When Killer Mike talks about the grandmother he lost, he can’t help but clutch the double-sided pendant dangling from his gold link chain. Far from the standard issue rapper’s medallion, it contains a palm-sized photo of Bettie Clonts, the woman he credits with inspiring the spiritual turn his music has taken. He holds it up to show me before flipping it over to reveal a picture of his mother, Denise Clonts, who died in 2017, five years after his maternal grandmother. One instilled in him the virtue of God; the other connected him to the plug when trapping became his vice. Together they represent his own vivid yin and yang. “They’re like my guardians,” he says, a smile spreading across his face even as tears fog up his dark shades.
We’re sitting in a booth inside the unopened Bankhead Seafood — the legendary neighborhood staple he and fellow Westside Atlanta native, rapper T.I., purchased during the pandemic, spending an estimated $2.3 million to redevelop the restaurant with business partners, including Mike’s enterprising wife, Shana Render. It’s part of a larger Nipsey Hussle-styled effort to buy and build up the blocks he and T.I. ripped and ran through as youngsters. “Tip sold drugs right here,” Mike says, pointing up the street before chewing out the incessant critics of his own burgeoning capitalist endeavors, which include rental units he owns in the nearby Bluff and several barbershops sprinkled throughout the city. “[They] don't understand the significance of a Black man owning property in a country in which he was property.”
If it’s true that our ancestors lobby for us from the great beyond, Killer Mike’s foremothers must be in divine overdrive. After 20 years on the grind — from his monster mixtape run to the indie turned major-label success of Run the Jewels — he drops the most personal solo album of his career with 2023’s autobiographical Michael, sweeping every rap category at this year’s Grammys and winning album of the year at the BET Awards. Even his arrest backstage at the Grammys ends with a silver lining when he wakes up the next morning to the news that his son is receiving a kidney transplant after waiting three years for a match. And that’s just the beginning. A year after taking his heartfelt album on the road, performing stripped-down confessionals like “Motherless,” “Slummer” and “Something for Junkies” night after night, with a backing choir of five vocalists, gospel/hip-hop/R&B producer Warryn Campbell on the Hammond B3 organ and his longtime DJ, Trackstar, Michael Render had an epiphany. “I thought the story of Michael had ended. Then I realized it hadn’t ended,” he says. “The newest beginning was your son getting a kidney and God showing you there are more important things than winning. There are more important things than the jewelry, than the cars, than the jars of weed, than the women, than the praise and accolades.”
His rebirth as a contemporary bluesman, steeped in rap’s storytelling tradition, hasn’t totally quelled the characteristic fire in his bones. For all the acclaim he’s garnered over the past year, certain criticisms still gnaw at him — whether it’s pushback from white voyeurs who finger-wag the newly minted multimillionaire’s standard of living or Black intellectuals who can’t reconcile the schism between his once-radical rhetoric on wax and the politics of compromise that compelled him to sit down with Georgia’s Republican governor. Steadfast in his convictions and his commitment to being a pillar in his community, he’s still quick to perceive slights from either side and return fire when he feels like he's under attack. But nothing’s more revelatory than his newfound vulnerability.
Fresh from the studio working on his final refrain, he’s reemerged with an album credited to Michael and the Mighty Midnight Revival: Songs for Sinners and Saints. He calls the album the epilogue of his Michael era. Seven of the songs on the 10-track project are brand new. The rest are carried over from Michael, but more reimagined than remixed, the result of months of honing them live on stages he turned into his personal pulpit. Michael’s on-the-road revival gets transposed into something even more visceral and vulnerable than the original: More church organs. More southern choir vocals. More testimony over temptation. More than that, Songs for Sinners and Saints offers a new way for listeners to perceive rap’s deacon of contradiction — from the political to the profane — especially when steeped in the context of his upbringing.
The more Mike tells stories about his God-loving grandmother and the selfless way she and his grandfather raised him, smack dab in the middle of the crack era that got his mother caught up, surrounded by crooked street legends and square entrepreneurs he aspired to emulate, the clearer it becomes that the sinners and the saints were never paradoxical in his eyes. To Killer Mike, they’ve always been one and the same.
This interview has been edited for length and clarity.
