DISGRACELAND - Lil’ Peep: A new hip-hop and emo fusion; trap beats, tender lyrics, too much Xanax and an overdose that’s still mysterious.

Episode Date: March 9, 2021

Lil’ Peep was a once-in-a-generation talent. Poised to become a new Cobain, Bowie or Dylan, but whose life was cut short by an overdose that’s still mysterious. Depression, anxiety and a unique fusion of hip-hop, emo, grime and raw, empathetic lyrics resulted in a deep connection to fans that in the end, may have done him in at the tender age of 21. To see the full list of contributors, see the show notes at www.disgracelandpod.com. To listen to Disgraceland ad free and get access to a monthly exclusive episode, weekly bonus content and more, become a Disgraceland All Access member at disgracelandpod.com/membership. Sign up for our newsletter and get the inside dirt on events, merch and other awesomeness - GET THE NEWSLETTER Follow Jake and DISGRACELAND: Instagram YouTube X (formerly Twitter)  Facebook Fan Group TikTokSee omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

This is exactly right. Double Elvis. When a group of women discover they've all dated the same prolific con artist, they take matters into their own hands. I vowed. I will be his last target. He is not going to get away with this. He's going to get what he deserves. We always say that trust your girlfriends. Listen to the girlfriends.

Trust me, babe. On the Iheart radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. This season on Dear Chelsea with me, Chelsea Handler, we have some fantastic guests like Amelia Clark. When like young people come up to me and they want to be an actor or whatever. My first thing is always, can you think of anything else that you can do? Rather be disappointed in. Do that.

David O'Yellowo. I love this podcast, whether it's therapy or relationships or religion or sex or addiction or you just go straight for the guts. Dennis Leary, Gaten Matarazzo from Stranger Things, Tana Monsu, Camilla Morone, Carrie Kenny Silver, and more. Listen to these episodes of Dear Chelsea on the IHeart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts.

Movies can make you feel, make you dream. Sometimes they even make you appreciate architecture. Is there anybody who's been hotter in a doorway than Elizabeth Taylor? That's the kind of analysis you'll find every week on Dear Movies I Love You, the new podcast from the Exactly Right Network. Every Tuesday, we break down the films we're crushing on, from blockbusters to deep cuts. Listen to Dear Movies I Love You on the IHeart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. Disgraceland is a production of Double Elvis.

The stories about Little Pete are insane. He died at the age of 21, the victim of an overdose that's still mysterious. He sometimes suffered from crippling anxiety and depression, but bared his soul, on stage, and online, to millions of fans who felt a deep, empathetic connection to him. He self-medicated daily with a pharmacy-sized array of street procured prescription meds and illicit drugs. He was a once-in-a-generation-type voice, poised to become one of the mainstream's biggest success stories, but whose life was senselessly cut short. And of course, he made good.

great music. Unlike that music you heard at the top of the show, that wasn't great music. That was a preset loop from my Melotron called Coke Straw Sazo MK1. I played you that loop because I can't afford the rights to rock star by Post Malone. And why would I play you that specific slice of Savage Nudy Suit cheese could I afford it? Because that was the number one song in America on November 15, 2017. And that was the day Lil Peep made his final Instagram post, an eerie post filled with anxiety and depression and foreshadowing his death that would come only a few short hours later. On this episode, crippling anxiety, DIY emo grime, too much Xanax and Lilip. I'm Jake Brennan and this is disgraceland. Given how close it was to Showtime, some

Friends grabbed video of and passed out in the back of the tour bus for their Insta stories as a joke. Little did the friends know. Little Peep wasn't passed out. He was dead. The news was hard to contain. From Peep's road crew to friends and show openers, various members of Goth Boy Click, to fans packed inside the rock nightclub in Tucson, Arizona,

impatiently awaiting for their beloved little peep to hit the stage. But nobody wanted to admit to themselves or to the fans that not. was real. Goth Boy Click group member Horsehead went on stage, likely he was in shock and performed a couple songs to keep the restless fans entertained. But the energy was getting rowdy, frustrated, and footage of the unconscious Peep on his tour bus was already making the rounds on social media. People began to wander outside to see what was really going on. Inside the tour bus, Peep's tour manager was on the phone with 911 while members of the row crew lay Peep out on the ground and administered CPR.

