Mac Miller is shorter than you’d expect.

When the hip-hop star wanders into the lavishly appointed basement bar/club in one of New York’s long list of Nuevo-swank hotels (Dark lights! Leather chesterfields! A painting of Sid Vicious!), he’s flanked by a coterie of friends and seems to — despite the multitude of tattoos, and now-familiar bonce — almost sink into the crowd.

Of course, the crowd doesn’t let him. They’re all here quite specifically to see the rapper, and, supposedly, listen to his new record, Swimming, in full. So the rapper is instantly pulled in a million directions at once, dragged into and throwing out pound hugs like they’re respek confetti.

Because Mac Miller — one-time-face-of-underground-frat-rap-and-beloved-by-the-sort-of-people-who-lose-their-shit-at-the-mention-of-the-word-‘mixtape’-turned-seriously-big-hip-hop-artist — is now A Certified Big Deal.

Like…A Very Big Deal

A lot of that has to do with the fastidious impressiveness of his last two albums, 2015’s GO:OD AM and 2016’s quite excellent The Divine Feminine… but more, at least in the eyes of people who decide such things, has to do with the fact that he dated Ariana Grande for two years.

It’s weird. An unctuous stoner-rap phenom covered in tattoos from Pittsburgh — America’s blue-collar totem — is now the sort of figure that provokes the sort of aggregated stories that scream their nothingness into the void: ‘Mac Miller Lets Loose On Ex’s New Man’ or ‘Ariana Grande ex-Mac Miller Shares Thoughts On Her Engagement’ and the like.

The sort of stories that offer little that’s new — or news — but don’t let that get in the way of cribbing quotes and desperately trying to tie in social media posts to derive some sort of meaning and attribute it to the parties involved.

“And forget the tattoos and studied relaxed stature: the most shocking part of Mac Miller is that he’s wearing Adidas sandals with socks.”

(That he’s a Big Deal isn’t to do with the fact he once got into a Twitter-screaming match with the now-President of the United States of America — who subsequently threatened to sue a then-19-year-old rapper for making fun of him, which gives endless insight to the USA’s current commander in chief — is pretty impressive.)

See, part of the Big Deal is that Mac and Ariana broke up — amicably, from all reports — but now the Disney star is ALREADY ENGAGED TO HER NEW MAN! The shock and horror of such a situation clearly calls for a deep dive into HOW MAC MUST FEEL. Cue the shitstorm of badly worded stories and an army of armchair twitter psychologists voicing their shitty opinions. This is what it’s like to be famous in 2018.

But here in this exclusive, kinda over-the-top listening party, there’s a respectful distance held by those in attendance… even if most people’s eyes are casually trained primarily on the rapper while he sips water and talks with friends — the cream of New York hip hop/media cognoscenti — who seperate from the morass of gleefully double-fisting onlookers (er, me) to say ‘hi’ as he bounces up and down off the couch time and again while a DJ plays a selection of classic hip hop.

And forget the tattoos and studied relaxed stature: the most shocking part of Mac Miller is that he’s wearing Adidas sandals with socks.

Anyway. The setting for this bonkers listening party is just as convoluted and contrary as Mac Miller himself: there’s a giant fluro punk skeleton painting and Banksy rip offs everywhere.

While wait staff circle with a faintly ridiculous array of hors d’oeuvres — one of the trays of lobster rolls alone probably has a street value of, like, $1k, and the fig and camembert crostinis are amazing — the entire thing is juuuuuuust over-the-top enough to feel classy.

But it’s an interesting mix, as there’s no chance of it being called ‘snooty’ thanks to a drinks menu featuring signature Mac Miller-themed cocktails made with, uh, flavoured Red Bull. (Orange and bourbon for ‘Swimming’, coconut-berry and vodka for ‘Wings’ and, um, ‘yellow edition’ and tequila made ‘Jet Fuel’… ‘Wings’ was the only one that didn’t coat your throat in industrial waste and make you feel like you should fight some guy named Jeremy. But hey, I’m never going to turn down free booze.)

Now, To The Listening

Still, after Mac grabs a mic and offers up a quick welcome and thanks for coming to listen to his album, the listening party eases into familiar territory: music industry schmoozing while trying to put away as many free drinks as possible while perfunctorily taking notes on Swimming, the album we’re all ostensibly there to listen to.

