Mac DeMarco

Salad Days

The romantic in De Marco is now very much a presence in his life, far from it being a farce, and adroitly balances those feelings of solitude and intimacy by clasping dearly to the everyday proportions that make his life complete.

His patron saints appear to be Harry Nilsson and yacht rockers like 10cc, and rarely are either channeled with this little cheese and this much panache. He merges these influences with what's quickly become his signature guitar sound, an effortless style that can be playfully discordant.

The songs only sound sleeker, more melodic, more intensely stoned. That's DeMarco in sum, and thankfully he's not retreating into his shell just yet.

The record also proves that maturity does not mean creative death – this is complete album and in many ways his best.

Salad Days loses a lot of the patently ridiculous persona that DeMarco has put so earnestly into his previous releases. In itself, it’s not a terrible loss, because the end result is a high-polish pop album that is more cohesive than any of his older work.

He uses humor and bemused detachment to hint at a deeper pathos he can’t (or won’t) articulate in his oft-beautiful, always slippery songs.

Salad Days is packed with wry, knowing lyrics and washed-out vocals, like a meeting of Stephen Malkmus and Marc Bolan.

The progression that Salad Days shows is encouraging, even if the album starts to peter out at the end. 

This is art that is confidently immature, and it begs the question: why can’t sophomoric art still be great? 

It’s a half-baked portrait of a creative personality rung dry and yet still yearning for something new. It’s rare to see an identity crisis like this so early in the career of a promising artist, but DeMarco doesn’t spend time wallowing.

The chord changes aren’t as sharp, the melodies not as direct, the lyrics not as catchy. By the end you almost feel as tired as him. He still has an incredible ear for a melody, it’s just not as fun as it used to be.

2 part 2.