Words by Skylar Sanders
Mac Miller’s second posthumous album, Balloonerism, is nothing short of bittersweet. The artist’s untimely passing in 2018 at the age of 26 left fans devastated, grieving the loss of one of the most prolific and talented musicians of his generation. This sorrow is only compounded by the knowledge that Miller’s body of work was cut short alongside his life, a weight that still hangs heavily on those who found meaning in his music. Yet, in a moment that feels almost impossible, the world has received a gift—a return, of sorts—in the form of fourteen tracks that were meant to be heard over a decade ago.
Recorded in 2014, around the same time Miller released the Faces mixtape, Balloonerism was never released during his lifetime, despite his deep commitment to the project. “This was a project of great importance to Malcolm—so much so that he commissioned artwork for it and had regular discussions about its release,” his family shared in an Instagram statement. “Ultimately, GO:OD AM and the albums that followed took precedence.”
The family went on to say, “We believe this album showcases the full range of his musical talents and his fearlessness as an artist. With unofficial versions circulating online for years and knowing how often Malcolm expressed his desire to release Balloonerism, we felt it was right to finally share an official version with the world.” The album, long-awaited and much anticipated, now gives fans a chance to hear a side of Miller’s artistry that remained unfinished—until now.
The album kicks off with “Tambourine Dream,” a brief and experimental intro, stripped down to nothing but the rattling sound of a tambourine. It’s a subtle, almost eerie opening that sets the tone. But “DJ’s Chord Organ,” the second track, marks the album’s true arrival. The song unfolds with a richly layered soundscape, featuring Thundercat’s lush vocal harmonies. The heart of the track is a haunting organ chord sampled from a Daniel Johnston record, which floats under a captivating feature from SZA. Her vocals intertwine perfectly with the production, creating a seamless, almost ethereal vibe. Miller himself doesn’t enter the track until its final moments, heightening the anticipation and building a sense of tension that makes his eventual arrival feel almost inevitable.
“Do You Have A Destination?” is where Miller truly starts to shine. The opening line, “I went to sleep faded, then I woke up invisible,” immediately sets a haunting, introspective tone that echoes his eventual fate. Lines like “I gave my life to this shit, already killed myself,” play provocatively with the concept of death, a recurring theme throughout the album. The lyrics seem to eerily foreshadow his untimely passing, creating an unsettling atmosphere that makes the listening experience feel both poignant and uncomfortable. It’s a raw, almost prophetic look into Miller’s state of mind, one that’s as difficult to listen to as it is compelling.
“5 Dollar Pony Rides” explores Miller’s tangled connection with a girl who is drifting through life, unaware of what she truly wants. She sleeps through the future, lost in escapism, a theme that also resonates in “Friendly Hallucinations,” where Miller delves into the complexities of mental illness and addiction. He sings, “There’s help inside that medicine cabinet / Came in for the answers, but she left with a habit,” later adding, “They assume she’s confused with delusions she’s creatin’ / In the waitin’ room for psychiatric evaluation / She doesn’t have the patience to be treated like a patient / It’ll be okay if she just swallow this pill.”
At first, the song feels like a plea for her to confront her struggles, clean up, and come back to reality. Miller seems caught between wanting to help her and feeling frustrated with her inability to change. But as the song unfolds, it becomes clear that his feelings toward her are deeply intertwined with his own inner turmoil. The questioning line, “And if love is just a fantasy / Then what’s the problem if you fall in love with fantasy?” feels like a self-reflective moment—an expression of his longing for a love that’s elusive and emotionally out of reach, much like the girl he sings about. He’s chasing after something unattainable, unable to distinguish between fantasy and reality.
“Mrs. Deborah Downer”, the album’s sixth track, deepens the exploration of escapism, this time through the lens of drug use. The song personifies downers as a figure, framing them as a companion in Miller’s inner turmoil. With lines like “Even pills turn to powder, baby / Can you sit right next to me and crush ‘em down?” and “I lie awake faded, watch the days go by / And only at the lows do I chase that high,” the track confronts addiction with a rawness and hopelessness that cuts deep. This marks a turning point in the album, as Miller stops observing someone else’s struggle and instead speaks directly to his own destructive habits, making his vulnerability feel both stark and undeniable.
In stark contrast, “Stoned” follows with a notably more upbeat vibe, arguably one of the album’s lighter moments. While still centered on drug use and the desire to escape, the focus shifts to weed, which gives the track a more laid-back, almost carefree energy compared to the darker substances referenced elsewhere on the album. Miller addresses a girl who “hardly talks in conversation” and “makes up her bed like she makes up her stories,” capturing her isolation and emotional distance. The song serves as a sort of invitation, as Miller directly tells her, “Baby, let’s get stoned,” offering weed as a way to break through her walls and escape together, if only for a moment of relief and connection.
