Some artists step into music. Others are pulled into it—quietly, privately, out of necessity. For Mycul, it began in Uptown Manhattan, long before he ever stepped to a mic. Growing up in Inwood, he wasn’t the type to talk about feelings. Instead, he filled notebooks with thoughts he never intended anyone to hear. Writing became survival—his way of processing life without ever saying a word.
Music didn’t find him until his early teens, when he began sliding those written thoughts over downloaded beats at 13 or 14. There were no hooks, no structure—just long, unfiltered verses. His older brother controlled what was played in the house, so his early influences were strictly underground: raw, technical, no room for softness. Then came Eminem—the first artist who proved that vulnerability, humor, rage, and storytelling could live inside the same verse. That changed everything. Music stopped being a hobby and became a language he could finally speak.
Still, life didn’t hand him a straight shot. Before music could become a real pursuit, he tried everything else first—jobs at banks, hospitals—walking away from each one when he realized clocking in meant clocking out on himself. The pull toward music was stronger than any paycheck. Over years of trial, recording, and refinement, Mycul built a sound that’s hard to box in: gritty but melodic, introspective but bold, poetic but painfully honest. He’s not afraid to bare sharp edges, but he also knows when to lean into humor and heart. His music isn’t a persona—it’s exposure.
But in an era where algorithms decide who gets heard, authenticity comes with its own challenges. The hardest part, he admits, isn’t making the music—it’s selling it. Promotion doesn’t come naturally to someone who writes from instinct, not ego. “The music should speak for itself,” he says. Still, he pushes through the pressure to perform for social media, because the moments that matter—the ones that keep him going—are real. Like the day he walked into Hot 97 for an interview. Or the day a stranger messaged him to say one of his songs kept them alive. That’s the kind of impact you don’t measure in streams.
Now, Mycul is in motion. He’s working on his third tape and dropping new visuals while also building a career in real estate—one of the few artists who understands that the dream is easier to chase when the bills are handled. The goal isn’t fame. It’s longevity. All he wants is for one of his songs to reach the right ears—the people who will hear themselves in his story.
Because for Mycul, this was never about clout. It started with a pen and a notebook—and it’s still about telling the truth when it matters most.