Nothing. Through the windows, they could see the crowd gathering, holding up phones desperate to get a glimpse inside. The dispatcher on the 911 call insisted the EMTs were on their way. Outside, waves of fans crushed up against the sides of the bus. The bus began to rock,

and then the paramedics arrived, the lights, the sirens on full blast. They added to the growing chaos of the scene by forcing their way through the agitated crowd gathered outside the bus. The arrival of the paramedics and their ambulance made it real. Fans started crying, wailing, people yell, people talk shit, fights broke out, quick-flash street brawls that no one bothered to break up. The paramedics reached the door to the bus, climbed up inside.

Not too long after, out came Little Pete. On his back, on a gurney. And the crowd lost their shit. Pandemonium, they rocked the bus some more. They trashed the parking. lot raged in the streets, their boy was dead. Lil Peep's connection with fans, his very real empathy as an artist, combined with his undeniable charisma and talent, proved that it was not just music journalism hyperbole to say

that he was on his way to becoming his generation's Kurt Cobain. He truly was. From a young age in Long Beach, New York, Lil Peep born Gustav Elijah Arr, was obsessed with music. He wasn't like most kids. Despite his obvious good look, and easygoing nature, he did not fit in. So he turned inward. He got lost in the music, pop punk, blank 182, Green Day, Good Charlotte, Emo, Mineral and Jawbreaker, classics like Oasis, Nirvana, the Beatles,

and of course, hip-hop, Kanye, Kanye, and more Kanye. It all sounded great, especially stoned. Everything sounded better while high. The beats were better, the screams, more gutterol, and the melodies, even from the most melancholic emo troubadours were somehow even more sad. I always hated the term emo, as in emo music, because, well, all music is emo, right?

Isn't all music emotional? To me, Slayer is just as emotional as Sunday Day real estate. It's just clearly a different type of emotion being expressed. But regardless, the term emo took root as an easy way for hardcore kids to describe a particular type of hardcore music that sprung from Washington, D.C., with Ian Mackay's post-minor threat pre-Fugazi outfit, Embrace, and future Fugazi member Guy Pichado's band, Rites of Spring.

After those bands, a younger crop of hardcore kids traded in their Jordans and champion sweatshirts for Chuck Taylor's and Argyle sweaters, augmented their power chords with fifth notes and started singing about girls. As my six-year-old would say, singing about girls any time after, gee, I don't know, the year 1855, doesn't sound like anything groundbreaking, but trust me, in Cambridge, Massachusetts, upstairs at the Middle East in 1996, in the middle of what had become somewhat of a closed-minded scene, the hardcore scene,

singing about love, be it lost, found, whatever, it was damn near revolutionary. I'm exaggerating, but only slightly. Fans like Jay June, Texas is the Reason, piebald, promise ring, and Rye Coalition were building off of what embraced in Rites of Spring had started a decade earlier, and laying the groundwork for the coming. 2000's Emo explosion with bands like Dashport Confessional, Jimmy E. World and Panic at the Disco,

actually conquering mainstream charts, which was how Emo found its way to Little Peep in suburban New York. As a young, alienated son of divorced parents, he was taken by it. And as Emo was a close cousin of hardcore, it was imbued with the same DIY spirit, and this spirit was not lost on Little Peep in 2014. But instead of Kinko's copied fanzines, and mail-order distro networks, Lil Peep used the tools available to him and began uploading the tracks he was breaking off at his childhood bedroom to SoundCloud and promoting them on Instagram, an audience quickly developed. The music he created made his new fans feel less alone, just as the act of making the music made Peep feel like less of a small town freak. It was a genuine

connection, a strong bond that helped him cope with the world outside his bedroom walls and with his own anxiety. The morning ritual wrenched his nerves. Peep's teenage alienation, his low self-esteem, his extreme anxiety about what his fellow students and what his teachers thought of him was so intense that most mornings before school, he'd find himself in his bathroom vomiting violently. The weed helped. It calmed him down, and so did the Xanax, and of course, so did the music. But no amount of self-medicating and sad melodies could really curb the anxiety. If Pete was going to truly deal, he needed an outer shell, a strong sense of self, armor. So we got a face tattoo at the age of 17, a broken heart underneath his left eye.

