting “Here’s another classic” as the next gem from Nas’ catalog arrived–the increase in pace and decrease in running time of each classic was indicative of the excitement the team felt at the innovative medley they had composed. The crowd was more than a little excited themselves, with cheers growing louder and louder with each hit, unable to believe their ears as the magic trick extended to roughly ten songs before letting up. The moment was an ecstatic intersection of perfect DJ/rapper coordination–all the cuts and drops were flawless–and careful push and pull with audience expectation–no one knew when each track would end or begin, or really how they’d been swept into this blissful trip through the past. Nas’ vast well of classic, or, at the very least, widely-known, songs allowed for this, but it was his newly-realized bigger-picture, celebratory intellect that brought about its creation and lent the particular charisma that made it into a classic moment of its own.

Somehow, this unfathomably diverse, deep, energetic, devoted, successful, man still felt that he was, in one way or another, one of the people (a claim those in the audience would not likely debate). He clearly wanted to provide a good time for all in attendance, knowing what it meant for them to see him, going over his hour and a half set time and straining his voice to the point of audible cracking by just the middle of the set. During “The World Is Yours”, he poignantly asked, with a wide, wondrous smile, “Can you believe it?” as if Nas himself still could not believe his success, could not fully trust that the wild ride that brought him to Governor’s Ball Honda Stage had happened while he was awake. The man who once so iconically spat that he doesn’t sleep because “sleep is the cousin of death”, has come a long way from that paranoid, grim outlook, so much so that it’s strange to hear such a song and line right after the milder, middle-aged wisdoms of the current Nas of Life Is Good. Such a glimpse at Nas’ journey is empowering: as the crowd chanted “the world is yours” over and over, the sentiment of the song changed from that of a jaded hustler’s anthem to a gift, a mantra for anyone with lofty aspirations. The transformation was only possible because of Nas’ defiant earnestness. He accepts everything with open arms: the world is his.

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To say that Azealia Banks has attitude is a drastic short-selling of the star-power, girl power, hip power, and bar power of Harlem’s harshest harpy. Charging the stage like a neon orange bullet, Yung Rapunxel flew straight to the front of her party, rocking the insanely tight outfit seen above, as well as a pair of sunglasses that made it look as if she had two tiny suns for eyes. Perhaps it was because she was fifteen minutes tardy–leading one nearby audience member to just shrug, amused, and mutter “Of course she’s late,”–or perhaps it was that outfit, or the wind-making volume of the bass, or the look on her face that said she was the hottest girl in the room, but the entire crowd was more than ready to dance with ferocity and glee when Azealia finally appeared.

As she noted, the hometown heroine was performing in her native city for the first time in two years (though she did rock the 5th Ave M.A.C. store on Fashion Night), and the crowd was happy, and, more importantly, proud to see her. Beginning with “Out of Space” and proceeding to bounce between cuts from her mixtape (Fantasea) and  her EP (1991), Azealia’s set was a viciously fun party.

Azealia’s was the only rap act (or act of any genre, as far as we know) at Governor’s Ball to utilize backup dancers. One woman with close-cut hair and one man with a striking, strong physique strutted, gyrated, and pouted in co-ordinance with each of Azealia’s cuts. Their greatest addition was the male dancer’s shining moment, as he vogued every which way with precision and intent during the gay-ball-celebrating “Fierce“. The crowd loved it; he loved it.

There was no question where everyone’s utmost attention was during the rest of the set, though. It was not on their weed–though many were lighting up–it was not on the dancers, it was not on the cheesy seapunk video that was barely visible in the daylight. Azealia had everyone in the palm of her hand, and it wasn’t just thanks to her outfit, her beat selection, or the look on her face. She was fantastic at hyping up the crowd, asking “Who’s fucking toniiiiight?” suggestively bouncing back and forth on her hips . She looked audience members in the eyes, stuck out her tongue, and darted around the stage with speed and agility.

Perhaps most important to note is that Azealia‘s rapping was very, very polished. Throughout the show, Azealia’s dizzying double-time flow (does she ever really slow down?) was 100% on point: she never tripped or missed a word, not even once. Azealia Banks is like that in almost every way–from the production value, to the outfit, to her swarm-of-bees approach to fitting syllables to a beat, Azealia doesn’t miss a thing. There’s a reason why we can’t keep our eyes off of her.

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Freddie Gibbs takes a lot of pride in his authenticity. As he’s said before and he would tell you again, he’s an OG to the bone, be it in street dealings or his music, which is profoundly devoid of gimmicks or radio ploys. The way Freddie maneuvered the Governor’s Ball Skyy Vodka Stage was in co-ordinance with his bare-bones, anti-glitz, pure gangsta mentality. Gibbs came out rocking a red bandana, a “Parental Advisory” tanktop, and shades, all of which he would shed not long after the intro track (the deceptively acrobatic and catchy “BFK”) was over. In person, he has a muscular, yet surprisingly slim frame: Freddie doesn’t have to fight anyone, he lets either the tools or the rhymes do the work.

