Mac DeMarco is beyond caring what you think

By way of Edmonton Canada, Mac DeMarco permanently looks like he hasn’t slept for a month. He started by playing the blues and R&B in his garage, and now he’s an indie rock star that’s playing just about every festival that matters—including FYF this month (he even scored a touring gig with Phoenix last year). He’s also a savvy businessman that writes radio-friendly love songs and sells out Webster Hall.


But he’s not selling out any time soon, not even close. For his latest album, Salad Days, DeMarco shifted gears from breezy love songs into more moody territory (old age, dead flower-breakup metaphors, you know, the usual stuff) that probably had his record label a bit concerned. But for DeMarco, it was about communicating what he was feeling and releasing some of those demons.

Over the course of three records, including 2012 breakout 2, DeMarco has made caring less a form of valuable currency he carries with him during every performance. At Burgerama III earlier this year, his groovy, melodic and breezy-funk odes to Viceroy cigarettes and girls named “Annie” were followed by a crowd-surfing break where DeMarco looked like he was just happy to be laying down for a spell.

He’s also the son of a single mother, and as the story goes, he offered himself up for medical experiments to score some extra cash. Did he care what people thought about his side job? “People love it! It didn’t seem that weird at the time. Gotta make cash somewhere, right?” he said.

Mac DeMarco

At least he’s being himself. And whether it’s all some big inside joke doesn’t matter. DeMarco’s not in it to please anyone except his muse: Part “Not Ready for Prime Time Player,” part R&B crooner, part a rebel without a cause.

Like it or not, Mac DeMarco’s odyssey is just beginning. Nobody has any idea what direction he’s going. He’ll decide that over a sitting in his Brooklyn flat (where his girlfriend “accidentally” moved in) as he takes a nap with his cracked-screen phone on silent—avoiding people trying to tell him what to do, or worse, telling him to act his age.