How the Rising Rapper MIKE Became More Boundless Than Fan Expectations

I speak to Brooklyn’s MIKE while he’s lounging in the Netherlands before another show on his ongoing Somebody Fine Me Trouble Tour, on which he’ll traverse Europe and then the United States through May. He tells me that he’s enjoying his time overseas so far.

“We hit a lot of places I never performed at,” he says. “It’s always cool going to different places and [seeing] what the younger crowd looks like in certain countries.” But he tells me it hasn’t been completely smooth sailing. He says that tourists have to take their time to find good food overseas, bemoaning “a night where niggas was just eating unlimited veggie hot dogs.” He notes, “Hella shit is banned out here that’s not banned in America that be making the food taste good as fuck.”

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“We was in the whole Scandinavia,” he says. “I ain’t even know that it’s just a region. That shit was ridiculous [but] cool. They hella strict about weed. Yesterday, we dodged the G Co.”

“What’s a G Co?” I ask.

“The German RICO,” he jokes. “They were trying to get us out of here, no cap. [But] we back in the weed land, the Netherlands.”

I first saw MIKE in a pretty cramped space in Bushwick, in 2019. I didn’t know much about him at the time, but his hold on the crowd, who danced and rapped almost every word with him, made me realize I needed to quickly get familiar. At that point, he was two years into a prolific career that, at just 25, has him on many people’s short list for the best rapper out there. When I talked to Earl Sweatshirt and the Alchemist last year about VOIR DIRE, where MIKE raps on “Sentry,” Earl called him “incredible” and “one of my favorite rappers ever.” The Alchemist called him “one of the great ones.”

He has a knack for dense lyricism packed with reflections on grief, growth, mental health, and all of the other permutations of being a Black person in a white-supremacist society. He was born in New Jersey, spent time in London, came back to Philadelphia, and then settled back in Brooklyn, where, as the recently released Pinball affirms, he co-founded the sLUms collective and became an “Underground King.” He’s lived many lives and seems to have a different set of gems from each of them.

The drumless soul sample has permeated hip-hop as of late, and MIKE, a rapper and producer, is often regarded as a modern flagbearer of that sound. However, the MIKE experience is broader than the confines of categorization. He expressed throughout our interview that he refuses to be relegated to any scene or subgenre. Enter Pinball, with producer Tony Seltzer, where they build on prior collaborations with an 11-track dose of MIKE getting off myriad flows on smooth trap-driven production. Throughout the project, he trades in muddy soul loops for entrancing synth melodies on “100 Gecs” and “Reminiscing” with Jay Critch, who MIKE lauds as one of his GOATs.

He also trades bars with Earl Sweatshirt and Tony Shhnow on “On God,” a record that came after an Atlanta night where he, Earl, and friends got lit at Hooters and briefly marched in a pro-Palestine demonstration before heading to a packed studio session. Throughout our talk, he seemed easygoing and you could see how he’d be willing to let life happen, assured that his powerful pen could shape the experience into something riveting.

I talked to MIKE about “controlling the narrative” as an artist, his Young World festival, and how a wild night out can inspire great music. The interview, lightly edited for clarity, is below.

How are you feeling about the reception to Pinball?
It’s cool. I’m not going to lie, I was nervous because I was like, “Yo, I’ll be listening to this type of music, and I got hella songs that I feel go in this way.” But sometimes fans be so hooked onto you being one type of person, or being one type of artist, that at a certain point I’m like, “Damn, not my fans bullying me into thinking I could only do one style of rapping.”

But then when it dropped and everybody was so accepting of it, shit had me hella gassed. [It] also opened my eyes to bigger possibilities of how comfortable niggas could be [on] any side of hip-hop.

How intentional are you about evading the box that people put a lyricist from New York in?
I’ve been trying to do it. I always try and put something [on my projects] that’s a little bit different from the regular boom-bap or loop type of thing. On Disco!, I had the song “At Thirst Sight With Assia.” That’s more-dance-y kind of shit. Even now, it’s me trying to step towards more of a more-turnt instrumental type vibe. But I strategically put it in the music in a way where people are like, “Oh, that was exciting for that quick little moment.”

I’ve always been a big fan of different types of music. I have a song on May God Bless Your Hustle from 2017, the outro of “Rock Bottom/Peace To Come.” The chorus is inspired by a Young Gleesh song from back in the day. When I was working on God Bless Your Hustle, that’s the year Tay K had got locked up — or it might’ve been midway through the race type shit, but niggas used to listen to Tay K “The Race” so much. The energy of that low-key inspired the album.