It was official, as if it wasn't before, to most of his teachers, to most locals in Long Beach, New York, Gus R, who is now going by the hip-hop name Lil Peep was lost to them. And for Lil Peep, with a growing online fan base for his unique meld of hip-hop and e-mail. It was clear as day. At the age of 17, it was time for him to get lost. To head west, manifest destiny. There's two golden rules that any man should live by. Rule one, never mess with a country girl.

You play stupid games, you get stupid prizes. And rule two, never mess with her friends either. We always say that trust your girlfriends. I'm Anna Sinfield. And in this new season of the Girlfriends, Oh my God, this is the same man. A group of women discover they've all dated the same prolific con artist. I felt like I got hit by a truck.

I thought, how could this happen to me? The cops didn't seem to care. So they take matters into their own hands. I said, oh, hell no. I vowed. I will be his last target. He's going to get what he deserves. Listen to the girlfriends.

Trust me, babe. On the IHeart Radio app, Apple Podcast, or wherever you get your podcasts. Your husband is not who you think he is. Your body is not what you thought it was. Your identity is formed by a secret history. I'm Danny Shapiro, and these are just a few of the stunning stories I'll be exploring on the 14th season of Family Secrets. And just then, we felt the plain turn in the air,

so much so that the bags that were under people's seats just kind of flew into the aisle. Each week, we dive head first into the complex power of secrecy, how it shapes our identities and relationships, and how it ultimately can reveal to us our truest selves. My daughter, she's pretending she doesn't know, but is trying to cook and feed me and keep me alive because I wasn't eating anything, and me pretending like everything was fine.

He kind of shoved me out of the way and said, move. And he went out the front door, and he jumped in a car and drove off, and that was the last time I saw him. Listen to season 14 of Family Secrets, starting May 7th on the IHeart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you're at, you get your podcasts.

This season on Dear Chelsea, with me, Chelsea Handler, we have some fantastic guests like Amelia Clark. When like young people come up to me and they want to be an act or whatever, my first thing is always, can you think of anything else that you can do? Rather be disappointed in. Do that. Dennis Leary. I wake up and I'm hitting him in the head with a water bomb.

And Bruce Jenner is on the aisle in a karate stance like he's. He's about to attack me, like, making karate noises. And his entire the Kardashian family over there, everybody's going, and the air marshal is trying to grab my arms and screaming. I immediately know that I've been asleepwalk. David O'Yellowo. I love this podcast, whether it's therapy or relationships or religion or sex or addiction or you just go straight for the guts.

Guy Branham. So anyway, Nicole Kidman broke up with Keith Thurban. Being half of a country couple was always a hat she was going to wear, not like a life she was going to lead. Oh, interesting. I like that. Did you practice that on your way over? Gaten Matarazzo from Stranger Things. Tena Monsu.

Camilla Morone at Carrie Kenny Silver. And more. Listen to these episodes of Dear Chelsea on the IHeart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. It was a depressed section of Tucson. But in this particular neighborhood, residents still had their pride. The rumors about what went on in that house were unsettling. And at first, it was believed that it was an illegal tattoo parlor. But after time, a darker rumor set in.

Kids and transient-looking young adults didn't spend the only money they had on bodyache. These visitors to the house looked desperate, not to mention haggard beyond compare. And that smell, what's up with that smell? It bled out of the house at night, and by morning the whole street was covered in that rotting chemical stench, like someone took the worst parts of a hospital smell and tried dousing it in vinegar. The trash was piling up outside. The windows were blacked mostly with dark curtains. Some were even painted black.

It had been months since the house's owners had been seen, but still, visitors came and went at all hours. Someone called the cops, and the cops were not stupid. they rolled up with the fire department. It was late past midnight. Early morning hours. As the first cruiser made its way down the street, a young man in the front yard on his cell phone took note and then sprinted into the house.

