Remembering Mac Miller 10 Years After K.I.D.S
I think about Mac Miller a lot. This week, I’ve gone into overload.
On Wednesday (April 29), K.I.D.S, his 2010 seminal mixtape that contained all the songs of my teenage years, was finally released on streaming services. I’m now going on my second month of quarantine, and as I mentioned last week, my brain has been doing a lot of regressing when it comes to the music I’m listening to. I’m looking to what feels comforting, rather than what is new. With K.I.D.S finally at my fingertips, and my laptop playing a constant loop of “Kool Aid & Frozen Pizza,” I feel like I’m finally ready to confront my feelings about Mac Miller once and for all.
Obviously, I’m aware of how dramatic this all sounds. I didn’t even actually know him.
In my 24 years, I’ve witnessed numerous musicians pass away. I’ve watched the tributes on television, listened to half-hearted covers of their hits on the radio, and heard my father declare “There will never be another like him!” I remember I was on a cruise with my family when news came on in our cabin that Michael Jackson had slipped into a coma. I was in summer camp when I found out that Amy Winehouse had died from alcohol poisoning. Ironically, my best friend Chloe had already been rehearsing “Rehab” for our end of summer senior musical. She still performed it a few days later.
Still, something about Mac Miller’s death affects me in a way those others didn’t. I can’t even type this without referring to him by his first and last name, which I feel like is the kind of status afforded to only the coolest of people. He first came onto my radar when I was in high school; this guy from nowhere remarkable, who didn’t exactly look like a Jonas brother. Instead, he came with this sound that seemed tailor made for suburban kids (who admittedly were not as rebellious or delinquent as they thought they were but liked to pretend none the less).
He became the anthem to every basement party and every aimless drive we took just to prove we had our licenses. You can call it “frat rap” like so many others did, but I’d strongly disagree. His music was actually pretty innovative, creating this lazy, carefree sound that was somehow very meticulous and intentional. We heard him rap about smoking weed and eating yogurt on “Senior Skip Day,” and thought we had never heard something so hilarious. Each day could be the “Best Day Ever” because Mac Miller declared it so.
But is that a legacy? If I asked my parents, would they even know his name? I admit that when I went off to college, he was kind of like a high school friend I lost touch with; someone I felt like I had outgrown. And just like a friend I’d lost touch with; I’d check in on him every now and again. He was dating Ariana Grande? Interesting. His song with Anderson .Paak? I was pleasantly surprised.
I didn’t start really taking note again until he released Swimming. It was painful, raw, and nothing like the carefree Mac Miller from my childhood. He was weathered and beaten down by inner demons he was just managing to keep at bay. I started rooting for him again. We got back in touch.
I didn’t have any profound reaction almost two years ago when I found out he died. He was only 26; just two years older than I am now. I think my friends and I played his music that night at a pregame and voiced how sad we all were, but as time has gone on, I can’t seem to get over him.
Maybe I think about him a lot because Mac Miller seemed untouchable. He represented some of the most careless moments of my life, where I was unaware anything “bad” could ever happen. To me, he would always exist in this perfect memory bubble I had created. Him dying so young was wrong; it didn’t follow the script of the way things are supposed to go. But then again, nothing really does. After all, I’m sitting here writing this during a pandemic; hiding from a virus that is changing the world.
Lately I’ve learned that accepting does not mean the same thing as “getting over.” I think accepting means you finally stop resisting the reality presented in front of you. I’ve had to do a lot of accepting lately. Each day practically demands the acceptance that things are not the same; that they might never be. I’ll never “get over” what’s happening right now, and I think to do so would completely miss the point. I’d miss the chance to grow.
Revisiting K.I.D.S. this week, where the Mac Miller of my childhood will forever be immortalized, doesn’t feel dark or haunting. In fact, I feel lighter than I have in a while. I feel a newfound appreciation for the relationship my friends and I had with his music. He has helped me finally learn to find the good in the things I can’t control; the beauty in adjusting. For everything that changes, there are certain things that remain untouchable, and those are the things you can carry with you. In the case of Mac Miller, it’s his music and the incredible memories it left me. That’s not something to get over. It’s something to celebrate.