The reggae-soul pioneer on spiritual rebirth, cannabis as medicine, and bringing unity to the Capitol Theatre
When we catch up with Matisyahu at his Rockland County home, he's just been visited by two young Chabad rabbis who stop by every Friday to discuss the weekly Torah portion—even when he's on tour for months at a time. “They know where I live,” he says with warmth. It's a fitting introduction to an artist whose career has been defined by the intersection of the sacred and the soulful, the spiritual and the street—and to a conversation that flows between Torah and Grateful Dead shows, between Hanukkah candles and acid revelations.
A Homecoming at the Capitol Theatre
The Capitol Theatre in Port Chester has hosted Matis for a dozen performances over the years—headlining shows, acoustic sets, anniversary concerts, and guest appearances. But his connection to the venue runs deeper than the marquee.
Asked about the energy from the Capitol's stage, his voice takes on a reverent quality. “It's one of those legendary places. You can sense it—you're standing in the presence of potentially the ghosts of the greatest musicians of all time.” He pauses, letting the thought settle. “If there is a netherworld, some of these dudes probably hang out there. They're probably at the bar together. Jerry's playing right now.”
When protests followed Matis in the wake of his support for Israel, venue owner Peter Shapiro flew out to Las Vegas to personally ensure the artist felt supported at Brooklyn Bowl. “He's been a friend,” Matis says. In an industry where controversy often means cancelled bookings and radio silence, flying cross-country to stand with an artist under fire speaks louder than any statement.
A Crown That Means More Now
Two decades after “King Without a Crown” introduced Matisyahu to the world, the song continues to evolve alongside its creator. “A lot of my songs take on different meanings as I've gone through different phases,” he reflects.
The title itself carries layers he's unpacked over time. In the Torah, a man's wife is described as his crown. The Torah itself is called a crown—inner wisdom. “A king without a crown could mean some kind of false, narcissistic, egotistical thing,” he muses. “Maybe the idea is actually not to have the crown. A king without a crown is actually higher than a king with a crown—a person who is a king on the inside versus on the outside.”
Recently, Matis has returned to prayer after stepping away for some time. “When I sang the words ‘each and every day I pray to get to know you please,' I'm actually in a reinspired state of connection with Hashem,” he says. “It feels good to have a song that circles back into your life and still has meaning twenty years later.”
Light in the Darkest Time
Matisyahu—born Matthew Miller in White Plains—shares his Hebrew name with Matityahu, the father of Judah Maccabee and patriarch of the Hanukkah story. “I always felt a connection going back to Hebrew school,” he says. “I was looking around White Plains and Scarsdale like, where are these Maccabee warriors they speak of?”
He found them eventually, in his own way—so much so that he named his youngest son Judah Mac, a cross between Judah Maccabee and the last name of another inspirational figure in his life.
The themes of Hanukkah—light, rebellion, renewal—resonate deeply with an artist who has navigated his own dark periods. “Kislev is the darkest month of the year if you're living in the northern hemisphere,” he explains. “Days are short. There's a lot of literal darkness. And that is the time when Hanukkah comes—in the time of greatest darkness.”
He contrasts the overwhelming spectacle of Christmas—”the houses all lit up, big beautiful awesome American holiday”—with “this little Jewish holiday with these little menorahs and dreidels and chocolate gelt.” But there's profound meaning in that modesty. “The Jewish inspiration comes from being reflective and being humble. That's the idea of Hanukkah—the humility of these little candles.”
The image that stays with him most powerfully: “People in concentration camps collecting enough of whatever to make candles on Hanukkah in the darkest, darkest moments. Completely broken, frozen, starving, on the cusp of the darkest realities—still somehow holding on to this tiny aspect of light and hope of freedom and redemption.”
That, he says, is the essence. “No matter if the Temple has been completely destroyed, there's still one sealed canister of untouched oil. You can rebuild from that place.”
Cannabis as Medicine, Justice as Imperative
At 46, Matis has made peace with his relationship to cannabis—though “peace” might be underselling the journey. “I've always loved the way weed makes me feel, for the most part,” he says. “I fought it for some time. There were years when I didn't smoke at all. But what I've come back to at this stage is that smoking weed has just made me feel better since the beginning.”
His approach is decidedly old school. “I don't take bong hits. I don't take dabs. I just smoke old-fashioned joints.” As a singer, he's protective of his instrument: “I try to only smoke the best weed—freshly grown weed that doesn't make me cough.”
