Lil Nas X Is In the Right Place at the Right Time

Lil Nas X—Montero, Monte, or Nas to the friends he still has—knew before I even arrived at the San Vicente Bungalows in West Hollywood that he was where he was meant to be. No one had to tell him who I was. The universe had informed him, as he arrived and saw his lucky numbers—7 and 9—on the license plate of the car in front of him, that his future depended on him being here, right now.

I, unfortunately, am not fluent in the universe. I’ve never felt I heard it speak to me, even as so many of my intuitions led me down paths toward great fortune. So as I arrived to the elite social club, which at one point was a haven for WeHo’s seediest gay hookups, I had no idea where I was meant to be. I only knew that after getting on an airplane, hungover in a post–Tony Awards weekend haze, I didn’t particularly want to be anywhere, let alone with our country’s biggest pop star, a young man a decade younger than me, interviewing him about his many successes.

His detractors thought he was going to fade away after “Old Town Road.” And yet Lil Nas X has been, for both hip-hop and pop culture, a destabilizing force—a “trickster,” if you will—who has changed how we do what we do, and who gets to do it, forever. Never before has a pop artist who is so far from the “powers that be” placed themself so squarely in the center of those powers. Lil Nas X is reminiscent of Bugs Bunny, of Brer Rabbit, of Papa Legba, of Anansi—someone who conjures chaos and uses it to command our attention. And few things have commanded as much attention as Montero, his first studio album and arguably the most important piece of art produced this year.

When I arrived, Nas was wearing an all-black sweat suit ensemble that telegraphed to me that he wasn’t concerned with trying to impress. I immediately admired this and greeted him with a smile, and he embraced me. “I—I’m treating this like my first date with you,” I said before I could stop myself.

“So this is our first date?” he asked, smiling. My heart began to flutter. “Yeah. Get it over with. We’re on a date,” I said, finding my footing, my confidence, again.

“Nice,” he responded, just as a waiter arrived and asked us for our drinks. A water for him. An Aperol spritz for me. And so we began.

Watch Now:

JEREMY O. HARRIS: I feel an affinity for you. Because part of the reason my play Slave Play got so popular was because I worked outside of the normal bounds of what people do in the theater.
LIL NAS X: I got to check it out.

On the internet, they call me an “influencer playwright,” and that’s their way of diminishing me and what I do.
What’s wrong with “influencer,” though? Why does influencer have such a bad connotation?

Why do you think it does?
Because there’s a new age of celebrities, and I don’t think a lot of people are comfortable with it. But I think it’s great. I feel like it’s knocking down the walls. I feel like anybody can be a celebrity. I know a lot of people see that as a bad thing, but people have to work harder to stay in this place.

I’m sure you felt that when your album, Montero, didn’t go No. 1.
I did feel like that. Then I got out of it, and all I thought about was how blessed I am. About where I was three years ago. Nobody even thought that I would be here. Everybody was like, “One-hit-wonder this, one-hit-wonder that.” And now it’s amazing that my competition was Drake.

Your competition was fucking Drake.
Drake, with this huge album and the most first-week sales of the year. Plus, Drake’s my idol. There are too many other wins to be upset.

When you were working on the album, how many times did the people you reached out to for features say, “No, thank you”?
I don’t usually ask for features like that. But for every feature I did ask for on this album, like, every single one of them worked…besides Drake and Nicki [Minaj].

Wait, you asked Drake and Nicki?
Yes.

What songs would you want them on?
I didn’t ask them directly. I wanted Nicki on “Industry Baby,” and I wanted Drake on “Dolla Sign Slime,” with Megan [Thee Stallion]. Yeah, but you know, I feel like things always work out. Jack Harlow ended up being, like, the best option. I’m not sure how comfortable Nicki would have felt with that video or whatnot.

Who have you been dating?
Boys. Boys. Boys.

So, no girls. I thought you were dating girls?
I stopped dating girls.

Because I’m older than you, I can give you dating advice. The first thing I thought when I listened to “Montero (Call Me by Your Name)” was it’s a really sad song.
Really? I was not in the space that I needed to be in for “Call Me by Your Name.”

I worried about you, especially when you said, “I only fuck the ones I envy.”
I wanna fuck the ones I envy.

That line, in and of itself, is a frighteningly honest encapsulation of the loneliness of being young, Black, and queer, searching for affirmations in all the wrong places. The single’s visuals, too, struck chords heretofore unstruck: There was overt faggotry, an invocation of Satan worship, and the specter of the many American children, including my nieces and nephew, who would know almost every word. “Montero (Call Me By Your Name)” became the most listened-to song detailing overt Black gay male desire in American popular culture.

