![]() ![]() This is the first that has a happy ending," he'd said with pride.Įven though it'd been there before, I couldn't see the loop coming back around. "Every album I've ever made has ended in death besides this one. He was singing in sessions with musicians and transforming into something-someone-new. He was no longer a rapper tied to a rhythm. With Divine Feminine, Mac broke free of loops. I didn't even notice the part where he told me, "My mind is a crazy place and being fucked up all the time is way easier than embracing myself." It just seemed irrelevant. With a woman, yes, but moreover with the world. He'd just moved from Brooklyn to Los Angeles, an inveterate studio shut-in looking for a fresh start out under the sun. Sleep was no cousin of death to Mac it was the engine of life, and a sign that a little hard-won peace had come. For exactly 61 bright-eyed days and heavy-lidded nights, he had, in his words, done good. He was sober then, around the release of The Divine Feminine. He likened his career to that of a farmer and wouldn't shut up about how great trees are. But the Mac that I met wasn't some bleak, drug-addled fatalist. He's been rapping about his early demise for about as long as he's been famous, and it's impossible to ignore the details of his last proper music video, "Self Care"-him in a coffin, carving "memento mori" into the pine before punching his way out of the earth. It's easy to focus on Mac's morbidity if all you have to go on is his art. ![]() I lay my head on the pillow like, 'I did good today.' I used lay down and be like, 'I hate myself.' I'd stay up and watch every single Netflix show, but I haven't even been watching TV. "My favorite thing about life right now is that I can go to sleep. I like to get home and be tired," he said through a cigarette as if his circadian rhythm was a thing he found on the far side of Mars. ![]() "Being able to just have a life and be out in the world. He'd get up mid-sentence, walk out to the parking lot, balance his coffee on a pylon, and burn half a matchbook trying to light up, talking and smiling through the whole dumb ordeal. It became a routine during our 2016 talk at a Burbank café two years ago nearly to the day he died-as much as anything can in a couple hours. When I met Mac Miller, he was smoking a menthol, squinting into the sun, and grinning like an idiot. ![]()
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