DISGRACELAND - Mac Miller: Hallucinations, Counterfeit Pills, and a Standoff with the Most Powerful Man in the World

Episode Date: February 28, 2023

Mac Miller was threatened by the most powerful man in the world. Rejected by some of the most powerful tastemakers in the music industry. Dumped by one of the most popular singers in the universe. He worked tirelessly to overcome these challenges, transforming his art and thus transforming himself. But it wasn’t an easy road. An unexpected backlash to his debut LP led him down some previously unexplored and increasingly dark rabbit holes, where he found not only creative rebirth–but the point of no return. To see the complete list of contributors, visit 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. Disgrace Land is a production of Double Elvis. The stories about Mac Miller are insane. He was threatened by the most powerful man in the world, rejected by some of the most powerful tastemakers in the business, dumped by one of the most popular singers in the universe. He self-medicated with drugs and alcohol

to combat feelings of depression and inadequacy. He hallucinated while holed up in the recording studio alone. He was charged with a hit and run when he drunkenly ran his car into a telephone pole and fled the scene. He was just 26 years old when counterfeit oxycodone pills laced with a lethal dose of fentanyl contributed to his unexpected death. And Mac Miller processed the ups and downs of life through his music, great music. music that became exponentially stronger and more profound as he got older. Unlike that clip I played for you at the top of the show, that wasn't great music.

That was a preset loop from my Melotron called Ham and Eggs MK2. I played you that clip because I can't afford the rights to someone like you by Adele. And why would I play you that specific slice of vocal acrobatic cheese could I afford it? Because that was the number one song in America on November 8th, 2011. And that was the day that Mac Miller released his debut studio album, Blue Slide Park, a release that was met with an unexpected critical backlash, a backlash that led Mac Miller down some previously unexplored and increasingly dark rabbit holes. On this episode, threats, rejection, hallucinations, a hit-and-run,

counterfeit pills, and Mac Miller. I'm Jake Brennan, and this is disgrace land. The coffin was just big enough to fit him. Five foot seven, not an inch more. Not some flashy shit either. A basic pine box, honest. And though it was a real coffin, this wasn't the real deal. Mac Miller was very much alive.

The song's playback continued. Mac sang along and pointed a flashlight up at the lid. With his other hand, he used a knife to carve two words into the soft wood. Memento. Sure, the whole concept for this music video was more than a little cliched. Mac Miller reminding himself of life's impermanence while stuck inside a coffin. Mac Miller buried alive by the anxious thoughts inside his head. Mac Miller has to die so that Mac Miller can live.

But clichés are cliches for a reason, because they're true, because they are honest, just like this cheap pine box. Life buried you, and you found a way to punch up through the dirt and the worms and all the other ugly fucking creepy crawlies that live six feet under in darkness and rot. Life put you in a box and you said, nah, not today, motherfucker. And you fought your way out, fought your way out, fought your way at a version 2.0 or 3.0 or whatever variant of yourself you were becoming this time. It was 2008, and Mac Miller was 26. He was filming the video for his new single, Self-Care, off his upcoming fifth studio LP, swimming. He bent through the ringer time and time again, just like everybody,

and this time was no different. Told he wasn't good enough, nearly convinced he was trying to be someone he wasn't. His heart had been broken. The drugs were always just a text message away whether you were truly in need or you were just bored. Which one was he? In need, or just bored? He wasn't sure.

But regardless, he knew he'd shoot a text to the man soon enough. Drugs, heartbreak, the pressure of fame. It was all your basic life and death shit. And he responded to life and death shit one of two ways. You either let it all bury you, or you punch up through the pine box coffin like Uma Thurman and Kill Bill Volume 2, and you get back up. Get ready for anything.

Act accordingly. Because there was always more life left to live than because any of us could leave this planet at any moment. It was like Arthur Lee sang in that song. Everybody's got to live and everybody's going to die. Arthur Lee knew what was up. Arthur Lee was dope, and so were Dylan and the Beatles. Mack fucked with all those guys.

He fucked with John Lennon the most. That was John's face right there, inked on Mack's forearm. John was honest, raw, real. John was just as real as Tribe or Wu-Tang or Big L. Fuck, Big L. Now that was Max's shit. He could still remember the first time he heard, Bigel's debut album. What was he? 14, 15. That record inspired Mack to wrap for the first time.