The cop floored it. Through the house's front yard window, what little light was visible through the crack in the curtain quickly went out. That first cop on the scene slowly got out of his cruiser. The smell was overpowering. He wondered where the hell the fire department was. He took his binoculars and peered through them across the front yard trying to steal a glimpse into the house.

Blackness. You can either see or hear anything. There was only that smell. If fear had a scent, this was it. There, through the crack in the window, he spied a small flash of light and then. The CDC estimates that there are over 1,000 meth lab-related quote-unquote incidents per year. incidents ranging in intensity from full-on explosions like this one to milder events where a crazed meth head gets sloppy and merely lights his face on fire This explosion was big but not completely destructive.

The house was salvaged, structurally at least. It would require extensive renovations for it to be truly inhabitable again, but the squatters didn't care. So long as the four walls and ceiling were there and the windows could be boarded up at least. So after a while, they moved in. The squatters weren't your typical homeless. They were young kids, teenagers, and young adults. Not at all hippies, but living off the grid in their own way.

At one time, they would have been referred to as, Crospunks, but in 2016, that monica wouldn't do. These kids weren't motivated by blast beats and revolutionary politics. For them, it was trap beats and sad sing-alongs, not to mention, drugs. Not meth, per se, but weed, Coke, Xanax, Perks, Ecstasy, most pharmaceuticals you can name. And their sense of fashion was similar to Crestpunks, though. Tight, ripped jeans and T-shirts, handmade patches, safety pinned on everywhere, tattered plads with suspenders, leathers, all dirty, filthy actually, tattered, dyed hair, dreads, shaved heads, and of course, face tattoos. The mangy pit bull on a rope as an accessory was replaced by the odd piece of ostentatious jewelry,

procured God knows how, likely via theft or by praying on Mommy and Daddy's generosity and better judgment, a not-so-s subtle nod to their love of hip-hop. Lil Peep had found his people. The blown-out husk of a meth house had no stage. He performed in the middle of the crowd. And they danced on the dirt floor, piled layers of band stickers on the scorched walls. And when Pete performed his latest track, Beamer Boyd, which had just dropped, everybody sang along all around him, drowning up the site's shitty little PA. And these kids, this new generation of punk slash emo slash hip-hop-style kids, had coalesced through this new hybrid of music they loved.

And they were all united among the meth house ruins by him, by his music. The experience in Tucson compelled Little Peep further west. An L.A. rapper named Jay Green was at the show. Peep had already met him over the internet. On an invite to collaborate with him, Peep set out for Los Angeles. The collaboration with Jay Green called Schema Posse lasted a few months, but Pete bounced around L.A., left the group,

and wound up crashing in a barren loft in downtown L.A. Skid Row. The loft was a squalid warehouse space with a rotating crew of squatters crashing on couches and floors, beds for the regulars stashed in corners. Tent cities, reeking of human piss and shit, stretched down the strip in both directions right outside the door. And to the folks back home who remembered him as Gus, little Pete may as well have been homeless.

But inside the loft, it was a creative hot house, a sardine can of artists collaborating on track after track, performing shows in the warehouse, going all the time and going hard. These were Peep's people too, so much like the kids at the Tucson show. Even as he was blowing up as a solo act, Peep joined up with a group of like-minded rappers and producers, a hive known as Goth Boy Click. Together they formed a Wu-Tang Clan type of collective for the SoundCloud age.

Coldheart, Doves, Fishnark, Horsehead, J.P. Dream Thug, Lil Tracy, MacNed, Wiccafe Springs Eternal, Yons, and Lil Peep. Little Peep's mixtape Crybaby features, featuring goth boy click or the gbc as it was called was blowing up soundcloud rap had officially made an end run around around the traditional record industry fueling constant underground collaboration and single releases from young emerging artists non-stop the industry was racing to catch up and peep was getting legit management and label interests goth boy click was drafting in his wake but the reek of the human waste from the windows never let up everyone in the loft shared a bathroom, the inability to find a moment's peace and quiet to himself and the creative hive built up the pressure. He felt like he was being pulled in two directions at once, into outer space and stardom and crashing hard down to earth. Alone at night on his mattress in the corner, listening to bombs fight outside. Pete read letters from his grandpa, who he called Packack. Packack had always been his

