They have an ease of spirit that you can enjoy and learn nothing from. Salad Days is an easy affair in this regard, a simple record to listen to under the sun that has a couple of knowing winks about going steady and treating your pals right, but nothing you need worry about. Its chill normativity is a contradiction, because you can ignore those stern lyrics when the riffs are this slow, when they echo out like sunglasses covering eyes.
Atlas has a slightly different kind of presence, but a similar intentional disconnect. It tries to make you feel something beyond what you see. In the same way DeMarco dolls out little bits of sage, faux-uncle-y advice, Atlas wants to make a point. Somehow, Atlas captures this feeling of small town emptiness perfectly—the feeling of staring into something that no one else is.
All he really references are the bigger things that impose on it: horizons and long distance phonecalls. And I love that they fail to deliver on these ideas.
- Who We Are;
- Albums et singles de Mac Demarco;
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Is anyone gonna stop working 9 to 5 because they heard a lyric that told them to? Not on a record as chilled and one-speed as Salad Days.
Real Estate / Mac DeMarco
The guitar sounds like a timeless task that only DeMarco can master, because only he has realised what punching the clock truly means. I should have a defence, I guess, but I just feel guilty. Interestingly, I think what makes them feel connected is those moments where Real Estate and DeMarco take on grief, let themselves feel it, only to annul it. Ideas become simplified. The crustiness of his early songs is mostly gone here. Here Comes the Cowboy arrives at a time when there are more eyes trained on DeMarco than ever before.
Review: Mac DeMarco melds classic and fresh on new album
He will always be the goofy guy with the Alfred E. Frustratingly, what should be appealing about the album—the breeziness and low-stakes, anything-goes atmosphere—is also what makes it impossible to latch onto the bulk of the songs. You can virtually hear him staring out the window while he sings his way through half-formed thoughts about opening your mind and filling it with bullshit. The best part is the birds chirping in the background—they give some texture to the oddly sterile world DeMarco has constructed.
A song for children? DeMarco can also do this well. Now, it just feels like a waste of time. Skip to content Search query All Results.