But Bigel was from Harlem, and that was a long way from Point Breeze. It was obvious that Mac had talent from the jump, but rhyming like he was from the projects in New York City and not some little dude from a nice part of Pittsburgh got him a lot of raised eyebrows. That was then, over 10 years ago. These days, he wasn't trying to be someone else. He was like his boy, John Lennon, Circa, Help. finally tapping into his true self, into his deepest and darkest feelings, just bearing it all. He wore his influences on his sleeve, not just outcast, M.F. Doom and Ye. But Elliot Smith poured his head and modest mouse. Life was too short to not sound like yourself.

You must remember that you have to die. He read somewhere that back in ancient Rome, slaves used to whisper, Lamento Mori into the years of the generals after a victory. You are mortal. Don't get cocky. Don't get consumed by hubris. Hubris was the least of Max's concerns. He was young and rich, but he was humble. It was the other shit he had to worry about. Not just the Molly and the Coke or the yellows and the blues. Drugs came and drugs went. He got fucked up, but he wasn't fucked. At least that's what he told himself. It was the other stuff that consumed him. The real heavy shit. Rejection. First, it was the disc tracks.

They said he was whack, they said he was weak, long before Snoop Dog called him white chocolate. Mack was just some pale half-Jewish, half-Catholic motherfucker from Point Breeze. Point Breeze, who fucks with Point Breeze anyways, nobody. He had to prove to his peers that he was worthy, that he had skills, and that he had his own voice and he could hold his own on any stage. But it wasn't just his peers that gave him a hard time. It was his critics, too. He was 20 years old when he released Blue Slide Park, his debut full-length album in 2011. It was a huge moment for him.

The culmination of hours and years of hard work, a jump to legitimacy after years of releasing mixtapes for free online. It debuted at number one on the Billboard charts. The first indie record to do that in like 15 years. But it got savaged in the press. XXL magazine compared him not to Bigel or Tribe or even his Pittsburgh homeboy Wiz Khalifa, but to the fucking Jonas Brothers.

Spin magazine said it was as if the cast of Glee tried to make a rap album. and Rolling Stone had to go and compare him to M&M, because of course they had to do that. And Pitchfork, the online hub for all things quote-unquote hipster, gave the record a 1.0 rating on their notorious 10-point scale. He wasn't prepared for that shit. The reviews destroyed him. He'd only just arrived and he was already getting rejected. That was the first time he had to get born again, dust himself off and proved them all wrong.

And he really shouldn't have complained. He knew that deep down. He thought about it as he fumbled around in the inside lid of the pine box with his pocket knife. There were others who had gone through worse, like Ariana. She went through a waking nightmare the year before, the likes of which he could hardly fathom. Over 14,000 had just watched her finish her encore at the Manchester Arena. The pink balloons dropped from the rafters. They were everywhere.

On the floor in the hands of teenagers giddy with that indescribable feeling you get from your first real concert. A houselights came up. Those 14,000 people began to bottleneck shuffle from their seats to the exit. And then, time stopped. An explosion erupted from just beyond the exit doors. In the arena, it actually shook. A rush of wind shot inside, followed by thick white smoke and the smell of something rotten. The pink balloons were suddenly swept away, and some of them popped.

Panic set in. Teenage girls were shrieking. Just beyond those exit doors, botched. bodies were on the floor, blood and confusion. Ariana Grande and her crew were insulated backstage, but from back there, it sounded like the world as they knew it was coming to an end. Ariana struggled in the aftermath of that tragedy that left 23 dead, including the suicide bomber and more than a thousand injured.

But she didn't let it stop her. She mourned the victims. She grieved, and then she moved forward. She started playing shows again, and those shows became a salve for those who needed the most. Ariana was a great role model, a beacon of strength and support, and one hell of a best friend and lover. But Mack didn't have Ariana anymore. She took to Twitter to say their two-year relationship was quote-unquote, toxic,

that she had been the glue keeping the two of them together, and that over time she simply became less and less sticky. And now Mac felt like he was coming unstuck. It was like the bad reviews all over again. But losing Ariana was far worse than any Barb's pitchfork could lob at him. Love fucking hurt. Even more painful was having to watch Ariana arm in arm with Pete Davidson. Mack pulled his social media accounts.

