A Preposterous Posthumous Predicament: Are these retrospective releases profiting from memory or honouring legacy?

         ‘It ain’t about money’ – Mac Miller (Balloonersim)

I have always felt a little dubious about the release of posthumous projects, and the publication of music beyond the grave seems to be only increasing in popularity. Posthumous works from Whitney, MF Doom, Taylor Hawkins, and Pop Smoke, to name a few, have all been released in the last decade. However, last week’s announcement of the much-anticipated second retrospective release from Mac Miller, Balloonerism, has got me questioning the ethics behind labels and estates profiting from a dead man’s tongue.

Miller reportedly worked on Balloonerism in his 2013-2015 hyper-creative spell, during which he also completed projects such as Watching Movies With the Sound Off, Delusional Thomas, Faces, and GO:OD AM. With many unofficial versions of this unreleased project existing online, the family’s incentive to distribute Mac’s authentic work is understandable: to prevent the defamation of his art and his name. His family have also stated that the project was of ‘great importance’ to Mac, implying that the project was polished at his time of death and that he always intended for the album to be publicly released. However, given that the album was preceded by so many other projects and allegedly completed three years before Mac’s death, I can’t help but feel that if he had wanted the album to have seen the public light of day, he would have made it happen before his final breath.  

My main problem with posthumous projects is that the artist’s intentions for the record can never be confirmed. Whitney’s latest single, Love Is, released earlier this month, 8th November, sounds eerily soulless, instilling detriment rather than sentiment upon Houston’s name. Whilst still an undeniable power ballad, hollow lyrics such as ‘love is what you make it, so make it love’ lack the poeticism and intricacy that became so familiar with in her humous music. My initial overwhelming thought was that Houston may have only granted its release over her dead body.

Posthumous releases have been alive and kicking since the 19th Century, with Beethoven’s Für Elise being discovered and published in 1865, 38 years after his death. Like Ludwig, some of the more popular and acclaimed works of an artist are not granted public access until after their death. Examples include Nirvana’s MTV Unplugged in New York (1994), The Notorious B.I.G’s ironically titled Life After Death (1997) and Shoot for the Stars, Aim for the Moon (2020), which was American rapper Pop Smoke’s debut studio album, instigating his boundless postmortem success. Some artists, like Warrington indie-rock band Viola Beach, tragically passed before their debut release. The self-titled album, for me, is one of my favoured albums in its genre and has been frequently rotated since its release. With further examples such as Lil Peep, who has now released more music as a dead man than alive, it’s hard to dishonour the release of posthumous projects as they serve to maintain, or in some cases create, the legacy of the artist. In the case of Viola Beach, the posthumous release of their debut album put them on the indie-musical map and curated their fanbase, now with a stage named in their honour at local indie music festival Neighbourhood Weekender. Without this innately ethically dubious move, their musical catalogue would have died with them, denying them the acclaim and recognition that their art deserves.

Often viewed as a money-making move, the trend of extending an artist’s life after death has been denied by many.  L.A. rapper and creative powerhouse Tyler, the Creator, has claimed to have already inscribed within his will that no unreleased material shall be unveiled after his death. Known for his admirably incessant need for creative control, Tyler’s rejection of any posthumous releases is to be expected. In his words, he describes the concept as ‘f*cking gross’, a view which is shared by fellow American rapper-singer and drummer-by-trade Anderson Paak. Accompanied by an illustration of his assumed spirit Animal, Paak has a tattoo on his forearm that reads, ‘When I’m gone, please don’t release any posthumous albums or songs with my name attached. Those were just demos and never intended to be heard by the public’.  This insightful inking instils that, generally speaking, many artists would not be comfortable having their name attached to art which they did not personally sign off. A fine example of this would be the frivolously famous Falling Down by Lil Peep and XXXtentation, both of which had passed at the time of the track’s release. The song is one of the most popular for each artist, but the circumstances within which it was created are beyond questionable.  

Both Lil Peep and XXXtentation died tragically young with extended unreleased catalogues of music. However, according to several of Peep’s closest friends, he actively disliked XXX and, in life, would have never considered making music with him. Peep’s unfinished track, Sunlight on Your Skin, allegedly evolved into Falling Down, according to iLoveMakonnen, a Portland rapper and singer who was working on an album with Lil Peep before his demise. Peep’s label, First Access Entertainment (FAE), are not shy of profiting from his posthumous releases and were sued by Peep’s mother, Liza Womack, over his wrongful drug-induced death. Therefore, the release of Falling Down boils down to the label’s disregard for Peep’s legacy and fondness for financial gain, rejecting his morals and values to make as much money as possible after his death. This inarguably deduces that all posthumous work is undoubtedly dubious and, to some extent, unethical.

That said, given my fond attachment to the debut album of Viola Beach, I can’t help but admit that there are conditions within which posthumous albums are propitious. When a musician was famously part of a collective or continuously worked closely with certain other creatives, it’s easier to argue that their posthumous work was released to honour their memory and is much less at risk of tarnishing their legacy. Some key examples include the release of Queen’s sardonically titled Made in Heaven in 1995, four years after the death of beloved frontman Freddie Mercury. Upon the icon’s AIDs diagnosis in 1987, Mercury corralled the rest of the band and, almost intentionally, recorded a future posthumous album. With his musical career in full swing, Freddie decided to elongate his legacy as much as possible by writing and recording tracks that could be released in his honour, entirely justifying the release of posthumous works. The depiction of his character by Rami Malek in his biopic years later, however, is an entirely different story.

Comparably, both The Doors and Joy Division went on to release albums shortly after the deaths of their lead singers, Jim Morrison and Ian Curtis. With the two-to-three-month turnaround suggesting the albums were mainly finished at Morrison’s and Curtis’ respective times of death, it must be assumed that they were satisfied with their creations as a band, although never confirmed.

Last but by no means least, my darling Amy Winehouse’s Lioness: Hidden Treasures was released six months after her harrowing death. Featuring unheard tracks, covers, and her celebrated duet with legendary crooner and her much admired Tony Bennett, it’s my opinion that the project was respectfully crafted and honourably released in homage to my most missed member of the 27 club. The work was composed and arranged by her close friends and musical partners Mark Ronson and Salaam Remi as a tribute to Winehouse and as a reminder of her incomparable songwriting power, indescribable talent and tonality and her unique ability to rework classics. A truly honourable way to mark her passing and thriving legacy, as far as I’m concerned.

Given the fruitful finances to be made from the death of a popular musician and the totalitarian nature of many major record labels (another time!), the frequent fruition of posthumous projects is undeniably alarming. As a singer myself, the thought of my voice being banded around beyond my years sends shivers down my spine, and not the good ones. The humiliation that would come with the public passing judgment on recordings that I never intended for anyone but my dogs to hear would be harrowing. That said, as summarised succinctly by the late, great Buddy Holly, death ‘is very often referred to as a good career move’ for a musician, justifying the disturbingly accurate trope that everybody loves you when you’re dead. Put into painful perspective by the recent death of One Direction’s Liam Payne prompting all five of the band’s albums to re-enter the top forty.

Whilst I may have contributed to the anticipation of Mac Miller’s Balloonerism, I felt it necessary to air my reservations about the conditions within which this project will be delivered to his fans. Regardless of the ethics, such coverage of an album released 6 years after the passing of a musician is a testament to their global impact both in life and in death. I only hope that Mac can continue to rest in peace knowing this project will be streamed, shared, and enjoyed by thousands, whether or not this was his intention during its creation.