Post Malone recently kicked off the biggest international headline tour of his career — Post Malone Presents: The Big Ass Stadium Tour. The tour follows closely after his headline set at Coachella last month. It’s undeniable: Post Malone is, for all intents and purposes, the biggest male pop star in the world. With Justin Bieber largely out of the picture and few serious contenders left standing, the 28-year-old Texan has become the voice of a generation — tattoos, tears, beer cups and all.
So the question becomes a necessary one: is Post Malone a good role model? It’s not a theoretical debate. Millions of kids — American and otherwise — look up to him. They wear his merch, play his songs on repeat, study his style, and mimic his mannerisms. He’s not just a singer; he’s a cultural blueprint, the unlikely prophet of a disaffected generation. What that blueprint teaches — implicitly or otherwise — matters.
Let’s start where it’s easy: the talent.
There are few artists alive who can do what Post Malone does. Not just convincingly, but with depth. He’s one of the rare musicians who can genre-hop without sounding opportunistic or fake. In his hands, country twang doesn’t feel like a gimmick. Pop melodies don’t feel soulless. Rap cadences don’t feel forced or performatively aggressive. There’s a sense of effortless ease in everything he does.
He’s not pretending. He’s simply making the music he loves. And people connect with it — deeply. His lyrics are often raw, self-deprecating, and emotionally accessible. There’s heartbreak, insecurity, addiction, and existential drift. In a musical landscape that often celebrates misplaced confidence or manufactured rebellion, Post offers something more honest: the sound of a man falling apart in real time — and somehow making that collapse melodic.
But for all that brilliance, there’s another side to the story.
Because Post Malone also embodies the self-destructive edge that has long haunted pop stardom. The heavy drinking. The constant slurring. The nihilistic aura that clings to his interviews and public appearances. The face tattoos — once a rebellious act, now a cultural accessory — have become his trademark. He jokes about being ugly. He leans into the sadness. And while some of it may be performance, not all of it is.
In fact, you don’t need to be a psychologist to detect the ache beneath the swagger. There’s a reason his songs so often mention alcohol as both sedative and curse. It’s because he struggles with drinking, and has for a long time. That’s why so many fans worry, even as they admire him. His music doesn’t always sound like someone pushing through — it often sounds like someone falling apart. Which brings us back to the central tension.
On one hand, Post Malone is real, and that counts for something. He doesn’t posture. He doesn’t moralize. He wears his flaws out in the open. In an age where so many celebrities seem manufactured or brand-managed to death, Post feels human. That’s part of the appeal. But, on the other hand, being human doesn’t absolve the consequences of being idolized. When kids see their favorite artist downing beers at 11 a.m., when they hear lyrics that blur the line between pain and indulgence, when they see fame attached to an aesthetic of permanent sadness — they absorb something. Maybe not all at once, but slowly. Subtly. Cultural osmosis.
There’s also the question of image and influence. Face tattoos don’t make someone immoral, but they’re not neutral either. They signal something: defiance, disillusionment, the desire to be seen as damaged. When someone like Post Malone — immensely gifted, emotionally perceptive, and fully aware of his cultural pull — embraces that look without ever challenging it, the message lands. To millions of young fans, it says this is what being real looks like. That pain is a brand. That scars are style. And that maybe, just maybe, the more broken you appear, the more you belong.
If he worked in virtually any other profession, face tattoos would likely close doors. A lawyer, a doctor, a teacher — most wouldn’t get a second look. But in the music industry, especially in a culture obsessed with the absurd, it’s not just accepted. It’s applauded.
And maybe that’s the most troubling part. Post doesn’t promote violence. He’s not misogynistic. He’s not cruel. But he is, in many ways, a poster child for being “beautifully” broken — for floating in a limbo of emotional numbness where music is the only real outlet and alcohol is the closest thing to peace. That’s not evil. It’s not even unusual in the long lineage of tortured pop stars. But it’s worth asking if it’s healthy, especially when it’s being mass-marketed to kids still trying to figure out who they are.
To be fair, Post Malone has shown signs of maturity. His newer music has moved toward introspection and clarity. In interviews, he’s hinted at drinking less. He’s recently become a father. And maybe that version of Post — the dad, the evolving artist, the man pushing himself beyond the wreckage — is who we’ll see more of in years to come. But as of now, the picture is mixed. Brilliant? Undeniably. Influential? Immensely. Responsible? Not always.
So, is Post Malone a good role model? Maybe not in the traditional sense. But in a world full of fake smiles and moral hypocrisy, he’s something more rare: a reflection. A mirror for a generation that feels lost, anxious, medicated, and misunderstood. That doesn’t make him a villain. But it doesn’t make him harmless either. Ultimately, it’s up to the listener to decide which parts of him to emulate, and which parts to leave behind.
READ MORE from John Mac Ghlionn: