![]() ![]() Underneath is the cramped little cave that forms his studio: every song on his new album, Salad Days was recorded here. Since moving from Montreal six months ago, De Marco has shared a cupboard-sized, windowless room with his college sweetheart, Kiera, who lounges above us on the loft bed while we talk. Thankfully, everything else remains puerile. He's said that he began writing songs as a joke but by 2012, when his first full-length record, 2, was laurelled with a "Best New Music" recommendation from Pitchfork, it was clear that the music itself had become pretty sophisticated. Sometimes sleazy, always sincere, his songs have a kind of slacker-stealth to them: his sweet and sleepy voice creeps up on you, earworming its way in until someone asks you to stop humming. ![]() DeMarco's lovable jackassery has helped make him a kind of brohemian hero, but it's his talents as a songwriter that have sustained the love. ![]() This seems like a perfectly appropriate opener for a guy who has a well-established reputation for getting butt-naked onstage. Finally, I reach him on the phone and ask, tentatively, whether he was expecting me. W ay out in Bed-Stuy, a frontier of Brooklyn whose colonisation by all things "artisanal" is probably still a good half-decade off, I find Mac DeMarco's front door: rusty, graffitied, behind iron bars and, after many rings, unanswered. ![]()
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