As an artist, do you think the notion of genre has value in music?
I think for artists sometimes it can be annoying and almost restricting because it stops you from wanting to go into other bags. It could be a risky thing. A lot of people are doing this music shit to put money in their pockets. So sometimes you might try something new and fuck your whole shit up [laughs]. It’s a crazy thing. But sometimes [parasocial relationships] be happening with the supporters where you feel like, “I can’t [change the sound they know me for].” But these niggas don’t necessarily know you, they know of you. They supporting what you doing, that shit shouldn’t pull you away from trying out new things.

I think the more niggas loosen away from that shit and treat music as a whole, you’ll be surprised at what collaborations could come to life through shit like that, or what little discoveries could possibly come to life during that shit. Even working with Tony helped me find out so many different pockets that I was unaware of in my own music [and] in my own production that I’m like, “All right, cool. Maybe I can incorporate this without steering too far into one place or the other.”

What are some of the biggest moments on the album that speak to those new pockets?
Shit like “Underground Kingz,” “On God,” “Lethal Weapon,” just the bounce of shit. “Underground Kingz” felt close to home. It showed me how shit could work. Or even on a lot of the songs, I like using Auto-Tune on some of those. And I thought about using Auto-Tune for such a long time. This shit gave me the confidence to try and see “Does Auto-Tune only got to exist on this type of beat or can it exist on different types of instruments?”

How much do you think fan expectation played into you dropping it as a surprise album and not wanting to have a grand buildup to it?
I think it’s like a half-and-half thing. I do come from dropping shit randomly without the full rollout. But then it was also one of those things where I’m like, all right. I think people create these funny fantasies about rappers. I didn’t want to get caught in other people’s fantasies and [want to] be able to portray what I wanted to portray. Which I thought was cool with Tony, because we worked on the project and usually I’m doing my own production for projects, but Tony still allowed me to feel so much a part of the music and the art. Even with Vinny Fanta doing the artwork for the project. We was sitting down with him going through what style made sense. Even that shit felt closer to home for me because artwork is always a big part of the process for me. [Collaborating on the artwork] pushes that energy where it’s like, “All right, now I’m not too worried about putting something out there that doesn’t reflect also who I am.”  I think where we got it was like, “All right, cool, we control the narrative.” I feel like sometimes I’d be afraid.

And really what it is, white people be fantasizing over how niggas is supposed to be as rappers. And I’m like, “Bro, you will never know or understand.” And not even on no hater shit. At this point, y’all can enjoy the music, y’all can love this shit, y’all can do whatever y’all want with the music. But I’m like, I can’t let y’all build my narrative. One of the most helpful things for me in music so far is that we’ve had so much control of the narrative because we drop shit the way that we want. I think once that screw screwed in my head, then I was like, “All right, Pinball is actually fire, because we choosing to do whatever the fuck we want to now.”

From day one, how much do you feel like fan feedback and expectation played into your creative process, if at all?
I think from day one, it was conflict because I’m already the type of person in life [who cares] about what people would think way too much. So when it came to my music, my music was my main place where I could choose not to give a fuck, which is why my songs would be a minute long. When niggas is like, “All right. We’ve got to start doing the three-minute song,” I’m still like, “All right, we about to make the song shorter.”

I had this laptop that I got [when] I graduated high school in 2016. My sister got me a MacBook Air and Beats headphones. I made May God Bless Your Hustle and every project until Beware of the Monkey on that laptop.

Part of me would feel shitty because I’d be seeing artists go do the big studio jawn. I’m like, “Niggas be showing me mad love and I’m doing this shit off the laptop I got in high school.” So then I finally got a new setup. But it’s always been a thing where regardless of how big it gets, we treat it like a mom-and-pop shop and work with the techniques that we know how to use. That helps [us] not adhere [to] other fans’ and the music industry’s expectations. I think once we started doing things in our way and it’s working in our way, then the dependency of other people’s expectations doesn’t necessarily have to be that important.

Was there a lightbulb moment when you decided to do this album? Or was it moreso you and Tony collaborating and then y’all realizing you had something?
Me and Tony been cool for a second. We worked in 2017 for May God Bless Your Hustle. And we’re always around similar scenes. One day [we were like], “We should go make another slap.” And then we were just in the shit. Tony had put together some beats for me. But it was more like chill shit. This is while I’m working on Burning Desire [last year] at the crib. [I’d] go to Tony’s and work on Pinball. When I got to Tony’s, I was like, “I’m trying to rap over a real Tony Seltzer beat. I ain’t trying to be on no laid-back shit” [laughs].

Then we made the first jawn and then it was like, cool. And then I came back maybe two weeks later, and [it] became a thing where every time I would come, he would be playing me beats the whole day. But as soon as you get on some turnt shit, I’m like, ”Yeah, that’s the one, bro.” Every time I would go, [I] would make sure I wouldn’t leave the studio until we recorded one song. We low-key got double [Pinball’s 11 tracks] that’s in the vault. For me, it was training camp to work my pen in different areas, which was fun.