Rodney Carmichael: On the 2012 song “R.A.P. Music,” you said “the closest you've ever come to seeing or feeling God is listening to rap music.” What inspired you to turn Michael into such a spiritual experience, if not a religious one?
Killer Mike: Man, this lady right here. [Grabs the pendant on his neck with photos of his mother and grandmother.] That’s my girl, Bettie Clonts. I keep her and my mother, her daughter Denise, with me. We went to two churches — one on Bankhead and one on Johnson Road, off Hollywood Road. But I would go, and man, the music. At Bishop Jean's church, I was always excited because it was a band playing bass, guitar. And in Mother Jackson's church, it was the absolute study of the word. My grandmother being from Alabama, she still loved a little church. And musically, what those smaller churches I went to taught me was: Have some jamming music and have a story with moral and purpose beyond convincing people your religion is right. Show them how it affects their daily life.
And that's what rap music had always done for me. So for me, it is a spiritual experience, because as a kid, that's what moved my spirit. So when it came time to make Michael, I'm a prodigal son. I don't have the traditional Atlanta sound. I've never been a traditional Atlanta lyricist. And yet, I'm from here. I'm literally from right where we’re sitting at.
I just decided, Man, f*** this. I’m going to tell the story of who I am outside of proxy to others — outside of being one half of one of the greatest groups around, outside of being the friend of Tip, whose label Grand Hustle gave me a place to be during the mixtape era and proxy to the crunk movement, and OutKast signing me. I had to let them see me one time. And I had to show motherf****** I'm better than the apathy you gave me. Cause I would've rather been hated than just overlooked for so long. I was overlooked for so long, it was brutal.
So what kept you going in those overlooked years?
I knew I was better. I knew my music was good. People know about R.A.P. Music and Jason DeMarco [of Adult Swim] introducing me to El-P and us getting together. They've heard that story. But a year prior to that, I was like, “I'm over this s***. I know I'm better. I know I'm dope. How am I sitting over here, dope as f***, on the sideline?” I had to prove to myself I could do it. So if you go back and listen to Pledge, you're damn near listening to a prototype of what I would end up doing later on with Michael, in terms of the sound I was reaching for. I was reaching for something soulful.
With Run the Jewels, you also achieved the critical and financial success that had eluded you for so long. Why wasn’t that enough?
Everybody around you is dying and you finally got everything you wanted. You've got fame, you've got money, you've got recognition. But I still hadn't told the very distinctly Atlanta African American story of the west side. And I don't believe anyone has, until I did it my way. What you're getting is not only my story, it's the story of hundreds of working-class men and women, thousands of working-class men and women, that have come out of this neighborhood that are Black.
It is the story of white kids in the Appalachians. A white kid walked up to me after the show last year and said, ‘I need you to know, man, I felt every word of that album, because that's my life.’ To be poor or working class, to have hope in the temptation of hopelessness, to have made grave mistakes that you will remain remorseful for to the day you die. I am Robert Beck — who you know as Iceberg Slim — meets August Wilson. You've never seen anything like me. So how could I quit? And I don't say that from an ego-filled place of arrogance. I'm saying that you haven't. You can only get this here, and everybody doesn't get this.
Where else can you get this empowered of a Black kid? Unless you went to Frederick Douglass High School and your main rival is Benjamin E. Mays High School. People have to understand that I grew up prideful from day one. I didn't have to go find pride. If I wanted to be a street dude, I could look at what Wesley Merritt amassed from the numbers game; I could look at Charlie Cato. If I wanted to be on the side of right, I had [Atlanta mayors] Andy Young [and] Maynard Jackson. I have everything I need inside me to make the choice I want to make. And I'm as equally literate in the s*** that goes on on this strip, good and bad. I just don't ever think you've seen that in a rapper.
Rappers have always gotten knocked for their contradictions. And you've always sort of reveled in exposing yours. Even in terms of this project, Songs for Sinners and Saints, it occurred to me that you really kind of see yourself — and maybe, in a certain sense, even strive to remain — a bit of both.
