Playing by Heart

McKinley “Mac” Phipps was a prodigious rapper whose promising music career was cut short by a questionable conviction for manslaughter. Now, 21 years later, the governor of Louisiana has granted him clemency—and a chance to prove his worth. But for those who know Mac, there was nothing to prove: He’s never stopped being the person, the creator and the mentor he always was.

Words CHRISTOPHER A. DANIEL Photography DAYMON GARDNER

In July 2021, McKinley “Mac” Phipps began volunteering in New Orleans at Son of a Saint, a nonprofit that helps empower and support boys who’ve lost their fathers to prison or death. During that first visit, he met with each young man around a ping-pong table in the office lobby. He didn’t know how to play, but he picked up a paddle anyway, challenging everyone and anyone nearby to a round. As he swung the paddle, he also lobbed questions at the kids, asking them about their favorite foods and what rappers they currently liked.

After Phipps shared his own list of rappers with them, the boys were impressed that this tall, thin 44-year-old knew such a range of new artists. One kid confidently stood up and shared that he was interested in producing and making beats, but he’d never met anyone in the music industry before. In that moment, Phipps chose not to disclose his successful past in the entertainment industry—or that he was just released from prison—but the staff at Son of a Saint could instantly sense his presence was making an impact. “Mac just wanted to help others in a very authentic way,” says Sonny Lee III, Son of a Saint’s founder and CEO. “It wasn’t about him; he makes everyone feel like they’re important. He knows how to connect with young people through whatever interests them.” “Mac was vulnerable, forthcoming and strong with them, too,” adds Elliot Hutchinson, the organization’s senior brand and communications manager. “You were almost watching peers welcome their friend. You can’t replicate Mac’s downhome feeling.” A couple months later, near the end of September, Phipps is riding around New Orleans and playing catch up with old friends. Horns are honking at him on every corner. Locals swarm the car to take selfies or reach out of their car windows to dap him up. Others even try to spit bars on the fly to the man once called “the Camouflage Assassin.” Everyone tells the rapper formerly signed to No Limit Records how happy they are to see him.

It is an odd moment for Phipps. “It all felt so weird, but it feels good that everybody embraced me,” he says later, while sitting for morning coffee and beignets at Cafe du Monde in City Park. “All of my life, I believe I’ve been surrounded by the same individuals but in different forms. But love and family are the most important things when it’s all said and done.”

The attention has caught Phipps by surprise. Just a few months earlier, on June 22, 2021, he was released from prison after serving 21 years of a 30-year sentence for manslaughter for a nightclub shooting in Slidell, Louisiana, on February 21, 2000. There’s no doubt that 19-year-old clubgoer Barron Victor Jr. was killed in that incident. But Phipps and those close to him declare his innocence, and a series of investigative pieces by HuffPost and NPR Music have substantiated many of their claims. Although Phipps hasn’t been exonerated, the governor of Louisiana granted him clemency in April, and Phipps’s lawyers are working to get his conviction overturned.

Yet Phipps isn’t bitter about his past, and now he’s on a mission to inspire others while taking a step toward reigniting his music career. But how does he continue to maintain such a positive outlook on life? How does he avoid becoming another statistic lost in mass incarceration? For Phipps, the answers lie in committing his life to service and maintaining his passion for creating with his bare hands, regardless of the situation.

“I embrace new stuff,” Phipps says. “Once I got out of prison, I felt like a stranger, but I always anticipated my freedom around the corner. I enjoy the little things just a bit more.”

McKinley Phipps grew up as the eldest of six kids in Uptown New Orleans’ Broadmoor community. As the first person in his immediate family to pursue music professionally, Phipps developed a love for hip-hop by watching one of his uncle’s friends DJ family parties. His mother, Sheila, a painter and visual artist, encouraged Phipps to pursue a creative path. His dad, McKinley Sr., a Vietnam vet who worked for the VA Hospital, instilled in him values to take care of his family.

Local rapper Gregory D and DJ Mannie Fresh noticed his talent from an early age. Phipps was a prodigious talent with an impressive flow and an extensive vocabulary, and when the preteen wasn’t in school, he was already in the studio recording until the wee hours of the morning. He promised his parents that he would keep his grades up if they agreed to let him sign a record deal. “He was beyond his years,” DJ Wop, Phipps’s first DJ, says. “That little dude was phenomenal. He memorized his rhymes pretty quickly. It’s almost like he’s remembering it as he’s writing. Mac is not a five-take person; it’s either one or two takes.”