He went dark. People worried. Not just the fans, but his friends and his family. Good news, man, that's all they wanted to hear. Just the good news. But going dark, that was just his honest reaction. It was the truth, even if it didn't sound like the truth. Mac Miller broke his silence with the video for self-care.

released just months after his much publicized split with Ariana Grande. In it, he punches his way out of that coffin, climbs through layers of dirt, and emerges triumphant on the other side. He literally dusts himself off while explosions erupt around him. Mac Miller was ready to live again. But just like love, living was hard. Living was putting yourself through that ringer over and over and coming out on the other side.

Forever changed to once again paraphrase that. dope motherfucker Arthur Lee, because everybody's got to live. He was seated in his studio, surrounded by faces, and they were everywhere. They're in the console and on the faders. They're in the speakers and in the back of his chair. They're all over the red walls, big eyes, wide smiles, crows feet and dimples and uneven teeth. Faces inside the half-empty bottles of Jameson, faces lurking in the styrofoam cups, waiting to pounce from a underneath the rolled-up dollar bills and the lines of powder and the baggies of weed. Seemed like Mack Miller had done half the drugs in this California Valley town.

Just look around. He only needed a pair of eyes to see the place was a den of illicit activity. But the studio was dimly lit, and Mack's eyes were half closed. The faces oozed out just the same. And they freaked him the fucking. He buried his head in a blanket, but the faces were there too. Like the face of Easy Mac, a rapper from Al. Alberta who had beef with Mac years back.

The beef was over that name, Easy Mac, because that was the name Mac Miller himself was also using that. This was early in Mack's career, and the beef didn't last long. Easy Mac was a juvenile name. Mac was flexing beyond his years. As a kid, he hung out with the older crowd. He grew up fast. Easy Mac wasn't going to work, and neither was his given name, Malcolm McCormick.

So he took his brother's first name, Miller, and fashioned himself. a new name that sounded both grown up and not hokey. Then there were the faces of his so-called friends on MySpace, and not just Tom, that creepy back half-turned motherfucker, but all those blog post avatars and Twitter handles and Facebook profiles, the ones that got his YouTube hits up into the millions. Those faces morphed into the faces of all those actors. Or maybe they weren't real actors.

Matt couldn't tell. That was supposed to be the point. Kids from Kids, the Larry Clark movie that inspired Mack's first real release, The 2010 mixtape, K-I-D-S, kids. Telly, Casper, Jenny, Gummer, wait, shit, Gummer wasn't in that movie. He was in his own movie, but why the hell was his face here now? Mack was fucked up. He wasn't on planet Earth anymore.

He was all alone, constantly working, nodding his head to the beats coming out of the monitors, writing and rewriting non-stop, round the clock, like he had something to prove. Which he did. He wasn't some frat-rap fucko like they said he was. he wasn't a wannabe, just another white kid trying to co-op black culture or stand up to the real slim shady. He knew that. Not everyone did.

Some said he was a little too positive, too smiley, that he had one too many rhymes about smoking weed, eating yogurt, and going to parties. He hadn't paid his dues. Wasn't a hood dude. Lived a Kush life. Son of an architect and a photographer. Not exactly the origin story for a formidable MC. From the jump, Mac Miller's journey to respectability and acceptance was a hard one.

He figured he could use his charm to turn any hater into a fan, but the backlash he received after the release of Blue Slide Park was so overwhelming. It sent him into a tailspan. All the work he put into making that record in, not just the nuts and bolts of the record itself, but everything that led up to it. The long hours he put it in as a teenager, uplaid at his folks' plays, teaching himself piano, guitar, bass, drums,

writing verses, getting the flow right, leaning into his marbled mouth delivery. Then spreading the word online, the mixtapes, the U-streams and then touring, playing to whoever showed up, getting nervous and puking backstage, maintaining his everyman image by crowdsourcing for parties or couches to crash via Twitter. Even XXL magazine's coveted freshman cover, which was a huge get for an outsider like Mac Miller, and which found him photographed next to other up-and-comers like Meek Mill, Big Crit, and Kendrick. In hindsight, even that felt like he'd just been trolled.

The same publication that hailed him as a rising star soon tore him down with a humiliating review. Everyone talked shit in the hip-hop game, from run DMC and the Beasties to Jay and Lil Wayne, but Mac wasn't prepared for all the shit talk that came his way as he became more well-known. He needed to get tougher to give less of a fuck. So he dabbled and give less-of-a-fuck extracurriculars.