I don't strive; I am. S***, who would choose to have some of the darkness human beings have. It's in you, though. But you gotta acknowledge it. Good and evil rest in me, heaven and hell are in me. And the god force and the dark force are both in me. I heard somebody say you can't truly be humble unless you’re capable of violence and savagery. Because otherwise, you’re just scared. You just a sucker. And there ain't nothing wrong with being a sucker, if that's what you are.
In this rap s***, people get to talking crazy. And because you're a rapper, people get to talking crazy at you. Not even in rap. I'm talking about business people, politicians. I've always reminded people, violence is always an option. And that's not me making a threat at all. That's just saying if you're that passionate about it, understand violence is always an option. It's just not the option I want. So I smile. I choose to remain humble. Because I'm not self-aggrandizing in a way that I feel like I'm some kind of faux revolutionary or the most badass motherf***** on the planet.
Is it hard choosing humility over violence?
I'm just from a family where I understood very early. My grandfather was the most gentle man I ever knew: He loved us, hugged on us, kissed us, called us baby till the day he died. My grandfather shot a man in church at 14 years old. My grandfather did time on a chain gang. In a gambling house not too far from here, a man clipped him — hit him in his head, took his wallet. He said, Hey, tell the motherf***** when I see him again, I'm a shooter.
My grandfather — maybe two, three years later — saw that same man in the same gambling house, walked to his truck, came back, shot that man, came home to my grandmother's house and sat — and the sun sets beautifully in the evenings on the west side; it's so beautiful it looks like a movie you're watching — he gave my grandmother the gun and he said, You know, Bettie, I just shot a man. And they just sat there and waited for the police to come. And the police never came because if you get shot at the gambling house and the gambling house reports your ass getting shot, they going to close the gambling house. So they got that n**** to Grady [Memorial Hospital]. Whoever that n**** was, he survived. But I bet you he didn't clip nobody else at that gambling house.
My mother used to tell me that story. But my grandfather was a kind, gentle man. I guess that's what I'm saying. I understood that, as a human being, I have a propensity for anger and violence. As a human being, I have a propensity to do the most savage of things. All of us as humans do. So how could I not acknowledge it is there?
Your vulnerability feels like your greatest strength on Michael, and especially on this Sinners and Saints follow-up. Was it something about the genre — or maybe even just growing up a Black man in our generation — that made it hard to get this vulnerable for this long, in terms of sharing your personal story?
Yeah. The toughness is needed, but the vulnerability is as needed. My grandfather showed me his vulnerabilities two or three different times in his life, where I needed to see it. I needed to understand how much he loved my grandmother. I needed to understand how only she could hurt his feelings in a certain way. My grandfather had curly, wavy hair — Lord knows I ain't get that from my mama or I’d have had 20 children — but I walked and my sister’s just putting barrettes in my grandfather’s hair (laughs). If they would’ve caught us doing that as boys at the time they would’ve been like “What the hell y'all doing in here? Get y'all ass outta here! Go to the yard and play!” But that was for his granddaughters. I needed to see that.
So when my grandmother had me standing in my sister's dress — I mean, we had a big picture window and my friends were walking by — and she was like, “Hey, put this on, I need to hem this for your sister.” I'm like, “Momma, I'm not ….” I’m literally standing in my little sister’s dress as my grandmother’s hemming it, and I didn’t give a s***. That's my baby. She was about 8 or 9; I was 13. And man, my partners, they got a kick out of that. They talked cash s*** to me.
So the vulnerability, to me, was something I needed. It was not easy. It is still hard to do “Motherless” on stage every night. It's still incredibly difficult to reminisce and rap “Slummer.” “Something For Junkies” is another one, but it's needed. Man, Black men, it's okay. It's okay to not be superheroes. And if we are, we got to understand we’re Batman — you're just a regular guy when you take the suit off, and you're gonna get bruised, you're gonna get beat up. So I'd be remiss not to be vulnerable.
For someone who has been critical of some of the political moves you've made, the magic of this project is it really gives listeners the opportunity to perceive you in a fuller light. Even as contrarian, as you sometimes get criticized for being, your story helps explain how you think in a lot of ways.
There’s a line where I say, “I got the mayor, the senators, congressmen, I got the governor's ear.” My grandmother could get to the mayor in six phone calls. Her grandson can do it at one. My grandmother was just a nursing school graduate [who] bought a house on the Westside, stayed there and worked on behalf of people. How could I not participate with whoever in office?