At age 13, Phipps signed with Yo! Records, an indie label out of Dallas, and released his debut LP, The Lyrical Midget, in 1990. Though Phipps penned the bulk of the tracks, the album’s lead single and video, “I Need Wheels,” was written by Gregory D. The label’s marketing strategy was to brand Phipps similar to the Fresh Prince.

Phipps wasn’t feeling it. “I was a Rakim head, so I was a battle rapper in my mind, but the record label had a different strategy for me,” he says. “When it comes to music, I’m restless. I’m never gonna be waiting.”

The deal with Yo! Records folded in 1991, but Phipps kept up his momentum for making music. In 1996, the lyricist released the single “Mad or Jealous” on another small label as part of the male/ female rap duo Mac and Storm. He also joined Psychoward, a large hip-hop collective with more than 20 DJs and MCs. “Mac had fun with this rap shit,” Psychoward member Bigg Cheeez says. “He was loving every minute of it. Mac already knows what he’s writing. It’s in his head already, like he’s copying it from his mind or something.”

Because of his drive and dedication to his craft, things started to look up for Phipps. Music executive Kevin Liles of Def Jam Records wanted to sign him but Phipps anticipated being homesick. He feared the possibility of not making it, considering his past experiences with record labels. “I didn’t know if I was ready to move to New York just yet,” Phipps says. “It was frightening to a 19-year-old that had never been out there before. I knew you could be in the business, have a record deal and not make any money.”

Phipps knew he had the ability to make music that could both wow an

audience and encourage his peers to take their craft seriously, and by 1997, Phipps’s golden opportunity came knocking. He signed with rap mogul Master P’s No Limit Records because “he was the first person to give me a check for rap” after Phipps appeared on Kane & Abel’s “God and Gunz” the year prior. Phipps released his gold-certified No Limit debut album, Shell Shocked, in 1998 and became known for his wordplay and rhyme schemes.

“It felt like I accomplished something,” Phipps says. “It assured me that I was doing the right thing. I didn’t want to stop there because I needed to be triple platinum.”

In the late ’90s, No Limit Records was a New Orleans-based empire that featured the hottest roster in hip-hop— rappers like Mystikal, Snoop Dogg, C-Murder, Silkk the Shocker, Fiend and Mia X. Phipps was in his element. Whenever he was in the studio, Phipps would turn out all the lights and memorize his verses in just one or two takes. “I don’t want anything I see to influence what I’m thinking or what I’m about to spew out,” he says. “I know exactly what I’m coming in to do, and it only takes me a couple of minutes.”

Phipps’s No Limit cohorts quickly took notice of his professionalism, as well as his in-and-out style of recording. “He was one of the most talented artists that I’d ever heard in our city,” Mia X says. “He had a great work ethic and got the assignment from the beginning. All of our records went really fast. He does not play; he listens to the music, writes his stuff, lays it down and we clock out.”

Fiend concurs. “It was a joy being in the studio because I got to see this genius be unapologetically who he was,” he says. “He was a lyricist’s lyricist. We motivated each other. There was never any competition, just genuine love. If there ever was negative energy, he would try to see how to resolve or rectify the situation. When it was time to hit the booth or the stage, he was coming with that fire.”

The culture of No Limit created a standard of excellence. At the height of the record company’s success, all of the artists and producers on the label worked nonstop. On tour, their routine was usually to land at the airport, check into the hotel and go to the concert venue with no time in between.

There were usually no afterparties or record-release events. The only regret Phipps has from that time was not being able to enjoy some of the places and landmarks he traveled to, both here and abroad. “I honestly never really stopped to take all of the No Limit success in,” he says. “It did feel good to be part of something that was bigger than me. No Limit was a movement, so everywhere we went, it was all about respect.”

Mia X saw Phipps, one of the youngest No Limit artists, as her little brother. Like her labelmates, she was impressed by his sense of responsibility. “We came from a label where the intent for all of the artists was to take care of their families,” she says. “Nobody had the intention to be a baller. Our work was an assembly line. When we got onstage is where we felt the love and support. We were very family oriented. The success didn’t really hit us until now.”

Things began to change ahead of the new millennium. Following the disappointing sales of Phipps’s second LP on No Limit—1999’s World War III—he joined the supergroup 504 Boyz (as in the New Orleans area code) for the Goodfellas album in 2000. Still, he knew it was time to take matters into his own hands. He had started making plans to start his own record label and explored becoming a serial entrepreneur. He wasn’t prepared for the night that would change the course of his life.

It was February 20, 2000, a day Phipps still calls “a blur.” He was scheduled to perform at one of his mother’s events at Club Mercedes in Slidell, Louisiana, a sundown town located in St. Tammany Parish. Slightly exhausted from traveling and performing, Phipps was standing against the wall near some of his entourage when a fight broke out.