Molly, Benzos, Oxy, Coke, the bigger the cup of lean, the better. The sylip coating-laced liquid, mellowed him the fuck out. The drugs transformed him. That infectious smile and gregarious demeanor that won over so many early fans was replaced with the thick skin of a missinthroat. He drank Lean not just to get fucked up but to prove a point that he wasn't what they said he was. He could change. He was being made to change and he wasn't going to let anyone look away.

He pissed off his boss at his indie label, Roaston Records, by drinking Lean in his car against the boss's wishes. And when he drank it backstage at shows, his mom watched helplessly from the other side of a security card. McAdelic, his 2012 mixtape, was a drug record through and through. The references were all there, to lean, to cocaine, to Molly, and that aptly named under the influence to where the fall doubled down on all of that. And now, he was going even further down the rabbit hole. He was going to call his latest mixtape, faces. It laid bare his anxieties, his depression, his heart.

self-doubt as drug use, even to suicidal thoughts. And it was inspired by all the hallucinations that followed him around the studio and wouldn't leave him alone. The lovers and the fans, yes, but also the shit-talkers, the doubters, the haters, and the critics. Even as a loudest critic, one who began as a fan, a fan Mac never wanted, and one who eventually revealed his true colors. Donald Trump was an abstraction. At least that's what Mac Miller thought. It was like John Lennon's song about God. Donald Trump is a concept, or should I say, Donald Trump was a concept by which many measured their baller status.

And this, of course, was years before Trump ever contemplated running for president of the United States. He was just this filthy rich dude, a status symbol. And in the world of hip-hop, being rich and powerful like Trump, was the status he aspired to, like Bruce Wayne or Tony Montana, an unfuck-with-the-ball archetype. So when Mac dropped his mixtape, best day of his, ever in early 2011, it included a banger of a track about living large, taking over the world and leaving haters in the dust. Naturally, he called the song Donald Trump. The video racked up

16 million views on YouTube and counting. The popularity of the clip offered an organic and viral boost ahead of the fall release of the Blue Slide Park album, and the views kept coming. 17 million, 18 million. It seemed that everyone was jumping on the Mac Miller bandwagon, including the song namesake. By the time the video hit 20 million views, Donald Trump took to the internet in a video praising Mac and naturally basking in the attention because in Donald Trump's eyes, he was the true reason for the song's runaway success. That irked Mac. It was his song, his art, was his idea to take an uplifting melody from Sufion Stevens' slow and dreamy song Vesuvius and bend it into the irrepressible hook of an uptempo party track. And then something happened, something

that earthed Mack even more. Within a few years, Trump was no longer simply a metaphor for filthy rich ballers. He began publicly doubting the citizenship of President Barack Obama. He demanded to see Obama's birth certificate, like there was some grand secret known only to him that he was about to expose. In reality, Trump was exposing himself as a mouthpiece for bullshit, and the fucked up thing was that other people were actually listening to this. Mac didn't fuck with bullshit.

Mac didn't fuck with birth or radicals either, and he didn't fuck with someone who didn't fuck with Obama. And in 2013, when Mac was named Man of the Year by Complex Magazine, he used the platform to distance himself from any unnecessary association with Donald Trump. Quote, I have a fucking song with this dude's name, Mack said during the interview. Quote, and now he's just being such a fucking doucheback. Complex smelled a beef for the ages. They made sure they tagged Trump on Twitter when spreading the word about the article in Mac's shit talk. Trump didn't wait long to respond. Of course he didn't.

Little at Mac Miller, you illegally use my name for your song Donald Trump, which now has over 75 million hits, Trump tweeted. Little at Mac Miller, I'm now going to teach you a big boy lesson about lawsuits and finance, you ungrateful dog. At first, Mac panicked. Thinking about a man with seemingly unlimited resources and a burgeoning army of online trolls coming after him. But then he looked at it from another angle. He must have done something right to piss off a guy as famous and divisive as Donald fucking Trump, a guy who now had beef with two people and two people only, Barack Obama and Mac Miller.

In a roundabout kind of way, Mac Miller knew that he had finally arrived. We'll be right back after this word, word, word. May 17th, 2018, 1 a.m., Los Angeles. The Mercedes G-Wagon rounded a corner. Mack Miller clung tight to the steering wheel. He tried to focus, but focusing was hard because Mac was drunk. He knew this was a bad idea, getting behind the wheel and driving himself home. Even worse, some friends were in the ride with him.

