I wouldn’t be content with a life spent singing in the shower.
There’s something in that daydream-make my-world-complete sort of way about not just doing the thing I love but sharing that thing with other people.
And yet, the sharing part has always been the hardest.
This is ironic for a number of reasons, but the chief one being that we’ve lived in an age of unencumbered sharing for what is now the majority of my life.
It all started with away messages – “brb walking my dog” – harmless enough. Then came the “Status Update,” a much-maligned innovation to the original Facebook that turned a game of relational popularity (aka how many people had written on your wall) into one of self-proclamation1.
Fast forward 20 years (!!) and, well, we’ve got Twitter Presidents and Podcast Bros.
The truth is, we all love to share. And while David from a decade ago would have made some self-righteous claim about quality control, the fact that not everyone deserves or needs a soapbox, we must accept that it is simply our reality – and I am currently standing on a soapbox.
So why is this so difficult for me – and for so many musicians/artists/writers/people who’ve spent their whole life practicing a craft?
Fear is the obvious answer here. It’s the cage we set up for ourselves that we then spend a lifetime trying to break free of. It’s the thing that helps us care so damn much, makes us worth listening to in a constant stream of content and newsfeeds.
You see, I’m of the belief that we’re always just repeating the same series of patterns and challenges, each time slightly same-same-but-different enough as we cycle slowly upwards through life. It’s a bit like reaching that next level in Super Mario: new music, new world, maybe some new doodads to deal with, but the same two buttons. We run around and jump over/onto/into things, and that’s pretty much it.
I find myself restarting a cycle these days, in a new world that’s pretty much the same as the last one. The only real difference is that this time I know I’ve been here before. I’ve gained some awareness and experience.
Which brings us to the double album that has had perhaps the most direct influence on how this new musical world sounds: Swimming In Circles by Mac Miller.
I originally knew Mac’s name from the bunch of frat rappers that emerged when I was in college, never really distinguishing him from the Asher Roths and Sammy Adamses that were, frankly, not worth distinguishing.
It wasn’t until 2018s Swimming that I took notice. What caught me at first was the music: these weren’t your typical beats. You had the programmed drums, the trap hi hats, chopped up samples and rhythmic ad libs – but shit, was that Thundercat?
The harmonies were jazz-tinged, the mood hazy but danceable, the live horns almost indistinguishable from the modded out synthesizers. There were spacey atmospheric tunes straight from a Justin Vernon side project (Wings) that led right into something like a Quincy Jones disco orchestration (Ladders). The sound was leaned back but self-assured, thoroughly modern but steeped in the classics, flowing through grooves that all matched perfectly to the mood of driving confidently through a lost and confusing day.
In other words, it sounded exactly like the moment. And at the center of it all was Malcolm.
Of course, I didn’t know the guy – but still I feel compelled to call him by his real name. Why? The way he used his voice, the way he shared.
“My regrets look just like texts I shouldn’t send I’ve got neighbors they’re more like strangers we could be friends I just need a way out of my head I’ll do anything for a way out of my head.”
That’s how the record opens, half-rapped in a melodic style that’s clearly steeped in hip hop delivery – but almost more like “crooning” than the Drake rap-sing style of the day. There are no drums, just jazz harmonies that almost never repeat themselves, lush synths that echo back both to Stevie Wonder’s golden period and Dr. Dre’s G-funk – plus a wurli, layered vocals, and holy shit that bass, dancing and fluttering around, more a counterpoint to the vocal melody than a traditional bass line.
His voice is earnest but confident with lyrics more akin to something from an indie singer songwriter, looking inwards with precision and poeticism. He’s not a trained singer. And it doesn’t matter. He’s real; he’s open; he’s using his words and his voice to express his emotions, and we feel them because of their complete lack of self-consciousness — but also through the countless years he’s put in training his mode of expression, afraid of being counted out as just another one of those frat rappers.
As the album moves through titles like “Hurt Feelings,” “What’s The Use,” and “Self Care,” we move more in the direction of traditional hip hop but still covering ground of inner turmoil with a sort of bravado and poise – the rhythmic attack of his words, the humblebrags, the casualness of his flow – that leans more free and easy than the Xanny Rap of XXXTentacion, that’s more specific about the day to day experiences than just the surface level pain.
Now remember, this is 2018. Collective doom was still very much in the air, but we hadn’t reached that pandemic era point of regularly discussing our trauma and anxiety openly with each other all the time (at least not outside of Los Angeles and Liberal Arts Colleges). And here was someone not just expressing himself honestly, but he was doing so without self-loathing – with a sense of humor, a sense of fun, a sense of wistful optimism even.
Then came the tragedy. But even something so final as a life cut short didn’t bring ultimate finality to his output. Because then came Circles just two years later, the companion piece. The record that saw him go further with exploring the genre-melding, the crooning use of his voice, the expression of his sense of self through cycles that he’d just begun to recognize as never ending, simply a part of the game.
As I begin album number two, wracked with a sense that I didn’t think I’d be here again (aka stressed, unsure, wired on coffee), it’s the recognition of this moment that gives me the confidence I need to express myself openly. I worry about my voice, about blending genres, finding a style, being cool enough for the cool kids to think I fit in.
I thought I was done with all that. But maybe seeing that I’m here again is all I need to move up to that next level. It’s just the same two buttons, and I’ve gotten a lot better at pushing them.
To Be Continued…
I remember laughing at the idea of Twitter when I first heard it, signing up only to taunt my more-with-it friends with the banality of my updates: stream of conscious Jack Handy-isms about my daily bowel movements.