Mac Miller Was the Soundtrack of My First Love
I couldn’t sleep last night. I knew, as a music journalist, I would have to wake up and reconcile with the death of one of my favorite musicians, Mac Miller. He wasn’t ever someone I took for granted. He was, and remains, a living part of one of my closest relationships.
The last time I saw Mac Miller was less than two months ago, at the album listening session for his final album, Swimming. I spent most of the night with Craig Jenkins, who wrote what is likely the last profile of Mac Miller. In a small group, we tried our best to scream through a conversation over a very loud mix of old-school and recent tracks. Mac, who I had never spoken to before, wore the comfiest fit possible on a rainy Wednesday in late July, from a white sweatshirt drawn up around his head, down to white tube socks and slides.
I’m not one to speculate on mindframes, but in spite of some understandable nerves and jitters, he looked at ease. He was surrounded by people who loved and supported him, like his publicist Nick Dierl and writer Rembert Browne. I didn’t feel comfortable sidling up to him and spilling my story. Looking back, I wish I had pushed past my hesitation and spoken up, because his music was the soundtrack to the first time I fell in love.
I was fresh into grad school — yes, I was a late bloomer — when I met Chip. The year was 2012, and we were in the same program: Mass communication at Texas State. I knew his name because he was a columnist for our school paper, The University Star. I aspired to be like him, this gangly, balding white man around my age who had one of the most infectious laughs I’ve ever heard.
March 2012, Mac Miller’s Macadelic was released. It was drug-induced, per Mac himself, but unworrying. It was relatable, with its equitable highs and lows. It was explorative in a way that Mac had not yet ventured. A couple months after it dropped, Chip and I found ourselves at an end-of-year shindig at a professor’s house. We finally had our first real conversation; I remember going back and forth with him about a Childish Gambino line that I thought was in one song, but wound up being in another. I wasn’t easily stumped, and I was impressed that this white boy knew something about hip-hop that I didn’t.
Soon after, as I moved into my new apartment with another grad school classmate, Chip sent me a text. He told me he wasn’t trying to court me, but he had to make one thing clear: He wanted me in his life. From that moment on, we became nearly inseparable. Friends at school speculated wildly about what was going on between us, but it was always just, “That’s the homie,” from both of us.
After grad school ended, I moved to Austin, 15 minutes away from Chip, rather than being a city away. That year, June 2013, Mac released Watching Movies With the Sound Off. This is the project that brought Chip and me closer together than ever before. I would regularly drive over to his apartment: Modest, minimally decorated, and occupied by two cats, plenty of beer, and gargantuan floor speakers. We would sprawl comfortably across the space, being occasionally walked over by delicate paws or sniffed by sandpaper noses. Amidst the attention-seeking felines, we would just listen. To many things, but mostly Mac.
He would travel with us to local spots across the city, until one night when things shifted from platonic to romantic. We were leaving a dive bar and Chip was set to take me home. “Suplexes Inside of Complexes and Duplexes” came on as soon as we settled in the air conditioning, and we met eyes and kissed, for the first time. It was pure. It was unmotivated by any ulterior motives. It was just a moment that needed (and was bound) to happen, and wouldn’t have happened without the level of familiarity that had already been established between the three of us.
I fell for Chip after that, and it stayed that way until I chose to move halfway across the country for an internship. The three months that I was supposed to be away turned into three years, and now into five years and counting. Throughout those years, we’ve grown apart and back together time and again. The connective tissue that bound us from then to now is Mac Miller. A new loosie, a new album, a new production style, a new personality — we reveled in it all.
I was supposed to interview Mac about Swimming, and I couldn’t wait to tell Chip:
there’s a chance i might do a feature on him
Feature as in interview?
as in spend-all-day-with-him interview
…………..
i’m writing a pitch now, i’m praying they OK it
I’m flying up there!
hahahaha PLEASE DO. what’s something you’d wanna know/hear about in a mac feature?
You gotta give me a minute. I’m winded
It was a big moment for both of us. Chip had long lived vicariously through me. Riding through Austin together, we had grown close to Mac and other artists through their music. I became closer to these musicians through my trajectory, while he continued to make connections through his car and the open road.
That interview never happened. Thinking about what I would have asked, I’m reminded of the last time I saw Mac: Cheerful, youthful, seemingly fulfilled, even after a couple of rocky months. The listening session scene brought back memories of the meet-and-greets I used to frequent as a teen and early 20-something. I used to be someone that pounced on those events, someone who stayed late after shows consistently for the opportunity to briefly tell the performing artists how much they meant to me.
As of late, I’ve been closer to artists than I’ve ever been; I’ve also been more passive than ever before. I used to pride myself on meeting as many of my favorite artists as possible. Now, I feel as though my career choice has automatically stripped me of the passion I’ve long held for hip-hop and its makers.
I realize now that before I’m a journalist, I’m a fan. I got into this game for a reason: Because I wanted to express and explicate how meaningful this artform is, and can be. It doesn’t have to be all criticism all the time. Sometimes, we can just be cognizant of our passion and allow it to be what the fuck it is. Sometimes, we can call it like we see it, and tip our hats meaningfully to the people who have changed our lives.
Mac made an unrealistic love story real. He gave Chip and me a chance to access a love deeper than one I had ever felt before, one that existed completely outside of sex or even a relationship. With each piece of music released, we built on an intangible intimacy and made it stronger, even five years after I moved thousands of miles away. We won’t have Mac to guide us album by album, year by year, but he’s given us the foundation to continue evolving our relationship. I just wish I could have thanked him for it.