“Shangri-La” offers a welcome dose of comedic relief after the emotional weight of the album’s first half. Miller delivers lines like, “I wish my drug dealer took the Amex / Can’t find my debit card,” and “Oh my goodness, girl, you a milkshake, extra large,” with playful wit. But he doesn’t stop there—he gets introspective too, contemplating the almost unreal perfection of supermodels and reflecting on mortality with the line, “If I die young, promise to smile at my funeral.”
This blend of humor and introspection carries over into “Funny Papers,” which opens with Miller’s offbeat British accent as he asks, “Did no one ever teach you how to dance?” before diving into a deeply poetic reflection on life’s fleeting moments. He paints vivid pictures: a man, freshly divorced, drunkenly driving his car over a bridge to his wedding song, and a newborn baby feeling the weight of the world for the first time. With haunting lines like, “His mother cried with her lips against his soft face / Why’d she bring these bright eyes into this dark place?” the song touches on the fragility and complexity of life in a way that’s both poignant and emotionally raw.
“Excelsior” captures the essence of childhood and the loss of innocence, with the sounds of children laughing and playing in the background as Miller reflects on orphans playing on a jungle gym. He paints a nostalgic picture of a time before rules and limitations when the only enemies were brussels sprouts and spinach. He reminisces, “Before there were rules, before there were limits,” evoking the carefree days when imagination reigned. He even recalls wanting to be a wizard, a sentiment that resonates deeply with listeners—after all, in many ways, he’s always been a wizard of words and ideas, something fans certainly pick up on.
As the album transitions into “Transformations,” where Miller adopts the persona of his alter ego, Delusional Thomas, the tone shifts to a more laid-back, experimental vibe. At first, the track feels a bit out of place, but its playful, almost irreverent energy seems to be a deliberate counterpoint to the more wistful mood of the previous track. Where “Excelsior” grapples with the disillusionment of growing up and losing the magic of childhood, “Transformations” offers a reminder not to take life—or ourselves—too seriously, embracing the chaos and unpredictability of adulthood with a sense of humor.
“Manakins” opens with a raw confession from Miller, who admits, “My good days are exactly like the bad ones,” a sentiment that cuts through the surface of everyday life and digs at something deeper. He confesses his fear of becoming “normal,” caught in the tension between the desire to be unique and the anxiety of being lost in the crowd. As he sings, “Things that we all search for end up findin’ us / God is like the school bell, he gon’ tell you when your time is up,” he frames life with a haunting simplicity—something we make far more complex than it ever needs to be. There’s a childlike clarity to the way he views the world, before we burden it with layers of expectation and uncertainty.
Miller speaks of seeing “the light at the end of the tunnel,” a metaphor that feels especially poignant here, so close to the album’s conclusion, and oddly prophetic in the way it foreshadows his own fate. It’s a line that resonates with the echoes of his larger body of work, where he often grappled with themes of mortality and the fleeting nature of life. In this track, it’s as if he’s trying to make sense of it all, or perhaps, just to accept that some things can’t be understood. The light, both a symbol of hope and inevitable conclusion, hangs over the song like an unspoken truth, giving it a sense of quiet, inevitable finality.
This theme of acceptance and uncertainty is revisited in “Rick’s Piano,” where Miller offers a more optimistic and introspective outlook on his life’s direction. He acknowledges that the future is unclear, but with a sense of hope, he declares, “The best is yet to come.” True to his self-aware nature, he sings, “Please don’t give me any credit, that’s how people get jaded / Please don’t nod your head, and please don’t tell me I made it.” His reluctance to embrace accolades or bask in his success speaks to a humility and self-awareness that sets him apart. He’s grounded in the understanding that fame and success don’t exempt him from being human—that they don’t shield him from the potential to lose sight of his creativity or identity. This refusal to rest on his laurels, this open acknowledgment of his fears, reveals a profound vulnerability and a conscious effort to protect himself from the very forces that often corrupt artists. It’s as if he’s laying his cards on the table, saying, “I see it all, and I’m not blind to where it could lead.”
The album reaches its most unsettling point with “Tomorrow Will Never Know,” a nearly twelve-minute journey that feels more like a conversation between Miller and the universe itself. With lines like “You can try your best escaping, the universe is breaking / You say you can’t take it no more / The pressure is building like buildings you jumped from / Wishing that wishing could lift this conundrum,” it paints a vivid picture of existential despair, one that feels almost inevitable. While many of the tracks throughout this album carry a melancholic weight, none are as raw and intense as this final piece. There is no resolution, no tidy closure—only the sound of a ringing phone, the layers of music slowly stripping away, and a gradual fade into emptiness. It’s a haunting, unfinished echo that lingers long after the album ends, reflecting the uncertainty of life itself.Balloonerism isn’t just a posthumous album—it’s a window into the soul of an artist who was still evolving. Each track feels like a conversation with Mac Miller, raw and unfiltered, revealing parts of himself that were never fully realized. The album’s unfinished nature makes it even more powerful, a haunting reminder of the brilliance we lost far too soon. Balloonerism isn’t just music; it’s Mac’s final, unapologetic statement, leaving us to reckon with both the beauty of what was and the tragedy of what could have been.
Loudspeaker Collective 