And the cool thing is… it’s good. Really good.

See, on The Divine Feminine, Mac Miller honed his wonky chill-rap to a fine point — ‘Stay’ and ‘Cinderella’ being among two of the best examples — and opened up the curtains on his personality beyond brashly stating who he thought he was, and instead gave insight into who Mac Miller was as he confronted inner demons, flaws and the trappings of success head on and in full view. That comes even more to the fore on Swimming: a wide-scope slab of impressively raw feelings and self-doubt.

Wait staff circle with a faintly ridiculous array of hors d’oeuvres — one of the trays of lobster rolls alone probably has a street value of $1k.

While Mac Miller’s the sort of artist — thanks to bouts of sobriety — whose every new album is him ‘opening up’, the honesty and emotions he hits on throughout Swimming are nothing if not bracing and, one has to assume, supremely real and hard won.

There’s heart on sleeve, then there’s just gouging open your chest and showing it to everyone… and while Swimming falls definitely in the latter category, Mac is (crucially) charming and smart enough to not lay it out in easily digestible tidbits. He’s talented enough to make you work for it.

As for the music, ‘Conversation pt 1’ and ‘Hurt Feelings’ are all low-key groove, there’s slippery Timberlake soul on ‘What’s the Use?’ and ‘2009’ vibes out on some whack organ and keys before turning into fire, all while Mac’s treacly flow voices plentiful pain, regret and frustration.

There’s plenty of chill in ‘Wings’ and ‘Dunno’, ‘Ladders’ kicks off with a singalong chant and descends into a dirty body trembling low, while the wobbly musical grin of ‘Small Worlds’ belies Mac being reflecting on his newfound status, clucking “The world is so small/Til it aint” and ‘”You never told me/Being rich was so lonely”, all while a gentle strumming slow jam kicks underneath it.

Tellingly, everyone in the room vibes hard on the single ‘Self Care’ — because it’s a monster — but one of the album’s highlights is undoubtedly the moment when the single switches pace from a choppy swell and spirals off into the stratosphere and becomes a meditative swirl of icy synths in its second half.

Meanwhile, as the album plays out in full from start to finish, Mac circles the room with a constant bevy of photo-seekers and well-wishers trailing in his wake as he seemingly makes a point to talk to everyone in the room; at one point, he drags behind Craig Jenkins (one of the best culture writers going) and ducks out to change into a hoodie to make himself less conspicuous.

Being Mac Miller

And you can understand why. It looks exhausting being Mac Miller. The party itself is crazy — the surrounds are nuts, the never-ending array of food is impeccable, and the free cocktails make for some wobbly grins and dubious selfies — but at every turn he’s dragged into a photo or another pound hug and obligatory few words (including with your humble correspondent) and then being beseeched upon for another photo with well-wishers.

It doesn’t stop until he sits on the corner of one of the leather chesterfields with Rembert Browne (one of the best writers going, full stop) for a five minute breather… then it all kicks back in with a new-found fervour as people realise the album is ending and they might not get a photo with real life famous person and Big Deal, Mac Miller.

At every turn Mac is dragged into a photo or another pound hug and obligatory few words.

That Mac takes it all in stride and with such gleeful aplomb is a credit to the guy; there’s a genuine smile plastered on his face all night, and he obviously relishes hanging out with mates, mates-adjacent and catching up with folks while being congratulated on Swimming… The energy it takes is telling, but he keeps on powering through like a hip-hop Energizer Bunny.

When the last strains of ‘So It Goes’ fade away in a smash of organ, Mac grabs the ever present mic — which he had cradled at different parts of the playback, almost as though he wanted to join in over the top, and at other times almost using it as a comfort mechanism — and once again thanks the crowd for listening.

And at this point, as Mac slips off and the crowd slowly disperses, buzzed to fuck on flavoured energy drink cocktails and fancy food, it’s easy to see how ‘Mac Miller tabloid fodder’ is a crock of shit; in front of us isn’t just a guy who fought with the President and dated someone famous. He’s an artist hoping to hell that everyone digs something he’s bared his soul on. And Swimming is plenty diggable.

Even if he’s shorter than you’d expect.

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Jaymz Clements is a New York-based writer, super-yacht enthusiast, hi-tech jewel thief and Bengal tiger trainer. He tweets at @jaymzclements.