Growing up in Houston, the rapper Maxo Kream learned the power of the dollar early on. When his father, a business owner and their family’s sole breadwinner, was sentenced to prison on fraud charges, Maxo’s life was turned upside down. Suddenly, Maxo, his mother, and four siblings went from middle class to barely getting by. The newfound hardship was his introduction to the paper chase and, subsequently, street life but after watching his father and older brother’s run-ins with the law and the resulting recidivism, his gift of gab became his saving grace. Speaking with Pitchfork over the phone from Los Angeles where he’s working on the follow-up to his Punken, Maxo elaborates on the lessons he learned in his formative year and his philosophy on money.

I always knew that money was the motive. Money [was] a big factor to my dad. I’m a junior, so [I thought to myself] “I got to be a money-gettin’ nigga because my daddy was.” When my old man had went to jail I was around 11 or 12 years old and shit changed. I didn’t have that silver spoon. Shit really hit the fan; like watching my momma have to work and us going from having money to having to get Lone Star food stamps, EBT. Hearing her say “Oh, you ain’t getting Jordans,” or how we moved from a two-story house to an apartment. Like “Goddamn! We have to share rooms now?” We was eating fish sticks. We was eating Beanie Weenies, Cinnastix, shit like that. We was not getting Jordans. We was not. I was like, “Man where the fuck my Jordans at?” We was getting two-for-$89 Reeboks and we had to share them. I went from really being spoiled to not having shit. I was always like, “Damn, bro. If money can do that, [then] money is needed.”

[My song] “5200” ain’t too far-fetched. My first job was at a firecracker stand when I was 13. Then I worked at Food Town at 15 bagging groceries. At 16 and 17, I was working at Panera Bread. At 18, I worked at Walmart, but I got fired for stealing time—clocking in and then leaving. From there I ain’t never had no more fucking jobs. You listen to my songs, you know what’s going on. I was in them streets.

I was motivated [to hustle] by watching my mama struggle. Just watching her trying to raise five kids on her own. When I was in the streets, I made $3,000 day at the age of 17. I gave my momma some money to make sure she was good. I started to take rap seriously because it was a legal form of getting money. It’s like an actual job. You’re actually making money but you ain’t risking nothing. Everybody else just looks at it like “Oh, it’s an art. It’s you expressing yourself.” To me, I’m looking at it like, I’m getting paid to speak the English language. I talk all day anyways. I say fly shit anyway. I might as well get paid for that shit.

In the streets, you gambling. Some days you’re up, some days you’re down. But when the rap money came in, it was for sure. Before, money was everything. That shit was better than diamonds, gold. It was more [of a] chance at life itself. It’s still kinda like that. but I ain’t gotta be as thirsty for it. If I just keep doing what I’m doing, I will get there. Because in the streets, you don’t know where your next dollar coming from. Like if you got a job, if you got a paycheck, you know where it’s coming from. So I feel like I got an actual job now.