I.D. | INTERVIEW + TRACK REVIEW

In an era where attention spans are shrinking and authenticity often feels in short supply, I.D. is creating music that slows things down and asks listeners to lean in. A rapper, poet and storyteller from Melbourne, his work sits at the intersection of soul, memory and lived experience, drawing inspiration from hip-hop’s golden era while carrying the warmth and humanity of artists like The Roots, J. Cole and Leon Bridges.

But I.D.’s story begins long before his own. As a first-generation Australian with Cypriot heritage, music runs through his family history. His grandfather arrived in Australia from Cyprus carrying little more than determination, resilience and an accordion that would become a bridge between cultures and communities. Decades later, those same values continue to echo through I.D.’s music, where legacy, family and identity are explored with honesty and depth.

His upcoming EP, Balance, arrives from a place many listeners will recognise: the constant tension between ambition and gratitude, responsibility and creativity, work and family. Rather than offering easy answers, the project embraces the reality that balance is not something we achieve once and forever, but something we continuously work towards.

With a new live band set to bring these songs to life and a growing catalogue built on substance rather than spectacle, I.D. is proving that some of the most powerful voices in modern hip-hop aren’t the loudest in the room, but the ones willing to tell the truth. We caught up with him to talk about heritage, fatherhood, freestyle battles, soul, and the lessons that shaped Balance.

TRACK REVIEW - One Life

One Life is one of those tracks that resonates immediately. Built around the simple but powerful reminder that “you only get one life,” I.D. delivers the message with a level of honesty that feels genuine rather than preachy. The slight rasp in his vocals adds real character to the performance, while his flow glides effortlessly across the beat. Every bar feels intentional, carrying weight without needing to shout for attention.

The production is equally impressive. The mix is warm, smooth and incredibly polished, allowing every element to breathe. One of the standout moments comes when the vocals flow seamlessly into the saxophone, adding another layer of soul to an already heartfelt track. What I appreciate most is the humility of the song. There’s no aggression or ego driving the message, just thoughtful reflections delivered with sincerity. In a world full of noise, One Life feels like a reminder to slow down, appreciate the journey and make the most of the time we’ve got.

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UPCOMING EP

Your music feels like it carries both family history and hip-hop tradition at the same time. When you write, do you ever feel like you’re speaking for previous generations as much as yourself?

Absolutely. I don't think any of us arrive here as a blank page. We're carrying stories, sacrifices, values and experiences that started long before we were born. When I write, I'm telling my story, but I'm also conscious that there are pieces of my parents, my grandparents and my culture woven into everything I say.

As a first-generation Australian with Cypriot roots, I feel a responsibility to honour those journeys. Not by speaking for previous generations, but by making sure their struggles and resilience aren't forgotten. In many ways, my music is a conversation between where they came from and where I'm trying to go.

A lot of rappers talk about legacy, but your story literally begins with your grandfather playing accordion after arriving from Cyprus. What parts of his journey do you think still echo through your music today?

The courage. Leaving everything you know behind and starting again takes a level of faith that's hard to comprehend today.

My grandfather arrived in Australia with very little, but he brought his music with him. He played accordion in local weddings and bands, connected with people through music and built a life for his family. I think that belief in music as something that brings people together has stayed with me.

There's also a work ethic that echoes through generations. My grandparents weren't chasing fame. They were building something meaningful. That's how I try to approach music. Success is great, but creating something honest that lasts longer than you do means more.

The title ‘Balance’ feels simple on the surface, but balance is something most people spend their entire lives chasing. What were you trying to reconcile within yourself when this project was taking shape?

Balance came from a season of life where everything felt important at once. Family, work, health, music, being present, chasing goals, paying bills. There was this constant tension between ambition and gratitude.

For a long time I thought balance was a destination. Now I see it more as a practice. Some days you're leaning too far in one direction and you need to adjust. This project became a reflection of that. It wasn't about having all the answers. It was about learning to be comfortable living inside the questions.

Looking forward to releasing this EP later on in the year.

You came up through freestyle battles where every second demanded confidence and quick thinking. Has getting older made you more interested in having something meaningful to say rather than simply proving you can say it?

Definitely.

When you're younger, a lot of your identity is tied to proving yourself. You're trying to earn respect. You're trying to show people how skilled you are. Battles taught me confidence, but they also taught me that being clever isn't the same as being meaningful.

As I've gotten older and had kids, I'd rather write one line that stays with someone for years than sixteen bars that simply show technical ability. The challenge isn't saying something impressive. It's saying something true.

Your influences range from J. Cole and The Roots to Leon Bridges, artists who understand that soul isn’t a genre, it’s a feeling. Do you think hip-hop sometimes forgets the importance of soul in pursuit of attention?

I think every era has that tension.

Attention is valuable because it's how people discover your music. But attention alone doesn't create connection. Soul does. Soul is the human element. It's the flaws, the honesty, the stories and emotions people recognise in themselves.

The artists I've always gravitated toward are the ones who make you feel something long after the song ends. Whether it's hip-hop, soul, blues or pop, that feeling is what survives trends.

Starting a live band alongside a new release feels significant. What can a drummer, bassist and guitarist communicate about your songs that a backing track never could?

Connection.

A live band introduces humanity into every performance. A drummer can create tension and release. A bassist can change the emotional weight of a song with a single note. A guitarist can make a familiar lyric feel completely different.

Backing tracks are precise. Musicians are alive. They react to the room, to the audience and to each other. That's where magic lives. Every performance becomes a unique conversation instead of a replay.

There's a warmth in your music that feels uncommon in modern rap. Do you think vulnerability has become a greater act of rebellion than aggression?

In many ways, yes.

Aggression is often expected. Vulnerability requires courage and trust. It requires you to risk being misunderstood. Talking about fatherhood, self-doubt, mental health, relationships or personal growth isn't always the loudest thing in the room, but it's often the bravest.

The older I get, the more interested I am in honesty than image. I think audiences are craving that too.

Melbourne has always had a strong underground hip-hop culture. Looking back at the freestyle battle era, what's something younger artists today will never fully understand about earning respect before social media existed?

Back then, reputation travelled by word of mouth.

You couldn't edit a performance or hide behind an algorithm. If you said you were good, eventually someone would put a microphone in your hand and you'd have to prove it in front of real people.

There was something beautiful about that. Respect was earned one performance at a time. It was slower, but it was tangible. You knew exactly where you stood because the audience told you immediately.

Your music often feels like a conversation rather than a performance. When you're writing lyrics, are you trying to impress people, teach people, challenge people, or simply understand yourself better?

Mostly, I'm trying to understand myself.

The funny thing is that when you're honest about your own experiences, people often find pieces of themselves inside them. I'm interested in exploring.

If a lyric challenges someone, inspires someone or helps someone feel less alone, that's incredible. But it usually starts with me trying to make sense of something in my own life first.

If someone discovers Balance years from now with no context about who I.D. is, what do you hope they learn about the man behind the music before the final track fades out?

I hope they learn that I was trying to live a full life.

That I loved my family deeply. That I cared about my community. That I never stopped learning. That I believed creativity could connect people. And that success meant more than numbers, streams or recognition.

If they finish the record feeling like they've spent thirty minutes with a real person rather than a character, then I've done my job.