“Millionaire”:
How Kelis and André 3000 Turned Having It All
Into an Existential Crisis
How Kelis and André 3000 Turned Having It All
Into an Existential Crisis
“I’m a millionaire, but I feel like a bum.” It’s basically an early‑draft depression tweet, from back before Wi‑Fi and Stories. In "Millionaire," André 3000 and Kelis open with a spoiler for the whole glossy 2000s: you can have money, status, a Saks Fifth Avenue habit — and still feel empty, twisted, and off inside.
The track now plays like it was recorded not in 2003–2004, but yesterday in some plugged‑in SoundCloud kid’s bedroom. Minimalist beat, odd cadences, half‑rap half‑singing, a kids’ choir in the video instead of the artists — a straight‑up anti‑hit that somehow became a hit. In a world where every other song is about hustle, "Millionaire" still hits a nerve because it says the quiet part out loud: you can win the game by capitalism’s rules and still feel like you lost.
The track drops in Britain, climbs to number three on the singles chart, and never even gets a US release — thanks to the Arista label implosion and the usual major‑label logic that only makes sense to major labels
"Millionaire" is the third single off Kelis’s album Tasty (2003), produced by André 3000 and released as a single in fall 2004.
The album had already launched "Milkshake" and "Trick Me," so by then Kelis was an international star, especially in Europe and the UK.
But "Millionaire" was born in a very specific moment. André 3000 had just flipped the idea of what hip‑hop could be with The Love Below, where instead of “gangsta” you got pink suits, existential crises, and funk theater. On "Millionaire," he stays in that lane: it’s basically a mini one‑man show about wealth with no sun in the sky.
The album had already launched "Milkshake" and "Trick Me," so by then Kelis was an international star, especially in Europe and the UK.
But "Millionaire" was born in a very specific moment. André 3000 had just flipped the idea of what hip‑hop could be with The Love Below, where instead of “gangsta” you got pink suits, existential crises, and funk theater. On "Millionaire," he stays in that lane: it’s basically a mini one‑man show about wealth with no sun in the sky.
So in practice, you’ve got a song that could’ve been the perfect soundtrack to America’s 2000s money mania, but officially lives in another universe — the European one. Which is kind of perfect: "Millionaire" as an imported manifesto that money is local, but the hole inside is global.
"Millionaire" is built around the legendary "La Di Da Di" sample by Doug E. Fresh and Slick Rick — one of early hip‑hop’s sacred texts. But André 3000 doesn’t just do another old‑school “respect the roots” loop. He stretches, twists, and washes out the sample until it becomes this weird, half‑asleep frame — like rap history playing half a notch quieter than it should.
The first recognizable move is the goofy, almost childlike intro exchange: “Her from the city / so her got to be witty, witty… / Him from the country / so him got to be funky, funky.” It sounds like a playground chant, but over that see‑through beat and soft bass it suddenly turns into a little mission statement: city sharpness and country funk don’t meet in a battle, they meet in a therapy session.
The drums here are the skeleton, not the meat.
No huge 808s, no giant kicks. The beat clicks more than it slams, leaving center stage to the voices and that strange, elastic, unhurried pulse. It’s basically anti‑club music: your body wants to sway, but full‑on dancing feels weirdly wrong. The vibe is too personal, too close.
No huge 808s, no giant kicks. The beat clicks more than it slams, leaving center stage to the voices and that strange, elastic, unhurried pulse. It’s basically anti‑club music: your body wants to sway, but full‑on dancing feels weirdly wrong. The vibe is too personal, too close.
The vocal mix is its own pleasure. André 3000 sounds a little dry, right up in your ear; his “Mama, I’m a millionaire, but I feel like a bum” comes off like a confession left on someone’s answering machine that no one was meant to hear. Kelis sounds softer, wider, with a light reverb — when she sings about Saks Fifth Avenue, it feels more like the ghost of luxury than luxury itself. The track keeps hovering between R&B, alt‑pop, and underground hip‑hop — perfect chaos for a song that’s obsessed with inner split.
