Mac Demarco

by Shelley Hiam

Mac Demarco

Swan Dive, Friday, March 15

The first thing I see when I walk into the Swan Dive is a member of Mac DeMarco's band flat on his back, eyes closed in the corner of the stage. I'm not sure if it's a bad trip, a rough night, or simply some much-needed shut-eye in the back-half of a long week. Whatever it was, nobody seemed to mind. We babbled and bullshitted as the rest of the band tuned up, but he didn't move a muscle until it was time to get up and play. It fits that DeMarco, the 22-year-old gap-toothed Montreal songwriter, keeps things deliriously adrift. Breakout album 2 dances in solitude, impervious to the troubled waters below. Here, DeMarco wears a raggedy hat, oversized shirt, and an ancient pair of jeans as he sings a song about his favorite cigarette. Fame found him when he wasn't looking, but he remains indifferent to the whole proceeding. He bugs out his eyes and tumbles to the ground with his guitar, just trying to entertain himself. A few day-drinkers in the front row cheer. Meet a twentysomething musician severed independent from all the 21st century implications. No hashtags, just a few songs and a big goofy smile.