Gunshots were fired, and Barron Victor Jr., a 19-year-old attendee standing in the crowd, was struck in the arm by one of the bullets—and was later pronounced dead from excessive bleeding. Phipps went in search of his mother in the rear of the club before he left, then headed back to his home in Baton Rouge. He was later arrested at his home for second-degree murder.

Despite having eyewitnesses and no evidence pointing back to Phipps, he was convicted of manslaughter the following year. In court, he was tried by an allwhite jury. Lyrics to one of Phipps’s songs, “Murda Murda Kill Kill,” along with his “Camouflage Assassin” alias, were used as tactics to discredit him.

Phipps was just 22 years old, and at the time of his conviction, Louisiana law required inmates to serve 85 percent of their sentence. His family and friends were in disbelief about the outcome. “He defused shit,” says Russell Baker, a childhood friend and tour manager. “He was never a humbuggish cat. He was always trying to see the good in situations. He never hurt a fly or even got a traffic ticket. When I heard that guilty verdict, I cried like a 5-year-old all the way back to New Orleans.”

News of Phipps’s arrest sent shockwaves through the No Limit family. Prior to his imprisonment, the artists were periodically harassed and surveilled in their lavish homes, especially as the label ascended in the music industry and Master P became one of the most successful businessmen in entertainment.

Phipps didn’t necessarily perceive that profiling as racially motivated because he never changed his mission: to create music. “I don’t really give attention to things that are outside of my sphere of

direct influence,” Phipps says. “If everyone on Earth likes you, then something ain’t right. I was focused on being an artist and the music. I needed to make a record that was going 10-times platinum.”

The constant headlines that insisted upon Phipps’s guilt made everyone in his circle sick. “We understood what kind of target we had on our backs because of all of this money people thought was being made,” Mia X says. “Normally, we never strayed away from doing things outside of No Limit. We always moved as a unit. When they did break off, I was worried.”

It was a dark time, but Phipps was unbothered by the outcome. Even though he was behind bars in an uncomfortable situation, he felt determined to use his time to connect with others and offer kind words when he could. With his unborn son on the way, the rapper decided to make the best of the situation. As time wore on, Phipps noticed an influx of younger inmates entering the Elayn Hunt Correctional Center, a multi-security-level institution located 70 miles northwest of New Orleans, and he began having candid conversations with them about their past and entertained their questions about his. For the young men—many of them still teenagers—Phipps became known as their surrogate dad, thanks to his open ear and compassionate approach.

For Phipps, mentorship helped to fill a bigger void—that is, his inability to be physically present to raise his own son. “I started doing it for selfish reasons; I wanted to understand my son because I had been away from him his whole life,” Phipps says. “Because I couldn’t raise my son, I wanted to raise somebody else’s child.”

“I didn’t want to be bitter, because I understand where that could take you, and it’s a danger to everybody around you,” he continues. “I didn’t want to be mad at everybody for what had happened in my life.”

To keep himself busy, Phipps tried a number of trades while he was incarcerated. He was a dishwasher in the kitchen, an onion picker in the fields, a barber for three years and spent time in the infirmary cataloging inventory. Before he was granted work release, he worked out of the records department.

But throughout his time at Elayn Hunt, Phipps never stopped creating and making music. He became president of the institution’s music association, which had a room full of musical instruments. When he wasn’t practicing, Phipps taught keyboard lessons and an introduction-to-hip-hop course. Anytime he saw good rappers, he “always tried to write material that would outshine them,” he confides.

“It kept me sharp,” Phipps says. “We had one of the baddest bands in Louisiana in prison. It was fun, and that’s what kept me creative. We used to perform at different events, and I stayed writing stuff I felt would sound good to the brothers on the yard.”

When Phipps wasn’t in the music room or mentoring young inmates, he devoted his time to building sneakers, toys and screen prints in the hobby shop. “When you’re creative, you’re gonna find

ways to create,” he says. “My personality has to create something.”

Over the years, Phipps’s family and friends continued to spearhead efforts to grant him his freedom. Petitions full of signatures began circulating.

Phipps’s mother used her art to advocate for her son. She painted portraits of him while he was imprisoned and created traveling art exhibits with themes around mass incarceration and criminal justice reform.

“My mom just did whatever she felt she could do,” Phipps says. “Being away from them for so long has made me appreciate them so much more. When all the cameras go off and people ain’t yelling your name no more, your people will be the only ones there.”

