Today, I want to talk about Lil Peep. But then, I always do.
Three years ago, I woke up to the news of his overdose. I was immediately, utterly devastated in a way that I had never anticipated being. It hadn’t come out of nowhere – I had spent the better part of a year watching him, rooting for him and his career, worrying about him while having complete faith that he’d pull himself together in the nick of time like all (most) of his heroes had managed to do. I felt a kinship with this sweet, strange, nerdy boy who loved the things that I loved, who had grown up liking movies and emo and comics.
I spent a full year watching Peep rise. I went to his London shows and was blown away by both his energy and the power of his young fans’ love; I felt on the outside for the first time, an older person watching something new happen. I didn’t mind. I watched his heroes take notice of him, and I talked him up to anyone who would listen. I was lucky, for just a couple of hours, to spend time in his company.
I interviewed him about his favourite dumb stuff on the internet, and we laughed hysterically at old cat videos, Salad Fingers and Veggie Tales. We talked about our favourite bands, our dogs, our fears. I listen to the recording sometimes, just for his laugh, the way he told me off for giving up too quickly on finding the exact cat video he wanted to watch, the way he waited until I told him it was OK to eat his breakfast. He was one of the sweetest people I’ve ever met.
I think so much about the loss of Peep, about what emo and the world lost with him, and not nearly enough about how much he gave us. That’s what I want to think about today: the impact he had on my life without knowing it, the way it still feels sometimes like he’s looking out for me.
The day Peep died, as I wandered aimlessly around Brighton sobbing out loud, a boy I didn’t know very well messaged me to talk about how upset he was. I had zero interest. I could barely keep myself together, let alone offer support to a man I didn’t know at all. A month later, that boy came to my event and requested I play “Awful Things”. I jumped off the stage, crying, and we danced together for a little while. Three years later, we’re together, and there’s so much of me that wants to believe Peep brought me to the love of my life.
Two weeks after Peep died, I was still a zombie, incapable of basically anything, let alone excitement or joy. Still, after a lifetime of waiting, I went to meet Peep’s (and my) heroes, Joel and Benji Madden, at Brixton for an interview. The day before, they’d performed for Peep’s memorial, covering “Awful Things”. We talked about him at length, choking up a little, as they told me they had wanted to work with him, with artists like him who needed guidance and support. We remain friends to this day. That Good Charlotte show was the first time I’d felt like a person in weeks.
A couple of months after Peep died, as I was half-pulling myself together, I interviewed Pete Wentz in person for the first time. Peep loved Fall Out Boy, we’d talked about them. I knew that Pete loved Peep, too, and he came up immediately: him, the loss, how much he loved Fall Out Boy. Every time I interviewed Pete we talked about Peep, and a little while later, he sent me a song – a posthumous collab with Fall Out Boy. He told me that something I’d said had convinced him to do it, that I could consider myself part of the song. I do.
A year after Peep died, I broke my arm skateboarding. A couple of days later, Karl went out briefly, telling me not to do anything, but my friend Misha reached out and asked if I’d fly to New York in two days for a memorial and listening party of Peep’s second album. I said yes - Karl was rightly furious, as I was in so much pain I couldn’t even brush my own hair. But I went to New York, even though Misha needed to help me with my bags and even though I couldn’t leave my hotel room alone or shower properly.
I knew that I couldn’t miss remembering Peep with a roomful of people who loved him, and I knew that the stupid, spontaneous decision was the best way to honour his memory.
The memorial was decorated in pink and black, pumpkins carved with Peep’s face lining the room as the music he loved played. People talked about him, laughing and eating his favourite candy. I sat between Misha and my new friend Sydney. Peep’s voice crept out of the speakers, filling the room as if he was telling us that he knew: I'm not gonna last long.
Afterwards, someone asked to see my Lil Peep tattoo – I have “Crybaby” tattooed on my arm in the font Peep had on his face. I realised my pink cast was covering it, and they told me, “at least it’s Peep’s favourite colour”. I wasn’t drinking as I was on a great big amount of codeine, but when Misha asked me to go out and do shots at a sweet shop/bar, it didn’t feel right to say no. For Peep.
I talk about Peep all the time, to anyone who’ll listen. Every single interview I’ve done for the last four years, I’ve brought him up either as an example of what’s next or an example of the last thing I felt truly excited for. I believe that he was the future, and I see his influence everywhere. I’ve bonded with so many people over a shared love of Peep, his energy and his music. For a while it felt crass to write about him, to talk about him so often, but I realised that that’s how we keep people with us.
Nothing will ever feel right about a 21 year old boy dying of an overdose. The world will never feel any less fucked up when I sit and remember what we lost in 2017. But there is so much comfort, for me, to be found in remembering how much he gave me. I keep him alive through the people he admired, people I admire too. I keep him alive by spending every day with a boy who also has a silly Lil Peep tattoo, someone who understands what it means to love and miss someone you never really knew.
The world is a better place for having Peep in it; as much as I wish he was still here, I am so glad he ever was at all.