real father figure, not like his birth dad, who abandoned him during junior high, right when any boy enters his hard years. Packack was a warm soul and a man of letters, and when he wrote to Peep, it brought him strength and comfort. But Peep didn't know what to do now. Packack and his mother had always raised Peep to believe deeply in equality and respect for all people. And in his own way, Peep was trying to honor those values with his lifestyle and creative choices, living communally and sticking with goth boy clique, even as his own stardom eclipsed them. But Peep had new managers in his ear, telling him he should start. strike out on his own. He wondered if he'd still be forced to wake up to the smell of human

shit if he struck out on his own. Everything was muddled. Everything was happening way too fast, but somehow not fast enough. Torned between loyalty to his underground friends versus reaching his creative and financial potential, people would go nocturnal, rip bowl after bowl of weed, pop zanis, and sit with a pit of insecurity and anxiety in his gut. He felt guilty at the thought of letting anyone down. Some people swear by the healing power of getting tattooed, and I'm one of them. Despite the discomfort, getting tattooed can be oddly soothing. There's something that happens after you settle into the pain of a gazillion tiny needles

piercing into your skin. That pain, that sound, your body's pain-killing endorphins barreling through your bloodstream and attack, you feel, in a word, high. But in the best possible way, chilled out, without the chemical mind fuck or physical sickness, There is, of course, an emotional aspect to getting tattooed as well. It goes without saying, but is worth mentioning, that for centuries, tattoos have marked significant moments in their beholder's lives, emotional inflection points, deaths to get over, bursts, to celebrate,

drunken nights in Tijuana. You get the point. Lil Peep was 20 miles north of Tijuana at the moment. In San Diego, in a cop's garage. The cop was tattooing Pete, illegally. again on his face. If the broken heart tattoo he had inked on his mug three years ago didn't do the trick, then this one definitely would. It was huge.

It cut across the entire right side of his upper face and curse of the word, crybaby. It said a lot of things, crybaby being his breakout mixtape. The tattoo said that he was committed to his music. The tattoo also said he was a different kind of rapper, emotional and unafraid to let anyone know. And perhaps most importantly, the massive tattoo across his face said to the straight world,

to the parents, the teachers, the cops, present company excluded, of course, and perhaps even to the members of GBC. That tattoo said one very important thing for Lil Pete. It said, fuck. We'll be right back after this word, word, word. There's two golden rules that any man should live by. Rule one, never mess with a country girl. You play stupid games, you get stupid prizes.

And Rule 2, never mess with her friends either. We always say that, trust your girlfriends. I'm Anna Sinfield, and in this new season of the girlfriends... Oh my God, this is the same man. A group of women discover they've all dated the same prolific con artist. I felt like I got hit by a truck. I thought, how could this happen to me? The cops didn't seem to care.

So, they take matters into their own hands. I said, oh, hell no. I vowed. I will be his last target. He's going to get what he deserves. Listen to the girlfriends. Trust me, babe. On the IHeart Radio app, Apple Podcasts,

or wherever you get your podcasts. Your husband is not who you think he is. Your body is not what you thought it was. Your identity is formed by a secret history. I'm Danny Shapiro. And these are just a few of the stunning stories I'll be exploring on the 14th season of Family Secrets. And just then, we felt the plain turn in the air, so much so that the bags that were under people's seats just kind of flew into the aisle.

Each week, we dive headfirst into the complex power of secrecy, how it shapes our identities and relationships, and how it ultimately can reveal to us our truest selves. My daughter, she's pretending she doesn't know, but is trying to cook and feed me and keep me alive because I wasn't eating anything and me pretending like everything was fine. He kind of shoved me out of the way and said, move. And he went out the front door and he jumped in a car and drove off. And that was the last time I saw him. Listen to season 14 of Family Secrets, starting May 7th on the IHeart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. This season on Dear Chelsea, with me, Chelsea Handler, we have some fantastic guests like Amelia Clark. When, like, young people come up to me and they want to be an actor or whatever.

My first thing is always, can you think of anything else? that you can do rather be disappointed in. Do that. Dennis Leary. I wake up and I'm hitting him in the head with a water bomb. And Bruce Jenner is on the aisle in a karate stance. Like he's about to attack me. Like making karate noises.