And the key thing: there’s basically no standard climax in "Millionaire." No big “drop” you’re being steered toward. The whole song is an extended inner loop: verse, refrain, mantra‑style repetition, and it moves like a thought you can’t shut off.
The central line hits like a blank shot:
“Mama, I’m a millionaire, but I feel like a bum / Mama, I’m a millionaire, but I feel like the only one.”
Fact: there’s nothing formally complex here. It’s almost a nursery rhyme, no ornate metaphors. But psychologically, it’s a diagnosis. The money’s there, the status is there, but self‑worth is at zero. Classic 2000s flex, turned inside out.
Then André finishes the thought with a tiny slice of everyday hell: “I woke up early this mornin’, but I still ain’t see the sun.” That’s not a weather report, that’s the feeling of “doing everything right” — getting up early, grinding, checking every adult‑life box — and still feeling nothing. The track is basically about burnout long before “burnout” turned into a buzzword.
Kelis’s verse cuts in from another angle: “Papa, I’m a millionaire, but Saks Fifth Ave don’t sell affection.” That’s no longer just longing for the sun; it’s a straight shot at capitalist logic. You can buy any product except the things you were chasing in the first place — love, real attention, actual intimacy. The store is there, the budgets are there, but “affection” never makes it onto the shelf.
The heaviest idea in the song plays like socialist haiku:
“I know I ain’t rich ’til he is rich / And she is rich / Then we is rich.”
It sounds utopian, but in the context of early‑2000s R&B and hip‑hop it’s pure nerve. When everyone around is preaching the “self‑made” gospel, "Millionaire" says individual wealth is an illusion as long as everyone else is stuck in the gutter. There’s just a cold, slightly mocking truth: there is no such thing as winning alone.
And then the mini‑parable: “Where there is cheese there are rats… If you got the dogs, you got bitches… If you got riches, you got glitches.” That’s basically street‑level Zen. André treats the whole money ecosystem as a chain of parasites and glitches. He’s not romanticizing “money rap”; he’s filing a bug report on the way things are.
First, it nudged the edges of what mainstream R&B could sound like. Instead of the expected big Neptunes or Timbaland bombast, listeners got a clear, almost experimental production wrapped around a classic hip‑hop sample. For the UK market — living off a mix of American R&B and its own garage/grime world — that hybrid looked like a bridge: from straight‑up club bangers toward more inward, oddball tracks that later showed up in indie pop and alt‑R&B.
Second, the idea of a Kelis x André 3000 duet is an early template for today’s “weird meets even weirder” collabs. Now nobody blinks at a left‑field R&B singer teaming up with an eccentric rap visionary, but back then it felt more like fan fiction than label strategy. "Millionaire" proves you don’t have to go for a big drama ballad or a sex anthem when those worlds collide. You can drop a philosophical, almost quiet song about inner emptiness — and still crack the charts.
Third, the track got a second life in the next decade as sample material. UK artist Bru‑C straight‑up reworked "Millionaire" into his own track of the same name, turning a melancholy capitalist confession into fuel for a new wave of club music. That tells you a lot: a song that once sounded like a genre‑border experiment became something people treat as canon.
The video adds its own twist. Instead of standard luxury imagery, director Giuseppe Capotondi puts kids in the lead, playing young Kelis and André. In an era when “rich” in videos usually meant pools, furs, and cars, "Millionaire" offers a strange, slightly unsettling fantasy: the whole story about money and emptiness projected onto children’s faces. Now, in the TikTok generation — where kids literally grow up on camera — that choice feels almost prophetic.
And there’s one more “small” effect: the formula “I’m rich, but I don’t feel rich” keeps popping up in pop culture after "Millionaire." From The Weeknd’s down‑bad anthems to post‑ironic rappers clowning on their own success, the idea that money doesn’t fix the glitch inside has become a default theme. "Millionaire" isn’t the only source, but it’s one of the few mainstream tracks of its era that spells it out this bluntly and without sugarcoating.