But his place was super close, just around the corner. not the corner that just got hugged by the rooms of his white G-wagon, another corner, up the streetways. He squinted and tried to visualize it. L.A.'s neon fought back. And then something told him the floor. A voice, a thought, a memory. Was it someone in the car or something in the air?

Something in his head? He didn't know. He wasn't sure where the instruction came from, but it is inebriated condition reeling from the state of the world and the state of his life, as a simple instruction made sense. Step on it, full speed ahead. Fucking now. Maybe it was the alcohol talking,

or maybe the voice just gave him confidence. Whatever it was, he did what the voice said. Petal, meat metal. Was Mac okay? Nah, man, he was pretty fucking far from okay. The whole world was upside down. Donald Trump was now, unbelievably the leader of the free world.

And Mac knew he'd be eternally embarrassed to be associated with this guy. Not that he hadn't tried to warn the American people. Quote, just please don't elect this motherfucker man. He tweeted all the way back in 2015. He even appeared on Comedy Central's Nightly show to deliver a no-holds-barred Smackdown

against New York's most infamous billionaire. A smackdown that opened with the line. Ali, I have one thing to say. I fucking hate you, Donald Trump. And though Trump got Mac Miller's blood pressure up, it was Ariana Grande who had stolen his heart and then left it bleeding on the side of the road. The love of Mack's life, the great stabilizing force, she was gone.

If the photos of matching tattoos, she and her rebound boy toy Pete Davidson posted on Instagram or any indication, she was never coming back. And if some online rumors were to be believed, Pete Davidson was pouring salt on the open wound by texting explicit photos of Ariana to Mac. And that would be enough to drive anyone off the road. Mac knew he had so many reasons to feel better than this. Creatively and professionally, he was on the road. right track. Just a few years earlier, he'd been reborn again with a $10 million deal with

Warner Brothers. His major label debut, Good AM, recaptured the playfulness of his earlier music, but filtered it through a more mature lens. Good AM entered the charts at number four, and the reviews were positive. Even pitchfork got behind it. Max's newfound momentum continued with a full detox at the guesthouse of Rick Rubin, the legendary record producer with an equally legendary beard and Zen outlook on life. Mac followed that with another resounding critical and commercial success, the 2016 album The Divine Feminine, and a tour where he stayed clean and sober for months.

Mack's new album, Swimming, was going to be his best yet. He could feel it. It was a hip-hop record, a soul record, a singer-songwriter record. It was all of Mac rolled up into one. Mac was going full John Lennon, and he made it with the help of friends, including Snoop Dog, Thundercat, Jake Cole, John Bryan, and so many others. But even better than all this success was the acceptance of his peers.

And not just any peer, but the peer. The goat, Hova, motherfucking JZ, actually gave Mack Miller a shout-out on Twitter. Tonight, though, none of that mattered. Tonight, behind the wheel of his G-wagon, Mac wasn't sure what was coming over him. Grief, regret, drunken waves of nausea. He sunk his foot deeper into the floor, and the car roared to life. It picked up speed, fast.

The boulevard rushed past the window, one blurred memory after another. The engine hummed. Back's mind raced. Arianna, Trump, J.Z. He kept his foot planted. The rush was reverse intoxicating. It almost made him feel sober.

And then it came at him. He couldn't say it came out of nowhere because it was there all along. It just got closer and closer with unprecedented speed until it was right in front of them, right on top of them, And then...

The car jumped the curb and crashed head-on into a telephone pole. The front end crumpled. The airbags deployed. Mack's head was tossed like a rag doll. And the telephone pole cracked and split. The G-wagon sounded like it was frying under the hood. Mack opened the driver's door and stumbled out under the sidewalk. He didn't even think about what he did next.

There was a break in a nearby fence. He slipped through it off into the night. And the G-wagon smoldered behind him. He found his way back to his house on foot, where hours later, LAPD knocked on the door, put him in cuffs, and charged him with driving under the influence, and a hit and run. He posted bail the next day, 15 grand, and then he went back to work. Swimming was nearly finished, but for many of Mack's entourage, things were far from business as usual. Max's longtime tour DJ, clockwork, asked him point blank, well, what happened?

