By Kate Goetz
For over thirty years, Newport native Mike O’Donnell—known everywhere as Mr. Mike, or by the brighter, stranger voltage of his alter-ego Mikey Millionaire—has been an unquiet force on stages across the world.
His timeline reads like controlled detonation:
- The early-2000s mayhem of No Means Yes, complete with fire-breathing, duct-tape wardrobe choices, and stage dives into drum sets
- The violin-laced, folk-punk grit of The Skinny Millionaires in the 2010s
- The local punk-rock bonfire All Hail (co-founded with Spencer from Flogging Molly)
- And the relentless, high-octane surf-punk machine of The Turbo A.C.’s, with whom he recently blasted through 32 shows in 33 days across eight countries
Reinvention isn’t a phase for him—it’s muscle memory.
A One-Man Creative Factory
As a solo artist, he operates like a one-man creative factory: writing, arranging, recording, designing, screen-printing, painting, filming—constructing entire artistic worlds entirely on his own.
No committee.
No assistants.
No net.
If it exists, he built it.
And amazingly, he’s done almost all of it without his hometown’s support. Newport has been slow to understand him—sometimes even standing directly in his way. There was the night an entire fleet of police officers—every available one in the city—rushed his show. And the night an opening band hurled beers and cornered him behind a venue with a gun.
Adversity is exactly where Mikey grows sharper. He raises the volume, hones the words, and meets every threat with the certainty of someone who has already survived worse storms.
Creation as Survival
People often get one thing wrong about him: rebellion itself isn’t the engine.
He creates because he must.
Art is his coping mechanism—his ritual, his way of navigating the darker chambers of his own mind. Depression and PTSD have carved deep places in him, but those places have also refined his art, sharpened his eye, and given him the unmistakable look of someone who carries knowledge most people never want to learn.
He has always been fascinated by how the mind works. More than one therapist has broken professional composure with him—some bending rules on his behalf, others ending sessions early and permanently—because he thinks too quickly, digs too deeply, and refuses to sit in the shallow end. He doesn’t follow the script; he rewrites it mid-session.
A Stage Is a Stage
Beneath the mythology sits the purest piece of him: he simply loves the craft.
He’ll happily play for one person in a living room for a couple beers. After grueling tours, he still attends small open mics just to shake the ghosts off. Even playing to five old ladies staring into tater tots feels sacred to him.
A stage is a stage.
And then there are the stories—thousands of them. Years of touring every corner of the country. Shows with punk-rock institutions like The Dwarves, Dropkick Murphys, Flogging Molly, Agent Orange, DOA, Nashville Pussy, Turbonegro, Stiff Little Fingers, The Buzzcocks, Elle King, and more names than he can recall.
Tour after tour.
Night after night.
Country after country.
He doesn’t hide from pain—he uses it. Make it hurt often enough and the callus eventually makes him harder to break than most men ever become.
Chaos, Welcomed
When he formed The Skinny Millionaires, their dark, swaggering folk-rock caught the attention of local giants. John McCauley of Deer Tick became an early advocate and even lent his voice to the band’s debut record.
When he joined The Turbo A.C.’s?
He didn’t know the band.
He didn’t know the songs.
He said he did anyway.
He got on a plane to Sioux City less than 24 hours later, met the band in a hotel room, and played his first show that same night—a Halloween gig.
Chaos, welcomed.
Two decades of road stories could fill volumes: a love triangle with a pop star; ghost-hunting aboard the Queen Mary with members of the Danzig camp; nearly getting kicked out for attempting to drop through a ceiling into a rumored secret pool.
Obviously.
There are also the unglamorous moments time has made hilarious:
- Trying to walk through a German drive-through on foot, starving and soaked, only to watch a bandmate pass with hot food and a raised middle finger
- Touring with Dropkick Murphys and discovering his own “green room”—a closet with a loveseat occupied by a sleeping stranger
- Being wheeled through a venue mid-bite of maraschino cherries while seated on a toilet mounted inside a shopping cart
Then there was the hyper-religious German town with locals marching wooden crosses—only for his drummer to drink holy water “to cleanse his insides.” He was violently ill moments later.
Naturally.
And yes—there was the time he was accidentally sent to federal prison and forgotten there for days. When released, he didn’t go home. He stole the prison uniform, took a cab to the venue, and walked onstage in genuine federal-issue orange.
Because the night demanded it.
Survival Isn’t the End
The physical toll has been immense. He was brutally stabbed nearly to death in Seattle. Burned badly from fire-breathing. Crushed, battered, bled out more than once. Crawled through an ER parking lot to survive.
