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The title track undercuts its narrator’s worries about aging by alluding to the inconvenient truth that the worrier is only 23-not exactly ready for that condo in Florida. You’re unlikely to hear a supposedly hip album this year with so many mentions of people’s mothers.Īs with Real Estate’s Atlas, DeMarco’s new album is also ostensibly one where the chill bro gets all mature and stuff, and here his inner conflicts return with a suitably nonchalant vengeance. The warm, watery groove of “Brother” recalls the Beatles’ “Don’t Let Me Down”, though its moony lyrical sentiment (“You’re no better off living your life than dreaming at night”) might be more “I’m Only Sleeping”. The loping “Blue Boy”, which shares its title with an indie-pop classic by Orange Juice, amiably advises against acting so tough and worrying so much about your haircut. There’s little here to justify DeMarco’s reputation for divisiveness (“Detractors,” as Steven Hyden put it for Wondering Sound, “tend to regard him as some kind of bullshit artist, a quintessential hipster doofus slumming it under the ironic guise of a hippie dirtbag who gleefully covers Limp Bizkit in concert”).
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For all its internal contradictions, Salad Days is no more or less than a great album in a tradition of no-big-deal great albums. His second full-length, Salad Days, isn’t a departure from its predecessor so much as a richer, increasingly assured refinement. Whichever Mac is the better-behaved one has been taking over more and more, as the creepy detours of 2012’s Rock and Roll Night Club EP gave way to the more direct 2. The fact DeMarco isn’t even his real name-he was born Vernor Winfield McBriare Smith IV-captures the duality almost too perfectly. You can’t read about him without seeing the word “slacker,” but in two short years, he’s gone from opening at New York’s 550-capacity Bowery Ballroom to headlining at the 1,500-capacity Webster Hall (could he have done better if he’d tried?). He’s the guy everybody assumes is a stoner, though he claims he never, as they say, touches the stuff.
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He’s the gap-toothed prankster who sings the sighing love ballad. After a minute or two of these soothing, aqueous sounds, DeMarco tells us his home address, inviting us to stop by, so he can “make ya a cup of coffee.” I’ll take it black, please.This alluring ambivalence is one of DeMarco’s defining traits. “My House on the Water” samples Queens’ Lower Bay. To close, Mac does a daring, but not surprising, thing.
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“Without Me” is a sweet, endearing ode to the possibilities of love-maybe expressing affection for his long time girlfriend, Kiki? The track shifts smoothly between major and minor keys to create a yearning effect, and Mac’s voice leaves nothing to be questioned. And much like Salad Days, Mac shows his softer side. DeMarco balances the old with the new, keeping to his fuzzy guitar melodies. On “A Heart Like Hers,” instrumentals deem themselves comparable to Dwight Twilley and the Bee Gees. This time around, Mac’s songs are significantly more synth-driven. “No Other Heart” feels remnant of a cheesy love ballad that only an ’80s teen flick could have inspired, while “The Way You’d Love Her” hails back to the authentic guitar-pop sound that made last year’s Salad Days an outstanding addition to his catalog. The album rings like an instant head-bopper, apt for breezy walks or evening drives. Mac sticks to his friendly persona on Another One, as if every delectable guitar riff is an invitation into his psychedelic world, and his songs resonate with his do-good, be-good vibe-twangy guitars and warm vocals exude an approachable, “everything is gonna be alright” tone. The only catch was that they had to bring a food bank donation (talk about cookin’ up something good). Just last month, DeMarco set up camp at new Brooklyn Bar Our Wicked Lady, and fans were invited to chow down on a hot dog (grilled by Demarco himself) and listen to new EP Another One. Since his career has picked up, Mac has become something like a Brooklyn-bred Mr. So, where would Mac DeMarco fall in this weird underclass hierarchy? Judging by his lovable demeanor and goofball additives, DeMarco would be somewhere between Relatable Jokester and Boy Your Dad Could Probably Play Foosball With. The class clown was typically an obvious one, and everyone had their favorites for class heartthrob. Back in high school, it was always fun to fit people into superlatives based on their personalities or reputation.