And his entire the Kardashian family over there, everybody's going, and the air marshal is trying to grab my arms and screaming. And I immediately know that I've been asleepwalking. David O'Yellow-O. I love this podcast, whether it's therapy or relationships or religion or sex or addiction or you just go straight for the guts. Guy Branham. So anyway, Nicole Kidman broke up with Keith Urban. Being half of a country couple was always a hat she was going to wear, not like a life she was going to lead.

Oh, interesting. I like that. Did you practice that on your way over? Gaten Madarazzo from Stranger Things. Tena, monjeu. Camilla Morone. Kenny Silver and more. Listen to these episodes of Dear Chelsea on the Iheart radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. The back piece tattoo was an even more explicit declaration

than the crybaby piece on his face. If we're not conscious or extremely lucky or blessed, inevitably, we all suffer in this world and if we're fortunate, we find ways to deal. Dealing was not Little Peep's strong suit. His new back tattoo would be his way of dealing. It would also be his answer to every guidance counselor, or coach, or doubter, whoever asked him what he wanted to do with his life. The pressures of his growing career, what to do, who to do it with, when to do it, where to go,

who to take care of, who to care about. For a 20-year-old kid with a fast-growing celebrity in bank account, who came from a solid working-slash-middle-class family, who was now in the position to take care of his friends, if not his family, all of it was way too much for, especially when coupled with his anxiety disorder and depression. Not to mention while he was self-medicating, ingesting a steady diet of back-alley antidepressants, blow and weed in massive quantities around the clock.

But as usual, there was solace in the soothing buzz of the gun. Exit life, in massive, old English lettering across the upper third of his back, and in big, bold, black, as if to make no mistake he was not long for this world. Not with these pressures. Not with this pain. Kurt Cobain wasn't long for this world either. Made his exit in the most dramatic of fashions. A shotgun blast to the face ripped on black tar heroin

at the height of his career in the cold confines of his garage. His suicide note, emissive on the pain, depression, and cruelty of fame suffered at the hands of a tortured artist. A once-in-a-generation tortured artist, he apologized for going through the motions on stage and not feeling passion for music anymore. Little Peep didn't have much to apologize for, and he didn't really know how to say no either. I'm talking about a lot more than the Nancy Reagan just say no to drugs thing here, though that was definitely a problem too.

We'll get to that in a minute. But Peep also had trouble saying no to the needs of his boys and goth boy click, and he had trouble saying no to the growing number of fans who saw his pain expressed plainly in his songs and in 180 by 180 pixels of raw imagery on Instagram. Peep was so raw, so real, so vulnerable, and gave so much of himself to his art that his fan base developed this strange sense of entitlement, where they felt he owed it to them at all times to be Peep, the drugged-out sad Hellboy Crybaby that he embodied in his music. When he played live now, they showered him with not only praise but with drugs,

constantly heaving bags of pills, coke, weed, whatever, onto the stage during his sets. Like most rock stars, he was sworn post-show by fans who wanted to touch him, fuck him, get him fucked up, do whatever, except unlike most rock stars, Peep wasn't surrounded by protectors and handlers. Aside from an outnumbered tour manager and road crew, Peep's entourage consisted mainly of professional partiers. Goth Boy Click, who traveled with him open for him, collaborated with him during his set, and went for it after the show. Not to be outdone, Peep went harder than his boy. It was clear to anyone with a responsible bone in their body that Little Peep was living on borrowed time under the current circumstances and Peep knew it too.