Most people don’t live through that once.
Mikey did—and kept going.
Newport Buzz knew him before most. We first met by accident in a random NYC club, later booked him for our original launch party. Today, the artists whose posters hung above his childhood bed are names in his phone.
Because everything matters.
One truth often slips under the radar: Mikey will almost certainly be the most talented, consistent, and interesting person in whatever room he enters—but he won’t announce it.
He listens. He observes. He learns.
He’s not here to sell himself.
He’s here to make art.
His résumé borders on impossible: award-winning photographer, radio host, master glassblower, self-taught graphic designer, magazine writer, painter, screen-printer, father.
He doesn’t perform.
He detonates.
He will never be Newport’s hometown hero.
He will always be Newport’s most valuable Anti-Hero.
Interview
After all those years in the music business, do you still get stage fright? If so, what’s your remedy?
Absolutely. Smaller crowds can actually be scarier. People often tell me I look confident, but they don’t believe that I’m really a frightened introvert who’s sometimes too shy to leave the house.
The remedy is the act of wanting.
Picture a scale. On one side is how badly you want this. On the other side is the frustration—the million roadblocks. You just have to make sure the WANT side always weighs more than the FRUSTRATION side.
You have to want it more than you fear it.
Every show is a journey inside your own head. You have to transform—from Bob the carpenter into Bobby the superhero. You have to find that mental space where there is no crowd judging you.
You’re allowing your id to spill out. This isn’t sunshine and unicorns. You have to make them feel something—the pain, the reason you were given a platform to scream into a microphone that you’re not okay.
Can you hear me now?
Can you see my anger?
Can you feel my desperation?Like a musical terrorist: I’m not invisible. Who’s afraid now? Here I come.
That need to explode is what keeps me coming back. Learning how to release that explosion is a lifelong skill. It’s not just about building the bomb—you have to deliver it. And you have to find the courage to deliver it at all.
One of your biggest regrets—or the hardest lesson you’ve learned so far?
I hate when people say they have no regrets. That’s just a catchphrase to deflect responsibility. Regrets force you to learn. To grow. To evolve. I don’t hide from them—I have tons.
My biggest regret is that I didn’t try harder to market myself or learn how to sell myself better. I’m the artist. I’ve always struggled with being the salesman. If there’s a phone call involved, I’ll probably ignore it. It doesn’t fulfill me.
So at some point, I got used to making art and music and letting it sit under my bed. I literally have 500 paintings under my bed that no one has seen.
The flip side is that maybe my greatest artwork is the story itself. My story is wild. But if I told it, I’d have to tell the truth—and I’m not sure I can let all of those details out. So I don’t worry about it as much as I probably should.
That keeps me broke, which limits my ability to make art the way I know I can. I regret the business end of things. I need someone else to handle that part. Just tell me where to be and when.
Back in the days when mixtapes said what you couldn’t—what would be on your mixtape today?
I refuse.
This is like asking my favorite color. If it’s used well, every color can be my favorite. So I attack the question itself. Where did this idea come from—that you must have a favorite? Who decided that, and why did everyone go along with it?
Who decides what’s weird? What’s dirty?
There’s too much beauty in the world to narrow it down. If we’re forced to choose favorites, then the system itself is broken. You see examples of this every day—people following antiquated rules without questioning their own existence. They don’t realize they died a long time ago.
I want to help people wake up. You can ask the universe to make you great—you just have to be willing to be hated for it. Or willing to be a freak.
Close your eyes and think about being onstage. What makes it all worth it?
I think about this constantly—especially on tour. I just finished 32 shows in 33 nights across 8 countries. I was sick the entire time with a brutal ear infection and couldn’t see a doctor. The band was constantly whining or arguing or staring at their phones.
I suffered a lot. We all did. But every night I told myself: If you can’t find something to enjoy in this, you shouldn’t be here.
So I trained myself to love the exhaustion—the sweat, the nonstop motion, the lights, the electricity in the air before the band goes on. Walking onstage still feels magical to me. Encores every night. Signing people’s stuff—some guys treat that like a chore, but I never do.
If someone cares enough about what I do to want my autograph, I don’t take that for granted for one second.
The best part is the people. Onstage I might be thinking about breakfast, but afterward—those few minutes when people want to talk—I don’t feel shy anymore. The connections I make are everything. They become my chosen family. They take care of me when I can’t speak for myself.
Then I roll into the next town, and eventually everyone forgets who I am again. That can be hard. But we keep in touch. People visit me. We hug. They pull me out of the grind for a moment. That’s priceless.