That holds up right until you look at the mid‑2000s landscape. When most hits are built on either straight sex or straight success, "Millionaire" opens up a third lane: a minimalist, slightly weird track that calmly slices into post‑success burnout. Its “lightness” isn’t a flaw; it’s a disguise. André and Kelis are saying heavy things in nursery‑rhyme language, like an adult lullaby for people who hate their own dream life.
You can call it “dated,” say the beat is locked into that specific 2000s feel. But that’s the charm: "Millionaire" is a time capsule from when pop music was just figuring out how to be experimental and commercial at once. Today it doesn’t sound old, it sounds honest. You can hear where half of modern alt‑R&B came from — and why some newer songs with the same themes feel softer in comparison.
There’s no influencer pep talk, no “you got this” hook. The message is colder, but sharper: “Look this thing in the eye — and build a value system that isn’t priced in dollars or likes.” That idea is going to outlive TikTok, and probably the next few rounds of “success culture” too.
Bottom line, "Millionaire" is the song that tells you: “Congrats, you beat the money game. Here’s your empty prize.” And if it still feels way too familiar, the issue definitely isn’t the 2000s.
Listen further:
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All images and media used in this publication are for cultural, journalistic, and educational purposes only. We do not claim ownership of these materials. All rights belong to their respective owners.
If you are a copyright holder and believe your work has been used unfairly, please contact us at we@the-oto.com — we will provide full credit or remove the image immediately.
And the key thing: there’s basically no standard climax in "Millionaire." No big “drop” you’re being steered toward. The whole song is an extended inner loop: verse, refrain, mantra‑style repetition, and it moves like a thought you can’t shut off.
The central line hits like a blank shot:
“Mama, I’m a millionaire, but I feel like a bum / Mama, I’m a millionaire, but I feel like the only one.”
Fact: there’s nothing formally complex here. It’s almost a nursery rhyme, no ornate metaphors. But psychologically, it’s a diagnosis. The money’s there, the status is there, but self‑worth is at zero. Classic 2000s flex, turned inside out.
Then André finishes the thought with a tiny slice of everyday hell: “I woke up early this mornin’, but I still ain’t see the sun.” That’s not a weather report, that’s the feeling of “doing everything right” — getting up early, grinding, checking every adult‑life box — and still feeling nothing. The track is basically about burnout long before “burnout” turned into a buzzword.
Kelis’s verse cuts in from another angle: “Papa, I’m a millionaire, but Saks Fifth Ave don’t sell affection.” That’s no longer just longing for the sun; it’s a straight shot at capitalist logic. You can buy any product except the things you were chasing in the first place — love, real attention, actual intimacy. The store is there, the budgets are there, but “affection” never makes it onto the shelf.
The heaviest idea in the song plays like socialist haiku:
“I know I ain’t rich ’til he is rich / And she is rich / Then we is rich.”
It sounds utopian, but in the context of early‑2000s R&B and hip‑hop it’s pure nerve. When everyone around is preaching the “self‑made” gospel, "Millionaire" says individual wealth is an illusion as long as everyone else is stuck in the gutter. There’s just a cold, slightly mocking truth: there is no such thing as winning alone.
And then the mini‑parable: “Where there is cheese there are rats… If you got the dogs, you got bitches… If you got riches, you got glitches.” That’s basically street‑level Zen. André treats the whole money ecosystem as a chain of parasites and glitches. He’s not romanticizing “money rap”; he’s filing a bug report on the way things are.
***
"Millionaire" never turned into a global anthem like "Hey Ya!", but in the UK and Europe it did solid hit duty, peaking at number three on the UK chart and landing on a few mid‑2000s compilations. It’s the kind of track that slides quietly into the cultural background and just stays there.First, it nudged the edges of what mainstream R&B could sound like. Instead of the expected big Neptunes or Timbaland bombast, listeners got a clear, almost experimental production wrapped around a classic hip‑hop sample. For the UK market — living off a mix of American R&B and its own garage/grime world — that hybrid looked like a bridge: from straight‑up club bangers toward more inward, oddball tracks that later showed up in indie pop and alt‑R&B.