I know a lot of people criticized me: “You met with [Georgia Gov. Brian] Kemp.” Within a year and a half, he brought back the HOPE scholarship and he added trade schools to it. Now, he didn't agree with me on gangs, so he passed and signed the gang enhancement bill. Broke my heart. But you think I'm going to end my relationship with somebody over one disagreement? We disagreed on that. We disagree on a few other things. But he caught hell from his party; I caught hell from my side. But a bunch of Black boys from this neighborhood can go to trade school.
The conservatives say I've been paid by the Democrats. The Democrats say I've been paid by the Republicans. I don't accept money. I don't step up unless I truly believe in something, and I don't accept money. That's why I thank God for giving me a good job. Thank you, Lord.
The contradiction that I am is the contradiction all human beings are, and they are ashamed of it. If they weren't ashamed, they'd have the courage to understand that this is me. As a human being, I have this capacity. So let me put things in another perspective in which I'm more empathetic and more understanding of others. I know that we can do better as a people — Black people. We can do good. But, man, we need to give ourselves some grace. We’re too hard on ourselves.
What was it about the live experience and being on the road with Michael that made you want to bring that feeling to a new album?
Revival. The church. I was, like, “Man, if I could just get a choir, I could bring people deeper into it.” Because I want you to experience that. Cause you may be familiar with it, but what about my white kid who grew up on the Upper West Side of New York? How do I give him the experience of a revival? Going on the road gave me the chance to see people weeping when I do these records. Because these are not only Killer Mike fans, these are Run the Jewels fans. It looks like salt and pepper out there in the audience. A lot of salt, too. These people are having a spiritual experience — and some of them for the first time in their lives like this. And it's the culmination of what I said on “R.A.P. Music.” We're bringing a revival. The only thing missing is a white tent and the heat.
You've become the preacher that people have always tried to force on you. You finally couldn’t run from it.
[Laughs] Every two or three shows, I'll say, “Boy, my grandma used to tell me, You can't keep running from God.” And I've tried for so long. You just gotta accept God has a purpose for us. I don't know what the purpose is, but I know I have one. I don't know where it's taking me, but I know I'm going somewhere.
How is your relationship with God different now?
God made me a believer. When my grandmother died, she died in my arms. And walking up a hill. She looked at me. She looked past me. She saw something. She looked back at me. She smiled. She hugged me. She was gone. And I understood that I was in the middle of a transformative spiritual experience.
I could not explain. I'm not trying to prove to nobody. I just know I saw what I saw. You know what I mean? And it made me an absolute believer that what she was trying to ingrain with me through Christianity, that absolutely there's a source, absolutely I'm from that source, and absolutely that source resides in me.
We've seen you perform and pour out your soul more in the past year than we have over your entire career. How has it affected you on a personal level to let us in like that, night after night. What have you gained from performing this level of honesty and vulnerability over the past year?
Ah, man, it's therapeutic. Besides the fact that I actually do see a therapist on occasion, it's therapeutic in that it reminds me every night I'm here, right now, in this moment. I'm here because of the experiences — both good, bad and different — that I've had. And it is my job on stage to connect with this community of people that share similar experiences and let them know that the energy I'm giving is reciprocal when they have to give it back.
What motivated you to start going to therapy?
This is overwhelming: fame and money. And most people get fame without the money, but this s*** is just overwhelming. I hadn’t grieved my mother. I hadn't taken a rest from the road in a decade. I held a tremendous amount of guilt from not being able to be a heavier part of my first three children's lives because I was on the road so much.
You need somewhere to make sense of it all. So my wife found a Black woman therapist and she's absolutely amazing. And I've been better for it. I'm not one of those that got to go every week. I'm still my grandfather's grandson. Some s***, as a man, you just gotta go figure out. Go cut the goddamn grass and think. The answer will come to you (laughs). But I will say, talking to a Black woman who understands alternative thinking and the artist's mind, it's been a great thing for me.
What do you understand about yourself now that you didn't in the past?
That the dark and the light are both me. And I don't have the luxury of acting like they aren't. I have to understand: As a human being, I'm capable of the worst. And that's what drives me to be my best.
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