Unable to say no, to disconnect from his friends, who he felt an obligation to share the growing wealth and fame with. Management stepped in and shipped him off to London. Put him up in a nice apartment, connected him with artists like Bexie and I Love Maconan to begin working on new popier tracks like, I've been waiting, and to generally get him the fuck away from goth boy click before they all accidentally obliterated themselves with oxies roxies and whatever else they

were ingesting by the fistful once in europe peep committed to becoming the stadium-filling star he was born to be his managers didn't want the kirk cobane ending they wanted the david bowie ending the one where the musician is so gifted so charismatic and in possession of the kind of talent that can meld numerous seemingly disparate influences into one unique style and then also give voice to a generation of kids at the same time. They wanted that kind of talent, and they knew it could go two ways, could crack like Cobain or thrive, becoming a living-breathing icon with a full career of constant cultural relevance like Bowie. Naturally, management chose the Bowie option behind door number two. From London, peep was sent on tour, shows in Russia, Berlin, and Paris sold out. Thousands of kids showed up to

sing every word of every peep song back at him full-throated without being primed by any radio or mainstream press support. From there, it was off to Fashion Week in Paris, in the Men's Spring Summer Show in Milan, and the full pop star makeover was in effect. Gucci, Balman, Runways with Luke Savard from Marcel Berlon and Vlón, Cartier-Eyes around his neck, the paparazzi and the photographers from Volg, L, and Harper's snapping picks, video crew following him around, journalists hounding him, blow-up pieces in GQ and V magazine with renowned Peruvian photographer Mario Tustino behind the lens. It was silly, sure, he knew that as he waited his turn backstage to catwalk the runway

mugging for the cameras, but damn if it didn't feel good. He knew he was destined for this, this type of startem, the kind that leaves a permanent mark, the kind that has a way of not washing off. Cobain had it, Bowie too, and Lil Peep. Now, with his European pop star metamorphosis near complete, was about to head back to his home country, spread his new wings and prove that he had it too. In the dream, whether it was a sleeping dream or waking, he could hardly tell anymore, but regardless, there was never enough. Never enough pills, never enough attention. Never enough he could do for his

management. Never enough love from his dad. Never enough. letters from his grandpa, never enough time with his mom or his brother, never enough for his fans, never enough energy to respond to all of them on his socials. There was never enough he could do for his boys, for goth boy click, never enough he could give them, never enough money. And as always, in the dream, there was never enough ink in the tattoo gun. In the dream, the gun always ran dry before completing the massive exit life piece on his back. And holy shit Did that thing look ridiculous? A small thing to be anxious about, but a catch-all stressor for the various pressures banging down on his chest and spinning him out.

As usual, the drugs weren't helping his anxiety. He was taking way more than usual. More Coke, more Xanax, and more ecstasy. He was back in the States, and Gothboy Click was back in the mix. He brought along several members as openers and the various others linked up with the tour for varied shows all over the U.S. leg. where they would join in. Exposure enough for everybody. Tor was a blur to that point.

His schedule was upside down. He'd wake up every day about 30 minutes before showtime, go straight to the stage, crush for thousands of fans, then party backstage until the venue threw him and his GBC crew out. From there, they'd bring the party to the bus, more drink, more drugs, lots of coke,

lots of downers, ketamine. They'd go hard all night while the bus made its way to the next venue. If there was ever a hotel involved, Peep didn't fuck with it. It was comfort and familiarity in the bus. He could get stoned as fuck and pass out sometime after the sun came up.

Self-contained, there would be no struggle to find his way anywhere. He was already there, wasted, but there. He'd wake up wherever he passed out on the bus the night before, smacked some life into his cheeks, blast a rail, or take whatever the beginning of his day called for to get him going and follow his tour manager escort to the stage. The lights would go dim, the crowd would roar, he'd feel the natural burst of adrenaline press up from within him,

push his anxiety away from the surface, pomp his blood, and he'd then burst onto the stage, delivering 90 minutes of prescriptive gospel to his drugged out, anxious coming. They were his, he was theirs, and the communion was real. But today was different. He was well awake upon arrival in Tucson, Arizona on November 15, 2017. and despite his head being a mess and his anxiety starting to peak, he decided to meet up with a couple of fans who had DM'd him. They wanted to get him high.

Of course they did. All of his fans did. And Peep wanted to get high himself, show himself to be accommodating, to give his fans the version of himself that they wanted to see, that they'd grown to love, that they felt in some strange way they were owed a piece of. Online he was so real.

