My parents remember where they were when man first stepped on the moon. I remember exactly where I was when I first heard the unique drawl of the Streets’ Mike Skinner. Not as globally exciting but still life-changing, I swear.

I was sitting in a lecture for a music subject I was studying: Sex, Drugs & Rock’n’Roll, part of my bachelor of fine arts in acting.

I’d never really cared about rap or hip-hop. I just didn’t get it. As a half-African kid who grew up in middle-class suburban Brisbane, I really couldn’t connect to the guns and bling. It all oozed of too much insecure bravado.

The lecturer wanted to show a room of disinterested actors what a modern-day ballad might sound like. Suddenly, sitting in that stuffy lecture room I was transported to the streets of Birmingham, walking home with a heroin addict doing their best to look at the bright side of life. It wasn’t really any more relatable to me, but at least it was understated. It seemed real. A world where the characters aren’t living a lavish life on boats with models, but standing around the pool table on the weekend arguing about the differences between alcohol and weed.

These were the stories of someone who didn’t know what type of greasy food to stuff their face with after too many drinks. Someone who couldn’t dance but didn’t hold back on the floor at their favourite bar. Someone who had neglected his girlfriend one too many times.

I wasn’t a heroin addict, but I was most of these people. In the two or so years I’d considered myself an adult, I’d made exactly the same mistakes as Mike had, and I immediately realised how exciting poetry set to music could be.

Most songs are deliberately vague to reach as many people as possible, affecting the listener via their own personal interpretation. But not rap. Rap tells you exactly what’s going on. Where the writer’s been. What they’re doing. What they want. It’s just a matter of understanding the language.

The Streets were like a gateway. One day it’s a cheeky listen of Don’t Mug Yourself behind the sheds at school. Next minute I’m freebasing Run the Jewels. Once you understand the nature of rap, it all suddenly changes.

People hate rap because of the bravado, but for me that’s one of the most exciting things about it. Like the fiery banter between fighters at a boxing weigh-in, it’s all for show. Nobody would care about Conor McGregor if he walked around saying, “Oh, I guess I’m OK at fighting, but Nate Diaz will destroy me if he knows my left guard isn’t up to scratch right now ... ” You’ve gotta come out swinging, claiming to be the best – not because you are, but because it raises the stakes. And when the stakes are high, people start watching.

I downloaded Original Pirate Material the moment I got home from that lecture; I picked up their next five albums over the following seven years. I saw the Streets live three times and once got a shout-out on one of Mike Skinner’s online videos. I started making really bad bedroom bangers that were so obviously bad imitations that I occasionally listen back to them if I ever feel too good about my own talents.

But I’m still making music, and I’ve gotten much better. I released a track a few weeks ago and it doesn’t sound like the Streets – but I wouldn’t have made it without them.

I didn’t have any money for that first Streets album download way back then. I risked giving my old Pentium some of the world’s stankiest viruses by using LimeWire. Original Pirate Material was my original pirate material.

• Matt Okine’s Australian standup tour begins on the Gold Coast on 17 September. He hosts breakfasts on Triple J with Alex Dyson