What happened with the accident? Mack thought about her for a minute. Thought back to that feeling he got that night. The feeling that came over him, the voice that told him to step on it. You ever feel invincible? Mack has clockwork. I just felt invincible. In August of 2018, Mac Miller dropped swimming,

his fifth studio album and third for Warner Brothers. It was released on the heels of the music video for Sampers. self-care, the one in which he carves Memento Mori into the ceiling of a coffin before dramatically breaking out and transcending death. The album was universally hailed as his best yet. Critics called it patient, dreamy, airtight, and irresistible. It entered the Billboard 200 at number three, behind new albums by Travis Scott and Drake. It was easy to assume that Mack was processing his life through his arm. It had been three months since his breakup with Ariana Grande in his drunken car crash in L.A.

But despite the brave face he wore on the record, in reality, Mack's trauma wasn't resolved. He was still relying on bad habits to get him through the night. One month later, on the evening of September 4th, swimming was still on the charts. It was around 11 p.m., Mac typed a message into his phone. Did you hear back about Addy? He waited impatiently for a response.

Finally, it came. Nah, I couldn't find any. Shit, he types him more. All good. You don't have lean, do you? Perks? The response came quickly this time. We've got some dial that did twos, but that's about it.

I could get yellows and blues, though. Mack got excited. He typed again. Blues as far as perks? When can you get him? Mack watched the ellipsis in the chat bubble pulse as his dealer composed his response. Probably in an hour or two.

to. Cameron Pettett didn't have exactly what Mac Miller was looking for, but what he had was close enough. Oxi, Xanax, cocaine. Mac texted his address and waited, and waited. After nearly two hours, he was tired of waiting. It was now around one in the morning. Mac composed another text message, this one to another dealer slash madam, the one who introduced him to Petit in the first place. Cam is supposed to be pulling up and he ain't answering. Mac had got her attention, Quick. She took his order. Five oxies, 10 Adderall, five Norco pills, and two grams of coke. She told Mack the coke was on the house if he booked a girl, too. Deal. Mack waited some more, this time for a sex worker to show up in the studio with the shit.

But before she did, Pettett finally responded. He apologized. He got sidetracked. He arrived at Mack's studio around 2.30 that morning, which was around the same time that the sex worker also showed up. There were worse things in a redundant drug delivery. But one of those two drug deliveries was not like the other. Two days later, on the morning of September 7th, Mack's assistant found Mack on his bed. His skin was turning blue. Liquid was oozing from his mouth.

The assistant called 911 and tried to revive Mac with CPR, but it was too late. Some of the drugs delivered to Mac Miller a few nights earlier did not come as advertised. The oxycodone pills, the blues, or 30, aka generic 30 milligram pills that he bought off Cameron Pettit were actually counterfeit. Cops found those pills along with legit oxy pills, Adderall, Norco, Xanax, and cocaine, and Mack's coat hanging in his closet.

The counterfeit oxies tested positive for a lethal dose of fentanyl. Judging by the paraphernalia, they also found onsite. Mack had crushed up and snorted the fentanyl, completely unaware of what he was taking. He died of an accidental overdose due to the mixed drug toxicity in his system. fentanyl, cocaine, and alcohol. Following his death, streams of Mack's music jumped a whopping 970%. Swimming re-entered the Billboard Top Ten and hit number one on Apple Music's streaming chair. His final album, Circles, was released posthumously in January of 2020,

further cementing the laid-back hybrid style that had come to define his music. It also moved 164,000 album equivalent units in its first week, Mac's biggest sales week ever. Mac Miller had finally punched his way through the rejection. The only injustice was that he wasn't alive to enjoy it. There was some justice in the world. Two men who were involved in the sale of the fentanyl and Mac Miller received prison sentences. Ryan Revis, who supplied the bogus pills to Cameron Pettit,

was sentenced to just under 11 years in prison. Revis, in turn, got the pills from a guy named Stephen Walter, who is now doing just over 17 years. for his part. Cameron Pettit, meanwhile, was charged with distribution of a controlled substance, which comes with a 20-year maximum prison sentence. As of this episode, the case against Pettett is still pending. But putting drug dealers behind bars wasn't the only justice carried out in the name of Mac Miller. On January 19, 2021, Donald Trump took one last walk across the White House lawn, inclined aboard the Marine One helicopter, and flew away. Donald Trump's last day is a lot of the last day, as

President of the United States was the very same day on which Mac Miller would have celebrated his 29th birthday. 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-Axacist member, thank you for supporting the show. We really appreciate it. And if not, you can become a member right now by going to disgracelandpod.com slash membership. Members can listen to every episode of disgrace land ad

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