What did the process of simultaneously doing Burning Desire and Pinball, exploring two different moods, do for you creatively or even personally?
I think it helped bring all of it into one. I think I’m the person that [strategizes] being a certain way in different places. So this endeavor helped solidify everything into one, which I like. Even when people have heard Burning Desire, they’re like, “Oh, it’s like a different energy of Mike.”

And then also some of the beats and stuff and some of the shit is like, “Oh, these are the ones that niggas could be in their crib and jam to or turn up to.” Not put your head down and close your eyes and listen to the music type vibe.

How much does this project play into your intentions with your live show? I was talking with another artist recently and they were discussing how they have a sound that people would categorize as boom-bap, but they wanted to do more trap sonics so concertgoers could vibe in different ways and not just nod their head. How does that dynamic reflect for you, if at all?
I still haven’t performed any of the Pinball songs yet. Even though I plan to, I have so much trouble remembering my own lyrics, I be fucked up. But I think the one thing I will say, regardless of how the beat is, if you know how to make people feel something, you’re doing a great job at performing. I think some of my favorite performers, they don’t necessarily need a trap beat. All we need to see is you shedding your heart onstage. And that would be enough to jump up and down even to a soul sample.

I think that’s one technique that I always took with me. Even sometimes I play — I have “African Sex Freak Fantasy” that’s kind of a turnt song on Burning Desire — I’ll play that song. And I’ll do that in maybe the middle of the set when I’m already burnt-out. And I guess people could feel the burnt-outness from me so they’d be chill. But that’s supposed to be a turnt song. But then I could play “God’s With Me” and then everybody’s [turnt up]. So I don’t know. If you know how to put your heart in your performance then you could play anything and people would fall in love with that shit or want to dance with you.

How hands-on is Tony as a producer?
He’s pretty hands-on. I be going to Tony’s for that type of album because usually if not, then I’m recording my own shit or sequencing my own beats. So when I go to Tony’s, I’ll be like, “Yeah, I’m on real rapper mode. I’m about to sit back on the couch and let this nigga Tony do his thing.” And it’d be fire, because niggas don’t be realizing how much work it is to record yourself or sequence a beat. I’d be in the shit rolling up, drinking [while] this nigga Tony really at work, and then you play the beat and I’d be like, “All right, cool.”

I think that that even goes to what you were saying about what that whole experience was doing for me, and other aspects of music for Burning Desire, is that there was times where I was really focusing on being a rapper more so than production in terms of “What am I writing about, and how am I writing? What flows can I put together?”

How did “On God” come together?
Bruh, I went on a tour with Thebe (a.k.a. Earl Sweatshirt). We go to the Atlanta stop [a day early]. I have so many homies in Atlanta that I love so much. I think we shot the “R&B” video that day. And then we went to Hooters and was drunk as shit for mad long. And then niggas was like, “All right, we need to go eat.” We go to this other random bar restaurant where they playing live music where you could also eat. It’s me, Thebe, Black, my homie Taka, my homegirl Imani, we all in there drunk as shit, listening to these niggas do covers of music.

Then we look outside, it’s a pro-Palestine march going on. Low-key it was crazy because before we left, me and Taka was like, “Yeah, it sucks we doing all this touring because we’re not having much time to be at the marches.” We run out of the restaurant without paying on some super-faded shit. And we walked like three blocks with these niggas marching and protesting and doing chants. And then, the niggas who had stayed at the restaurant was like, “Bro, y’all got to come back because y’all need to pay for y’all’s shit.”

So then we’re jogging back, and then we get the call [where] Tony’s like, “Yeah, we should go hit the studio.” We pull up to the studio. Tony had a session with Tony Shhnow. We had all pulled up [with] so much energy because it’s been a crazy-ass day.

I promise you the studio looked like a fucking strip club. I remember the next day I woke up and was like, “Bro, why do I feel like we went to the strip club last night?” It was funny. Alchemist had pulled up as well. It was a crazy group of people in the studio that night.

And then Tony’s just playing shit. We heard the beat for “On God,” and everybody like, “Yeah, ‘this is the one’ type shit.” We was in there hella deep. Niggas rolling up and drinking and then said, “Fuck it, we all about to hop on this jawn,” and made that shit. It was so late, maybe three, four a.m. in the morning.

How often do you record from that kind of vibe? Just having fun, out already type shit?
It [happens] every now and then. When we recorded “Real Hip Hop,” it was another vibe like that; a random day out. And we wasn’t even supposed to be in the studio that day. But then we all end up at the studio. I’m like, “Yo, I got to leave out so let me record my verse first.” Thebe recorded his verse first, then I recorded my verse and then left. And then when these niggas came to link me later on in the night, I heard the rest of the song. I’m like, “Oh, this shit is fire as fuck.” But it’s always random shit.