He's careful not to mythologize cannabis as a creative catalyst. “I don't think it makes me more creative. Does it make me less creative? I don't know. I think it's different, perhaps.” Some albums he's written completely sober; others, while “not even stoned, but just as part of my lifestyle. When you're smoking throughout the course of the day, you're not really getting that high. It's more like what most people would consider having a coffee.”
Matis has been a vocal supporter of the Last Prisoner Project, which advocates for those incarcerated for cannabis offenses. “I'm one of the lucky ones,” he acknowledges. “I think of all the people who were incarcerated for smoking weed over the years when we knew this was obviously the stupidest law known to man.”
He doesn't mince words: “On the contrary, the country should be smoking more weed, and we all know that. Especially the lawmakers who were making these laws should have been getting high more often. This world would be a better place—there's no question about it.”
The Night Everything Changed
Before there was Matisyahu the artist, there was Matt Miller—a dreadlocked kid from the Highlands neighborhood of White Plains who loved Bob Marley and Phish, a free spirit who was into reggae and jam bands while his friends were obsessing over Nas and Wu-Tang. At 16, he took acid at a Phish concert in Western Massachusetts. The experience would shape everything that followed.
“That first time I took psychedelics and saw music performed live—it was by far the most spiritual experience I had ever had,” he recalls. “Completely otherworldly compared to anything else. I'd had really good experiences with music before—emotional, beautiful, wholesome. But that first time, my entire world changed.”
Music came alive in a completely different way. “The unification of the world and all of its creatures and beings was felt. Shema Yisrael—it was right there. Matisyahu was born in that moment.”
That feeling of unity remains his lodestar as a performer. “My goal every time I play a show, no matter how many people or where it is, is to try to achieve that same feeling of unity that I felt the first time I took acid at that Phish concert,” he says. “I want people to feel like that – whether or not they took acid.”
He laughs at the impossibility of the standard he's set for himself. “It's a lofty goal, and I've set myself up for failure time and time again. But that is unfortunately the blessing and the curse, my friend.”
Ancient Child, New Horizons
Matis's recent album, Ancient Child, emerged from a deeply collaborative process—musicians, producers, singers, songwriters, and rappers gathering at his home to create together. Taking those songs on tour has been revelatory.
“It became very exciting to play these songs live after sitting on them for quite some time,” he says. The transformation from studio to stage has been dramatic: “A three-and-a-half-minute song on the album becomes a 12½-minute musical escapade that ventures through three or four different genres.”
He weaves in lyrics from older songs, creating a continuous thread through his catalog. Another live album from Stubb's is in the works, capturing these extended explorations. His 2005 album Live at Stubb's, recorded at the legendary Austin venue, debuted at number five on the Billboard Reggae Albums Chart and later reached number 176 on the Billboard 200—a breakthrough moment that signaled Matis was more than a novelty act.
His upcoming show at the Capitol Theatre with Tauk promises more of this improvisational spirit. “They're a band that likes to improvise, so that's definitely something we're going to be doing—playing the new tunes, improvising, as well as ‘King Without a Crown' and ‘One Day.'” Tauk, the progressive rock-fusion band from Oyster Bay, Long Island, has toured with Umphrey's McGee, Disco Biscuits, and String Cheese Incident—kindred spirits in the jam world.
Meanwhile, his sons Laivy and DovBer are forging their own musical paths, recently performing together in Tel Aviv. “It's been really cool to see two of them both doing what I do in different ways—singers, songwriters, rappers,” he says. “I was trying to push them to learn instruments, become producers, so they wouldn't have to rely on other people. They instead chose to write songs and use their voices.”
He watches them with a father's pride and an artist's fascination: “They have different styles, different ways about them, which is very reflective of who they are as people. That's been the coolest part at this stage—watching how two sons can both be into the same thing but be different versions, different flavors.”
The Light Keeps Burning
As Hanukkah approaches, Matis will join the Nuna Harvest celebration and connect with what he calls “the other newish weed smokers in Westchester.” He might bring one of his oldest friends—Dan Isenberg, better known as Stan Ipcus, the rapper, who grew up a couple blocks away in the Highlands and has appeared on several of Matis's albums over the years. The two go way back to high school house parties and backyard cyphers, and they've shared stages from SUNY Purchase to Madison Square Garden.
The convergence makes sense: cannabis community, Jewish community, music community—all gathering around themes of light and renewal in the darkest month. “Let's get it,” he says. “Westcheder, as they like to call it.”
And when he takes the Capitol Theatre stage, he'll be chasing that impossible, essential goal once more—trying to give a roomful of people the same transcendent unity he felt as a teenager, watching music become something holy.
Some things burn longer than you'd expect. Just ask the Maccabees.
