I didn’t sit down to write this. I sat down to listen. I put Mac Miller on shuffle with no plan or angle, and somewhere between K.I.D.S. and Swimming, it hit me: I had been underestimating just how much he carried. Years after his passing, the records don’t feel archived; they feel present, as if they’ve grown up alongside me and now speak back with renewed patience and clarity. That’s why I’m writing this — because revisiting his catalog tonight reminded me how rare it is for an artist to make you feel understood this steadily, this long after they’re gone.
Mac Miller, born Malcolm James McCormick, died on Sep. 7, 2018, at just 26 years old. He was found unresponsive at his Los Angeles home, and the coroner later confirmed his death as an accidental overdose from fentanyl, cocaine, and alcohol. The news was sudden and devastating, a moment that froze the music world in grief. In the years since, details of counterfeit pills and criminal cases have only underscored the senselessness of the loss. But beyond the headlines, what remains is the music — and the feeling that it still grows with you.
From the very beginning, Miller’s ear for collaboration and experimentation made him stand apart. “The Spins,” from K.I.D.S., is built on a sample of Empire of the Sun’s “Half Mast (Slight Return),” a shimmering indie pop track reimagined as a carefree rap track about youth and possibility. That flip wasn’t just clever sampling; it was a sign of his openness, pulling different sounds into his orbit before anyone expected him to.
As his artistry matured, he built entire new worlds with collaborators who pushed him into new emotional territory. The Divine Feminine is still one of the most underrated examples of this — a record where Anderson .Paak lights up “Dang!” with an infectious groove, Miguel lends smoothness to “Weekend,” CeeLo Green lifts the gospel-infused “We,” and Kendrick Lamar delivers a cerebral, barbed verse on “God Is Fair, Sexy, Nasty.” These went beyond just features and became extensions of Miller’s intent to explore love, intimacy, and fragility with a newfound openness.
His work with Ariana Grande is often reduced to tabloid headlines, but musically, it holds real significance. Their 2013 hit “The Way” was more than a stepping stone for Grande’s pop career — it was also a showcase for Mac’s charisma in a mainstream lane, his verse punctuating the song with charm. Years later, “My Favorite Part,” a duet from The Divine Feminine, carried the intimacy of their real-life relationship, a slow jam that showed Miller’s softer, more romantic side. Together, the two songs captured very different but equally authentic facets of his artistry.
And then came Swimming. By 2018, Mac was threading funk, jazz, and soul into his rap with a confidence that felt both playful and reflective. Thundercat’s elastic bassline powered “What’s the Use?,” giving Mac a canvas for one of his smoothest deliveries. Their chemistry at NPR’s Tiny Desk remains one of the most beloved live sets on the internet, a performance that feels more like a time capsule of joy. After his death, producer Jon Brion finished Circles with meticulous care, ensuring that Mac’s vision for the twin albums — Swimming and Circles, conceived as two halves of one thought — reached listeners as intended. When stitched together, they feel like a dialogue cut short mid-sentence.
It’s the lyrics that stay with me most. On “Best Day Ever,” he rapped, “No matter where life takes me, find me with a smile,” a line that became a mantra of youthful optimism. Two years later, on “Come Back to Earth,” he said, “I was drowning, but now I’m swimming through stressful waters to relief.” And on “2009,” he admitted, “I don’t need to lie no more, nowadays all I do is shine, take a breath and ease my mind.” These weren’t just passing lines; they were confessions of someone trying to work out the balance between light and dark, and between chaos and calm. Listening now, they feel like fragments of self-preservation disguised as songs.
The tragedy of his death will always be tied to what was lost — the music he hadn’t yet made, the evolution we’ll never hear. But what feels just as important is what he left us. His catalog doesn’t sit like a museum of past hits; it feels alive, still shifting, still offering comfort and clarity. Every collaboration, every lyric, every experiment adds up to something more than influence or success: it adds up to presence. I didn’t press play, expecting all of this. But Miller’s music met me where I was, the way it always has. That’s the gift he left behind — not perfection, but perspective. He once wrote, “People change and things go wrong, but just remember: life goes on.” And even though he isn’t here, his music makes sure it does.
Leave a Reply