I love the diehards. We pulled up to a club recently and two guys were waiting in the parking lot with 20 printed photos each for us to sign. I love that. I write silly notes like “get well soon.”
I also do this thing when unloading gear—most guys wear gloves. I don’t. I let the same spot on my fingers hurt every time. I want the pain. Because I know callouses will form. Once they do, I’m unstoppable.
At the end of the tour, when everyone wants to go home, that’s when I’ve just started cruising.
Are you superstitious? Any rituals before going onstage?
I’m not superstitious, though we do a goofy group chant every night. It’s just for fun.
My rituals are practical. I run through questions:
Are my shoes tied?
Is my belt tight?
Do I have too much in my pockets?
Is my zipper up?
Is my guitar tuned?
Do I have enough drinks onstage?
Where’s the spare guitar?
Do I have a setlist?
Lessons learned.
Does post-tour depression get easier over time?
The hardest part is wanting space to talk about it—to recap the journey. It’s the hero’s journey: you leave, you conquer something, you gain wisdom, and you bring it home to share with the tribe.
But I don’t really have a tribe at home. Or they don’t understand. Or don’t want to.
So you bury the epic adventure just to go back to a job you hate, for people you don’t like. The movement stops. Nobody wants to hear your story anymore.
For me, it gets easier because I expect it now. I break it into smaller pieces. This time, I’ve mostly felt relief and accomplishment. I’ve cried—but not from sadness. From gratitude and beauty.
You come back wiser every time. It can be hard to be around people who never left. The road is tragic and beautiful. Coming home can be dangerous. You have to battle your own trauma responses.
What is it like to be THE Mikey Millionaire?
Extremely complicated. Fascinating. Heartbreaking. Scary.
I don’t think I’m like anyone else. I want to be the caterpillar who became a butterfly even though he was afraid to fly. I’m constantly trying to honor the child version of me—the deal we made to never stop, to stay vulnerable and honest.
That child believes if I create something beautiful enough, maybe someone will love me enough not to leave.
It’s also a wild party. People know me—but they don’t know me. Especially in Newport. The people who really know me are sworn to secrecy about some absolutely bananas shit.
I chase fear and adrenaline. It’s hard being me. Depression and PTSD have always been part of my life. I love therapy. I love figuring myself out.
How would you explain Rock ’n’ Roll / Punk Rock?
It’s the closest thing I have to religion. Something to believe in. Something to belong to. It saved me.
It’s chaos, rebellion, questioning authority, breaking rules, and thinking for yourself. It’s freedom.
What music styles influenced you most?
Folk music. I played in a folk band—The Skinny Millionaires—for a long time.
Kurt Cobain changed my life because he made pain beautiful. Bob Dylan taught me that words alone can punch harder than any distortion pedal. He was punk as hell—questioning anyone who tried to define him.
I’ve recently fallen in love with solo acoustic shows. Completely different skill set. I love it.
If you had a time machine, when would you go?
The 1950s. Early rock ’n’ roll.
Is there a difference between U.S. and European audiences?
Yes. European crowds are better. Sorry, USA.
They travel hours between shows, come to multiple gigs, treat artists with respect. Newport won’t walk three blocks for a free show.
Does achieving everything you dream of scare you?
Yes and no. Sometimes the journey is the reward. Sometimes all I want is peace. But I am what I am. I’ll keep doing what I do—staying true.
Are you hesitant to perform deeply personal songs?
I worry less about the words and more about whether I can perform the emotion honestly. I like that uncomfortable moment when people squirm. You learn quickly who’s on your side.
There’s nothing too painful to perform—but some songs bring ghosts with them. I force myself to relive those moments because that’s the job. If heartbreak is what you are, don’t sing lollipops.
How do your songs come together?
There’s no single method. Sometimes lyrics first. Sometimes guitar. I leave things open to interpretation. Hooks matter. Vulnerability matters.
If someone tattoos a lyric or plays a song at a funeral—that’s everything. That’s the goal.
A song you wish you wrote?
“Positively 4th Street” by Bob Dylan. Perfectly placed lyrical daggers.
What did you struggle with most learning guitar?
Fretboard fluency. But guitar was always just a vehicle for songwriting. Two chords can change lives.
Favorite books?
Musician biographies. I’m also writing my first book. It’ll probably end up under my bed too.
What would you tell Hazel if she wanted to be a punk musician?
If she goes for it—go all the way. I’d support her completely. Everyone deserves someone who believes.
Top 3 music bucket-list goals?
Better labels. Better booking. Tour support. I just want the opportunity to work. Put me in front of people and let me loose.
The business is brutal. There’s no safety net. But some people are born to rock ’n’ roll.
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