That song is sublime, and I think it’s one of the clearest articulations of queer yearning I’ve ever heard. People don’t think about how sad it is.
It was so desperate.

It was also about falling in love with a straight boy.
I feel every single gay person’s fallen in love with a straight person.

One hundred percent. But it happens in that time frame between 17 and 24. And then you wake up and get out of it.
I understand exactly what you’re saying. I’ve definitely jumped out of that. I don’t even like talking to DL boys anymore, you know?

Gay on the low. Gay, gay, gay. Gay on the low.
Gay on the low.

Are you an Azealia Banks fan?
I actually am.

Put her on a song.
Azealia shits on me too much, though! And I think it’s funny in a way. I still love Azealia Banks’s music.

You said that you’re having a good day. What’s made it a good day?
I’m just excited for the future. Just setting habits for myself. Handling things differently. You know, I love self-help books. They genuinely help. I’m setting systems for myself instead of goals: working out more and whatnot. Trying to improve my stamina onstage. I’m back to drinking this water. In the studio a lot. Always trying to experiment and try new things and never try to make the same song over again. Yeah, all of that.

So, changing systems.
And boys.

Let’s get to the boys. I know what it’s like now to become a respected gay in a very quick amount of time, where all of a sudden, you’re a blue-check gay who everyone now knows. And all of a sudden the DMs look different.
My DMs are all out of order. Which is lucky, because I do get horny and I’m like, “Let’s see who’s the hottest person in this thing.” But you know, luckily I don’t really do that. I only did that once, maybe.

Was that a Grindr? Or was that a DM?
No, I can’t do Grindr anymore. I’d get murdered. I’d literally probably get murdered.

Have you dated anyone properly since?
I did. I started actually dating my last boyfriend this past year, who I’m still on really good terms with. I love him to death. He’s the best. I feel it was the most serious relationship I’ve ever had.

What happened?
It’s a responsibility. I’ve been wanting somebody for so long and wanting somebody to love for so long, but it’s a real responsibility. And you have to give this person your time. And I like to go missing for like a week to focus…not talk to anyone and focus on myself. And I’m more in love with what I’m doing than people.

The idea that right now you’re most in love with your work, but you do still have this yearning to be affirmed and loved by someone else. Do you feel those things are going to be in conflict for a long time?
I feel I still want to hang out with guys every now and then. I don’t want anything that’s—not to be a whore or anything, but I don’t want anything that’s like, “I need your time right now.”

Sometimes, when you get sad or whatnot, you just want to go with somebody and cuddle and kiss and hug. And I love to do that. But ultimately, I feel I’ve gotten to a place where I have enough love for me that I can focus on myself. And when the time comes [for love], I’m not going to force it or anything. There’ll be somebody, and I’ll say, “Okay, I want to make this person a priority.”

At one point, Montero told me I should quit smoking. The cigarette was already in my mouth, unlit.

“Quit now—quit while you’re ahead,” he said, looking at me.

Montero’s eyes at this moment grew wide and large. His smile disappeared. It felt as though he were pleading, and I began to think about the many times he had mentioned “the future” and his excitement for it.

As I stared at him imploring me not to smoke, I recognized that it was less for me and more for my future, the things I might be risking with each inhalation. I set the cigarette back in the box and sat back down with him. With the eyes of a puppy, he asked if it was going to be hard for me to not smoke the rest of the meeting.

“No,” I said. “For me, I had an image in my head that I was chasing. I’m writing a movie of our date in my head right now. At this part of the date, we’ve had a couple snacks. I actually get my first cocktail. We go to the back, we sit down, I have a cigarette, we start talking more about ‘Dead Right Now’ and all the sad, dark stuff. And I have a quiet moment with a cigarette. That was the image. But I can throw it away. It wasn’t a craving.”

The smile I’d grown accustomed to once again crossed Montero’s face. It was more devilish than before, like the purple devil emoji made manifest in front of me.

“Maybe you could include it—a little fictitious,” he said.

Purple devil emoji, followed by those three stars.

Do you like creating fictions online?
I love creating fiction in everything that I do. It makes things fun.

For you, what’s the best thing that you dropped into the world as a fact that is maybe a lie?
I don’t think I have been lying much lately. I mean, at least not the past year.

You created a whole fiction around not running a popular Nicki Minaj fan account.
That’s probably the last lie I’ve told publicly.