Second, the idea of a Kelis x André 3000 duet is an early template for today’s “weird meets even weirder” collabs. Now nobody blinks at a left‑field R&B singer teaming up with an eccentric rap visionary, but back then it felt more like fan fiction than label strategy. "Millionaire" proves you don’t have to go for a big drama ballad or a sex anthem when those worlds collide. You can drop a philosophical, almost quiet song about inner emptiness — and still crack the charts.
Third, the track got a second life in the next decade as sample material. UK artist Bru‑C straight‑up reworked "Millionaire" into his own track of the same name, turning a melancholy capitalist confession into fuel for a new wave of club music. That tells you a lot: a song that once sounded like a genre‑border experiment became something people treat as canon.
The video adds its own twist. Instead of standard luxury imagery, director Giuseppe Capotondi puts kids in the lead, playing young Kelis and André. In an era when “rich” in videos usually meant pools, furs, and cars, "Millionaire" offers a strange, slightly unsettling fantasy: the whole story about money and emptiness projected onto children’s faces. Now, in the TikTok generation — where kids literally grow up on camera — that choice feels almost prophetic.
And there’s one more “small” effect: the formula “I’m rich, but I don’t feel rich” keeps popping up in pop culture after "Millionaire." From The Weeknd’s down‑bad anthems to post‑ironic rappers clowning on their own success, the idea that money doesn’t fix the glitch inside has become a default theme. "Millionaire" isn’t the only source, but it’s one of the few mainstream tracks of its era that spells it out this bluntly and without sugarcoating.
***
There’s a take that "Millionaire" is “too minor” in both Kelis’s and André 3000’s catalogs. Not as iconic as "Milkshake" or "Hey Ya!", not as radical as early OutKast. Just a nice, quirky mid‑album track, too light on the surface to count as serious.That holds up right until you look at the mid‑2000s landscape. When most hits are built on either straight sex or straight success, "Millionaire" opens up a third lane: a minimalist, slightly weird track that calmly slices into post‑success burnout. Its “lightness” isn’t a flaw; it’s a disguise. André and Kelis are saying heavy things in nursery‑rhyme language, like an adult lullaby for people who hate their own dream life.
You can call it “dated,” say the beat is locked into that specific 2000s feel. But that’s the charm: "Millionaire" is a time capsule from when pop music was just figuring out how to be experimental and commercial at once. Today it doesn’t sound old, it sounds honest. You can hear where half of modern alt‑R&B came from — and why some newer songs with the same themes feel softer in comparison.
***
For a 20‑year‑old now, "Millionaire" can be a rare artifact from a time when pop was already talking about burnout, but hadn’t turned it into a content strategy yet.There’s no influencer pep talk, no “you got this” hook. The message is colder, but sharper: “Look this thing in the eye — and build a value system that isn’t priced in dollars or likes.” That idea is going to outlive TikTok, and probably the next few rounds of “success culture” too.
Bottom line, "Millionaire" is the song that tells you: “Congrats, you beat the money game. Here’s your empty prize.” And if it still feels way too familiar, the issue definitely isn’t the 2000s.
Listen further:
- Kelis – “Keep It Down” (2003) — a deeper cut from Tasty, where Kelis leans into restraint rather than provocation. Tighter grooves, a cooler tone, and a quieter kind of control.
- Outkast – “Prototype” (2003) — a calm, almost romantic cut from The Love Below. Here, 3000 experiments with guitar-driven melodies and rhythm while keeping that same emotional openness.
- Kanye West – 808s & Heartbreak (2008) — a synth-heavy R&B/hip-hop album centered on loss and emotional collapse. If the dark melancholy of “Millionaire” resonated with you, this record is essential listening.
Copyright Disclaimer:
All images and media used in this publication are for cultural, journalistic, and educational purposes only. We do not claim ownership of these materials. All rights belong to their respective owners.
If you are a copyright holder and believe your work has been used unfairly, please contact us at we@the-oto.com — we will provide full credit or remove the image immediately.
