On Music…
At the time of writing, it’s the 10th anniversary of Mac Miller’s breakout, the start of his first creative renaissance, K.I.D.S.. August 13, 2010 was a very special day in the lives of us MacHeads. It would mark the moment Malcolm came into the first distinct version of Mac Miller. It was a glorious occasion filled with sunny raps and an incomparable warmth. The 10th anniversary was met with a deluxe release of the mixtape of streaming, which featured two sweet new songs with the line “Just Malcolm” on the second, “Back In The Day,” to really give our hearts something to bleed over. After three listens to the deluxe, I shift gears and go further back in time, back to 2009 and Mac Miller’s The Jukebox mixtape. Eleven years on, it remains a sleeper hit of a project.
I’m not here to discuss the merits and excitement bubbling around The Jukebox. I already did that during Year Of Mac. I already explained how The Jukebox was the prelude to Malcolm’s prolific career. Instead, I’d like to talk to everyone about the merit of going back in time during an era where we’re all struggling to stay current. Of course, there’s a comfort in returning to personal classics. But there’s more to old mixtapes than their sterling status. Right now, I believe most music heads are desperately seeking some sense of stability—if not all people, in general. Returning to projects we haven’t heard in months or longer can be something of an event. Treating it as such presents a tangible sense of relaxation.
I didn’t plan to listen to The Jukebox today, but I poured myself a tea (hibiscus green) and embarked anyway. As the drink warmed up my body, the music lit up my spirit. Hearing Mac’s younger, raspier, try-hardier voice admittedly made me tear up, but it also brought me a great sense of peace. There was a life before all of this. And that means there will be a life after the dust settles. The Jukebox is riddled with technical imperfections and dated production, and I love it for those two reasons. Perfection is boring. I love hearing Mac Miller literally mold himself from song to song into the artist we know and love today. I love the punchlines. I love the crassness. I love the easy and youthful feeling of this project.
Old mixtapes are, of course, time capsules. Sounds change, people change, voices mature. You only do your Big L-meets-Lil-Wayne impression once. You only get to go on the rough and rugged mixtape circuit once before your debut comes in with the polish. The Jukebox is a gem without varnish, one that shines without it, too. I try not to make a habit of listening to it too often—the same with The High Life—just so I can remain surprised by its raw twists and turns. It may not be 2009 no more, but I can still step back in time and relive the joy of having someone say to me, “Have you heard of Mac Miller?” I can relive the happiness of finding him on Datpiff and feeling like I’ve unlocked the door to a better life.
There’s ritual and ceremony to putting on an old tape—that’s why I made my fancy tea. I feel a great sense of relief listening to The Jukebox, because I don’t have to have a take. I get to enjoy a timestamp of an era. I get to bask in the glory of Malcolm coming into himself. There’s no pretense or pressure when you’re listening to old tapes. It’s an entirely pure experience free of the hassle of socials and the intensity of being on your A-game with other heads. Old tapes are all about you and your enjoyment. In that way, they’re sacred. The Jukebox is a golden ticket to calmness and smiles. Even at Mac’s most aggressive—for his early days—the tape is a beacon of happiness. Things were simpler, life was breezier. Now, all we can do is look back and grin. It’s not 2009, but we’ll never forget the times.