In 2012, after more than a decade in prison, Phipps was honored for his mentorship at Elayn Hunt. The staff surprised him with a humanitarian award for his service.

“You never know who’s watching you or what you do,” Phipps says. “I didn’t know anybody was paying attention to the stuff I was doing. I was just doing it; I didn’t even know it was a thing. It was given to me for just being me.”

As the years passed, Phipps had grown accustomed to being behind bars, but he didn’t want his family to feel continually disappointed by him not coming home, despite their efforts. He had demonstrated good behavior—had been awarded for it—so he started making requests for a parole hearing. It didn’t quite work out as he hoped.

“I was nervous as hell but cautiously optimistic,” Phipps says. After his initial request failed in 2016, Phipps was granted clemency by Governor John Bel Edwards in April 2021. Two months later, he was granted parole by the State of Louisiana, over Zoom.

For so long, the thought of being free seemed impossible to Phipps, but on June 22, 2021, Phipps walked out of Elayn Hunt Correctional Center and into the next phase of his life with tears in his eyes. As part of Phipps’s parole, he has a curfew between 9 p.m. and 6 a.m., must complete six hours of community service each month, has weekly visits with his parole officer and must refrain from being in venues where alcohol is served.

“Prison made me numb,” Phipps says. “I’d gotten disappointed so many times. When they finally granted me [clemency], it was one of the best feelings I’d ever had in my life.”

Two weeks after Phipps was released, he started working closely with Son of a Saint. Stepping back into mentorship was an “easy transition,” he says. At Elayn Hunt, Phipps underwent training with a psychiatrist and social workers to become certified as a mentor, and he credits that training for making fast connections with the boys at Son of a Saint. “It keeps me grounded and reminds me of the need for that help,” Phipps continues. “I’m contributing the best way I know how to change someone’s life for the better.”

At Son of a Saint’s summer academy in August, Phipps spoke candidly to the boys about his past in music—and in prison. According to staff, many of the boys googled Phipps before his part of the program, and they immediately started taking the program more seriously after they learned about his music career. Originally, organizers set aside 10 minutes for Phipps to speak, but it stretched on for much longer.

“Mac ended up hijacking our entire program, but it was great to see that,” says Shaq Cosse, Son of a Saint’s activities coordinator. “The kids realized how possible it was to be in the presence of someone who did [music] successfully. When they were able to make that connection, they started to take that craft a little more seriously.”

“We want our mentors to just be organic and themselves, and Mac has no problem doing that,” adds William Jones, Son of a Saint’s community outreach and volunteer coordinator.

As for just being himself, Phipps continues doing what’s dearest to his heart: making music and creating with his hands. In Arabi, Louisiana, a nearby suburb of New Orleans, he shares a suite, which also houses a preproduction studio and a rehearsal space, with his wife, Angelique. Phipps also works out of his mother’s art gallery and builds kitchen cabinets with a friend who’s a successful contractor.

“I have all of these trades so that I can be able to take care of my family,” he says. “Every artist and individual should have something they know how to do, because nobody can ever take that away from you.”

Phipps recently released a new single, the autobiographical “21 Summers,” with Monsta Beatz, a New Orleans-based production duo that’s worked with artists like Wiz Khalifa and Lil Wayne. Blessed with a few more gray hairs these days, Phipps says he was afraid his style of rap had become outdated, but he chose to stick with his signature flow. According to his producers, they were honored to witness how Phipps’s work ethic has maintained its consistency.

“I was super impressed with how sharp he was still after being down for so long,” says Jean Lephare, one half of Monsta Beatz. “He came into the studio, heard the beat and got in the booth. Artists these days will punch in or do two bars here and there. He had his stuff laid out, did one or two takes and that was it.”

And now, the void Phipps felt after being away from his son for all those years has finally been filled. He’s reunited with his 21-year-old son, McKinley “Taquan” Green, who goes by the rap name Bandana Kin. The skills he learned in prison—pouring his life into mentoring the young men at Elayn Hunt—are now helping him regain a relationship with his son. As devastating as it is, Phipps doesn’t take his time in prison for granted. Instead, his sentence has become a catalyst for becoming more aware of the smaller things he may have overlooked.

Have no doubt, spending all that time away from his loved ones was rough for Phipps, but it’s given him a different outlook on life. He realizes that his positivity—and his ability to stay active in the face of adversity—attracts people to him in a good way. And after all those years behind bars, he’s learned to appreciate living in the moment.

“Before prison, I was in a rush, doing everything at 100 miles an hour,” Phipps says. “Prison helps you put your priorities in perspective. You have no control because everything is structured for you. I’m a lot more patient than I was. It’s a process.”