What did it feel like when you saw people figuring that out? Were you like, Oh, they’re going to know I’m gay?
It was so much anxiety. Like, I literally felt like, Oh, my God, this is like a setup. And I’m going to die soon. It was much darker in my head than people were probably seeing. And it was also like, Damn, I’ve been working hard, like not sleeping, and I just made it to the music industry, and this is going to ruin everything for me.

Being gay, or being behind a Nicki fan account?
Both. Mainly being gay. That was the main thing I was most afraid of.

Something seems to be happening where you’re hearing what people are responding to in your art, and then you’re like, “Great, let’s use that—this is more fuel for the fire.” There’s a troll aspect to your work.
It’s like a blessing and a curse, you know? ’Cause sometimes those [negative responses] can take a toll on your mental, especially if you’re already in a bad mood. But you can also take it and create art with it. And that’s like the best position to be in, because I get to take all this shit and make something good out of it.

So like in a lot of mythologies, especially Western African mythologies, there are these trickster figures: deities that create a little bit of chaos. And I feel like you’re a manifestation or reincarnation of one of those trickster figures.
I feel like that’s definitely possible. I feel like the universe is definitely using me as an instrument for a lot of shit. But it’s still honest. I mean, it’s been crazy. Like, 7 or 9 are my numbers…

When did 7 or 9 become your numbers?
The most magical thing ever happened. It was, like, around the time of “Old Town Road,” and I kept seeing the number 66. I kept seeing a number 66 everywhere—66, 66, 66. I was in an Uber; the license plate in front of me was 66. I got up for a breakfast thing: This guy in front of me had a shirt that had 66 on the back. I motherfucking got the bill for what we just paid for: 66 behind the decimal. Sat at the table, 66 for the table number. And I was like, “What the fuck, is somebody pranking me?”

And then I genuinely got scared for a second. I looked it up, like, “What the fuck does 66 mean?” I’ve always been an atheist. I was an atheist—

You are an atheist.
I was. And 66 meant, like, “You need to ground yourself, spend time with family,” and stuff like that. And I’m not going to lie, I had a plan that was like, Okay, I made it. Now I can focus fully on being what I have to be, and I’ll send my family stuff every now and then. But I wasn’t making plans to go and see them and hang out. So I started making calls. I was like, “Okay, I want to set up a family reunion.”

After that, I started seeing the number 79 everywhere. I kid you not. I called for an Uber, and every single license plate had 79 on it in front of me. Every single one. I felt lifted, like, Oh, this is definitely divine. That’s when I felt like my spiritual journey started, and that’s the reason why I came out.

So it’s 7 or 9 now. And you looked down at your phone and—
It’s always going to appear. When I got here and I pulled up, the car right in front of us had a 7 and 9. It’s like right place, right time.

Does that mean this interview is a good omen?
It just means I’m in the right place at the right time.

Was it a hard decision to bring your family into your music? Specifically, mentioning your mother in a song.
It was a difficult decision because initially, when I came into the music industry, I never wanted anything about my family life or home life to be out there. But then, as the pandemic was going on, I was kind of thinking, We’re all human beings. We all have similar experiences. I’m sure there’s somebody out there with the exact same situation as me. So I might as well open up my life. I want to build a fan base of honesty and authenticity. And I was like, I have to go there. When I feel like I shouldn’t do it, I feel like that’s when I should definitely go for it.

You should. For me, the rule I gave myself is: Write to be canceled. Right? Don’t write to be safe, because safety is the death of anything interesting.
It’s the death of art.

Because it’s so much better to fail after frightening yourself than to win being safe.
That’s why I feel like this year is probably the most important, or feels like the best, because it’s real. It wasn’t safe. I’m so used to being safe on everything.

When have you been safe? When have you been the safest in your career so far?
My entire first EP. I was like, Okay, let’s do a bunch of stuff and not anything too crazy. I even have a song named “Family” on the EP. It’s like a pop/rock song or whatever. And there’s not one actual mention of shit that’s actually happening with my family.

Boys of separated parents, especially in the South, are put into situations where your primary caregiver is your father. And I think a lot of men don’t know how to do that in their fullness, right? Because men are only taught how to be half of a dad.
I feel like my relationship with my dad is closer now, but growing up, it just wasn’t there as much. Nothing where I felt like I could open up to him or anything.

You think part of that fear of opening up was that he kind of knew you were gay?
I think he probably definitely had his moments of “He’s definitely gay” or something. Also, because I wasn’t willing to open up about that. If that would have happened at that time, I don’t feel like I’d be here right now.