Even “Nothing I Could Do Is Wrong” came from a night where I came back home faded as fuck. I was like, “Yeah, I’m about to write this rap in 15 minutes.” And I wrote that shit. It’s funny because in the beginning of the song, I fucked up badly, but niggas be thinking that it’s some steez or swag stuff. Nah, that’s a one-take right there. A lot of the music be coming out of special moments [that] manifest themselves into a thing. It’s not always so organized or planned.

How did “Reminiscing,” with Jay Critch, come together? What makes Jay Critch a special MC to you?
We used to have metal detectors in my high school. So low-key, you’re not supposed to bring no phone in. And niggas had put me on to the jug: You take your battery out of your phone, put your phone inside your sock and then slide through the metal detector. And then you get through with your phone. I used to be in the bathroom blasting Jay Critch music all fucking day, I swear to God. Skipping class in the bathroom, blasting Jay Critch music. Before Instagram Live, we used to be on Facebook Live bumping Jay Critch in the bathroom, I swear to God [laughs].

Those are the first times I’m hearing about La’Ron and listening to [his] production. I’m not even realizing how close in age we are. This shit was crazy. There was a time in Brooklyn when we was all teenagers, 2015, 2016, [and] we was all rooting [Jay Critch]. So when he came up, it was just victory for everybody type shit. So he’s always been one of my favorite GOATs when it comes to rap music in New York.

And then I’ve been cool with his homie La’Ron, who’ll be producing a lot of his music for a second. I feel like shit had always been up in the air, in the talks. There was supposed to be a crazy-ass show in 2016: It was supposed to be my homie Daryl Johnson, who produces music, my homie Ken Carter, Jay Critch, Young Lunchbox, all at one show that we was trying to put together. This is 2016. I remember the day of the show, the lady had some shit that had happened and she canceled on the venue. And then it was fire because this time around, we got him to play for the Young World shit last year. And he was down. And then that was [our] first day really formally talking. It was cool linking up. And then I think Tony had reached out to him like, “Yo, we trying to get you on one.” He was super down. And then niggas linked up in the studio and got that one through.

What do you think is the future of Young World? Could you ever see expanding it beyond New York City?
I’m not sure what the future of it is yet. It started off at [Manhattan’s] Abrons Arts Center, and one of the things that we started there was the sliding scale. People could pay depending on how much they’re able to pay. And that was one thing that always stood important to me.

So when we took it over to Herbert Von King Park, and it was fully a free thing, that was important to me because one of my biggest beliefs is that when you give Black people space to do shit, the capabilities are going to be unheard of. And a lot of the reasons why we don’t be having the space to do shit is because we don’t be having the money for spaces, especially in New York. Whether it be a home or an event space or a venue, whatever the fuck it is, it’s always a difficult thing.

So as much as I do think sometimes about expanding Young World, I think one of the most sacred things of it, to me, is the fact that everybody could come for free and we can enjoy it in a place like Herbert Von King, where I’ve walked past that park, bought weed in that park, done so much surrounding that park. And so it feels important to me. I only moved to Brooklyn maybe when I was 13, 14, but it feels like me paying back in a way.

Even for the old heads, we try and incorporate one act that [they] could really tap in with. There’d always be all the old heads sitting in their lawn chairs. It’s something [where] I want to keep the accessibility, especially in a time where niggas is making you pay for accessibility for everything. But if we was to do it somewhere else, I think it would have to grow with the same type of foundation that grew it back home.

You mentioned Earl Sweatshirt earlier, I interviewed him a couple of months back, and he had great things to say about you and your craft. I was wondering if you could speak to what your friendship and creative kinship means to you?
That’s honestly my big brother, man. I did an interview recently that I’m like, “Yo, the homie Sage (a.k.a. Navy Blue) and the homie Earl, those are my big brothers. They really looked out for me.” And the dude was like, “Yeah, bro, they’re four years older than you.” I’m like, “Yeah, what do you think be going on out here? Niggas be kids taking care of kids, bro.” In a world where young niggas be competing with niggas that’s supposed to be our old heads, I think it does put us in a space where the homie who is three, four years older than me is about to be the nigga who looks out for me. And then that teaches me to look out for my homie who might be two years younger than me or three years younger than me. I’m putting them in a path to realize shit that these niggas helped me realize.

You’re currently on tour, and you just dropped Pinball. What are your plans for the rest of the year?
I’m trying to flood the streets, bro. I’m trying to keep dropping. I can’t lie. I’m in a mode right now. I’m trying to fuck shit up, and I’m trying to see all my homies fuck shit up. So that’s my main shit right there. World takeover. [Does fake evil laugh.] But, nah, for real. Just trying to give my life back to this shit.

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