He’s so hellbent on letting his words be the bottom line, in fact, that nearly every song of the set ended in the Gary, IN rapper spitting acapella. The several peaks of the show’s energy came when Fred revved up into double and triple-time acapellas to close a song, increasing in speed and intensity as he finished. Gibbs knew that even though he played nearly all his biggest recent songs–“BFK”, “Rob Me A Nigga” (prod. Big K.R.I.T.), “Bout It Bout It” (feat. Kirko Bangz), “B.A.N.ned”, “Menace II Society” (feat. Dom Kennedy and Polyester), and “The Hard” (feat. Dana Williams)–most people would not know the words or the melodies. This meant that while his job was still to show the people a good time, it was also about proving himself. For the first half of each song, Gangsta Gibbs let a mixed crowd of the diehards and the clueless dance and vibe to the rollicking beats, and for the second, he gave them memories, talking points to bring home: heaping helpings of his homegrown, dizzying flow. Because the beat was so often cut, Gibbs’ show didn’t roll along the way that any of the other rap acts at Governor’s Ball did. Instead, it was a 45-minute spectacle, a celebration of talent and rap rather than smash success or of music as a whole.

Freddie Gibbs’ attitude is a large part of what allowed for the odd pacing of his set. To the dismay of the tent’s security staff, Fred paused time and again to have the crowd chant “Fuck po-lice” along with him as he took heavy tokes from the massive blunt he had his hype man spark just before “Kush Cloud” dropped. He was confident without being overwhelming, often reminding the crowd with joy that we were “rocking with Freddie fucking Gibbs” and was even funny as he vented frustration that the crowd wasn’t smoking enough weed. Perhaps most importantly, Gibbs gave his mission statement to those who didn’t know, as he asked, “Is anybody out there still fucking with gangsta rap?” before notifying us of what the astute already knew–he’s bringing it back.

It should be noted that Gibbs’ DJ, while occasionally out of sync with the rapper in terms of when to reenter–Freddie was very focused on his acapellas–was a solid piece of the show. From skillful scratches in time with Freddie’s double-dutch flow to simply sounding like a genuine human being (a rare quality in DJs), the man behind the boards was an asset.

After making sure the crowd was hyped up enough to deserve some new material, Gibbs premiered a track off of his upcoming album ESGN. The track was hook-friendly in the way “BFK” and “Bout It Bout It” are but, most notably, it was hard as nails. Gangsta Gibbs isn’t changing. Why would he?

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To paraphrase the good kid himself, Kendrick Lamar came to Governor’s Ball to party. While he certainly did just that, he couldn’t help but reach for more. Leading off with the near-forgotten yet energetic “West Side Right On Time”, followed by “Hol’ Up”, “Pussy & Patron”, “Fuckin Problems” and the remix of Young Jeezy’s “R.I.P.”, K.Dot clearly was pushing the themes of celebration and all that comes with it, and doing so while reaching out to the wider audience that festivals bring by employing some of his prolific guest work. Before beginning “Hol’ Up” and again before “P&P”, Kendrick made a point of asking who in the audience had been fans from day one; who would rock out and rap along to hits from his lesser known work on Section.80 and Overly Dedicated. The crowd would have gotten an A in enthusiasm but a C in knowledge, which hurt the energy as some people seemed thrown by the inclusion of “West Side Right On Time” and “Pussy & Patron”.

Ever the poet and perfectionist, Kendrick was not content to simply convince the crowd that NYC was the most hype city in the country, or rattle chests to the point of near-heart-attack with “m.a.a.d. city”. Kendrick’s live performance, much like his recorded work held a focus on lyrics and cohesion. To bring a greater attention to his words, Kendrick cut the beat at the end of several songs so that he could rap the most recent verse over again in perfect clarity, accompanied by the crowd.

To give the slew a songs a sense of interconnectedness, Kendrick went on several short rants, each ending with either on the topic of next track or its title—a faux-worried tangent about the crowd’s energy level led into “Bitch Don’t Kill My Vibe”; an invitation to drink with the star after the show preceded “Swimming Pools (Drank)”. By almost conversationally introducing each song, Kendrick lent not only a sense of improvisation—epitomized in his four-bar freestyle ending with the words “fucking problem”; cue the beat—but also that the lyrics and melodies we were hearing were the story of that very afternoon on Randall’s Island; that Kendrick had selected each track to be a cog in the real-time narration of the festival’s most consistently alive set.

Kendrick was Governor’s Ball’s most commanding, most engaging Master of Ceremonies. To ensure that his hour and fifteen minute set was the most energetic of the festival, Kendrick made a point of connecting with his audience, playing with their expectations and challenging to get loud, then get louder. Kendrick separated the crowd into thirds and reattached them with the swiftness of an aged conductor, and the frenzy of “m.A.A.d. city”’s narrator, raising and lowering them with one confident, swooping black motion after the next.

Kendrick repeatedly expressed his wish to have a good time, as if he was an audience member who had just happened to launch on stage. That’s not to say, however, that he’s remained the average joe he once made himself out to be, though. Kendrick rocked the Honda Stage wearing a scaly-looking black and white hoodie and matching baggy shorts, looking, head-to-toe like the lovechild of A$AP Rocky and a king cobra. The odd outfit led a nearby audience member to remark that he “can’t relate to that shit”, but this fan was still ready to cheer when Kendrick satisfied the hip-hop heads, calling freestyling “the essence of hip-hop”. It’s other essence may be the art of reanimating, something Kendrick also took part in during his set, as he regularly changed his delivery to be more free-flowing and melodic. This helped to make the performance feel unique and helped show, along with his mastery of improvisation and conversation, Kendrick’s ascension to artistry beyond air-sealed preparation, into heights of transcendent connection with his audience and his music. Kendrick Lamar is not beyond the party, though. Instead, he’s taking it with him.

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