He breathed life into their own anxious existence with his arts, So the least they could do would be to set him up. Get him high, make him feel good, return the favor. Despite whatever his management felt, or what the press or the fashion photographers in Milan believed, Lil Peep believed he was an equal to his fans. At least he felt an obligation to be. The gold-studded balman jacket fit well,

and the ice around his neck made him feel like he'd arrived. But more often than not, especially in the company of his boys and goth boy click, Lilpeep couldn't truck with the aloof pop star image. Raised by a self-proclaimed anti-capitalist mom and grandfather who was a Harvard historian had extensively studied labor movements in Latin America, and who stepped in for his dad who'd split. Lil Peep had socialist ideals coursing through his blood. He believed in equality over all else, which is why he went to great lengths to spread the

love and fruits of his fame around goth boy click, on occasion paying rent for some of his boys, keeping them fed, wasted, blowing them up under his spotlight on stage and taking them on tour. But the grind of it all was too much, especially on this day. He posted on Instagram the day before November 14th how he was feeling. I just want to be everybody's everything. I want too much from people, but then I don't want anything from them at the same time, feel me? I don't let people help me, but I need help, but not when I have my pills, but that's temporary. One day maybe, I won't die young and I'll be happy.

What is happy? I always have happiness for like ten seconds and then it's gone. I'm getting so tired of this. He and his two new friends, his fans, headed to the bus to get high. They went up the steps into the Grimy Tour bus, littered with ashes and coke-dusted mirrors between the makeshift bunks for Goth Boy Clink. Peep was handed a Xanax and he took it. Soon after, he passed out.

His new friends kept partying. He could hear them faintly, laughing, fucking around, texting their friends and posting on their socials about getting wasted with the one and only little peep. It was out cold, or so they thought. But Peep could still hear them, at least a little bit. The dream was intruding.

He could hear the sound of the tattoo gun again, getting louder, drowning them out, filling out the remaining letters on his back, exit, life. The exit letters have been done for some time, it was the life part that needed to be fully blacked out. The buzz grew louder, the pain more blissful. He was losing them now. Their voices were all but completely faded.

And so was the pressure, too, falling off, fading away. No more stressors. He was losing it all. It was the only way for him to win. The buzz grew louder, steadier, strong. It filled in the remaining bits of life with black and little peep. and Lil Peep made his final exit. Sometime after, Little Peep had completely lost consciousness,

a victim of the extremely powerful fentanyl drug that had laced the Xanax he had taken. Bexie, one of Peep's collaborators from the UK, walked into the back of the bus, saw Pete passed out so close to Showtime, and swears he heard him snoring. Instead of checking on him more closely, he instead busted out his camera and made an Insta story of his friend in a joking way. Little Peep's presence, even while prone on the couch, lit up tiny screens all across Instagram.

Little did anyone know. Little Pete was dead. Such disgrace. I'm Jake Brennan. And this is Disgraceland. Disgraceland was created by yours truly and is produced in partnership with Double Elvis. Credits for this episode can be found on the show notes page at disgracelandpod.com. If you're listening as a Disgraceland All-Axus member,

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Visit disgracelampod.com slash membership for details. Rate and review the show and follow us on Instagram, TikTok, Twitter, and Facebook at Disgraceland Pod and on YouTube at YouTube.com slash at disgraceland pod Rockerola. When a group of women discover they've all dated the same

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Listen to the girlfriends. Trust me, babe, on the Iheart radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcast. This season on Dear Chelsea, with me, Chelsea Handler, we have some fantastic guests like Amelia Clark. When, like, young people come up to me and they want to be an actor or whatever. My first thing is always, can you think of anything else that you can do? Rather be disappointed in. Do that. David O'Yello-O.

I love this podcast. whether it's therapy or relationships or religion or sex or addiction or you just go straight for the guts. Dennis Leary, Gaten Moderato from Stranger Things, Tena Mongeau, Camilla Morone, Carrie Kenny Silver, and more. Listen to these episodes of Dear Chelsea on the IHeart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. Just like great shoes, great books take you places. Through unforgettable love stories and into conversations with characters you'll never forget. I think any good romance, it gives me this feeling of like butterflies. I'm Danielle Robeye, and this is bookmarked by Reese's Book Club from Hello Sunshine and IHeart Podcast, where we dive into the stories that shape us, on the page,

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