Since abandoning atheism for an intention-based spiritualism, his whole life has changed. At least according to him. The universe is a big part of that. The universe controls the reality we exist within, and its fabric is what we return to when we die. The universe rules all; he makes that clear.

As we began to discuss the album’s dark turns and the amount of suicidal ideation peppered throughout it, I attempted to return the generosity he gave to me in telling me to quit smoking by telling him that he should see a therapist.

I asked if I could grab his hand, and he consented. I held his hand for a moment before I said that I think a therapist might be a healthier person to talk to than managers or friends (old and new)—someone who could help him manage the rapidly changing psychic landscape that he is in. Montero grew silent. “I like the idea of therapy,” he said, “but I feel like it’s just people telling you what you already know.”

Becoming famous is wildly lonely. Few people have written about the destabilizing effect of thousands of eyes looking at you with both adoration and disgust. My brief observation, given my own life, is that much of that loneliness comes from the fact that one’s past feels much more in step with the present of the celebrity’s psyche, muting the present, whereas everyone around them becomes hyper-aware of the present. Collectively, their understanding of that shared past feels so at odds with the present that it can make the celebrity feel crazy. The future, then, becomes a much more comforting prospect. Perhaps that’s why Montero mentions it so much.

I feel like so much of your high school world is peppered throughout the album.
I was such a poseur.

What do you mean?
I was still myself, but I was such a poseur too. I would fit in, get into the crowd of the very dudes who would shit on me if they knew my secret.

Were these the rap boys or the music boys?
Rap boys.

Would you sit in a circle and just freestyle with people?
I would do that sometimes. It was fun. Those guys are still my friends. Well, not all of them. But they’re still my friends, and I still appreciate them. And I try to remember: Sometimes we’re raised in ways that really shape how we see people. And I’m always trying to be forgiving of people and understand that they treat people a certain way because they think they’re doing the right thing.

I think you really are a part of the hypermasculine breakdowns that have been happening in hip-hop recently.
I think that’s certainly true. I’m not going to lie, I feel bad for DaBaby. I hope he grows from it. I hope he’s able to. But I don’t know. The whole landscape is very hypermasculine. It’s so great and so amazing that all these female rappers are breaking through. And, in a way, female rappers are the biggest rappers right now.

That’s another reason male artists are going crazy and feeling broken, right? For the first time ever, there’s not just one Lil’ Kim. There’s seven Lil’ Kims and a Missy Elliott. They can’t keep up. Because none of them are Jay-Z or Kanye, and they all know that.
I don’t want to shit on anybody. I don’t know. Jay-Z wasn’t always a Jay-Z. Kanye wasn’t always a Kanye. I do feel like this newer generation of rappers who are coming in, and the ones who are here, are going to have to reshape their thoughts. Because change is happening. There’s going to be so many gay rappers. There’s going to be more trans people in the industry and whatnot. Ten years from now, everything that I’m doing won’t even seem like it was shocking.

I definitely think whenever anyone accuses me of being a part of some gay agenda, then I’m like, I am.
I definitely feel like I am now. But of my own will.

But what is the gay agenda for you? Like, what’s the outcome?
It’s just acceptance of gay people. And they see that as a bad thing: Like, they’re trying to normalize it. You know what? Yeah. That’s actually what I’m trying to do.

That conspiracy is true. We are trying, on a global level, to normalize faggotry.
Exactly. Let’s normalize it.

What does normalizing faggotry look like to you?
It looks like a little boy asking his parents at eight years old, can he get some nail polish or try something, and it’s not even a question. It looks like two guys kissing during a performance and there not being anything crazy on Twitter about it the next day. It looks like a little boy who doesn’t want to play fucking football and hang with the girls, and that just being a normal thing. Just letting people exist. Like, that’s gay as fuck.

Jeremy O. Harris is a writer, an actor, and a playwright.

A version of this story originally appeared in the December/January 2022 issue with the title “Sacred & Profane.”

PRODUCTION CREDITS:
Photographs by Pari Dukovic
Captured on Samsung Galaxy S21 Ultra 5G
Styled by Mobolaji Dawodu
Video by Gina Gizella Manning
Hair by @staceykutzlive
Skin by Grace Pae using Dior Capture Totale Crème
Manicure by Kimmie Kyees for The Wall Group
Tailoring by Tatyana Sargsyan and Yelena Travkina
Set design by Wooden Ladder
Produced by Julia Epstein-Norris at Circadian Pictures