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In this context, DeMarco’s non-album antics start to look like another defense mechanism, another way of cutting himself off at the legs before someone else does it for him. It’s only fitting that stick-with-the-girl songs “Let My Baby Stay” and “Treat Her Better” are almost as tunefully plush. Of course, even this reversal of the hoary “if you love her, let her go” chestnut undermines its own advice-“Or you can keep her, it’s OK, it’s up to you,” DeMarco counters in a speak-singing outro. He shouldn’t be: It’s an outstanding crystallization of his gifts, the real-talk advice of Jonathan Richman with a far more accessible poetic dreaminess. “Let Her Go” was apparently the answer to label Captured Tracks’ demands for “an upbeat single” suitable for late-night TV, and DeMarco is still upset about it. It’s telling that Salad Days' most immediate song, the one with biggest chance of transcending DeMarco’s cult, is one he says he didn’t want to do.
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Penultimate “Go Easy” suggests concern for the girlfriend left behind while on tour, but its lyrical non sequitur-“You built it up, just to knock it down”-is a common criticism of the music press that has received DeMarco so favorably and could speak to his uneasy relationship with success. Relatedly, anyone hoping for a pot anthem in organ-thick “Passing Out the Pieces” will instead find a koan-like complaint about the artist life’s crummy trade-offs. The title track undercuts its narrator’s worries about aging by alluding to the inconvenient truth that the worrier is only 23-not exactly ready for that condo in Florida.
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You’re unlikely to hear a supposedly hip album this year with so many mentions of people’s mothers.Īs with Real Estate’s Atlas, DeMarco’s new album is also ostensibly one where the chill bro gets all mature and stuff, and here his inner conflicts return with a suitably nonchalant vengeance. The warm, watery groove of “Brother” recalls the Beatles’ “Don’t Let Me Down”, though its moony lyrical sentiment (“You’re no better off living your life than dreaming at night”) might be more “I’m Only Sleeping”. The loping “Blue Boy”, which shares its title with an indie-pop classic by Orange Juice, amiably advises against acting so tough and worrying so much about your haircut. There’s little here to justify DeMarco’s reputation for divisiveness (“Detractors,” as Steven Hyden put it for Wondering Sound, “tend to regard him as some kind of bullshit artist, a quintessential hipster doofus slumming it under the ironic guise of a hippie dirtbag who gleefully covers Limp Bizkit in concert”). For all its internal contradictions, Salad Days is no more or less than a great album in a tradition of no-big-deal great albums. His second full-length, Salad Days, isn’t a departure from its predecessor so much as a richer, increasingly assured refinement. Whichever Mac is the better-behaved one has been taking over more and more, as the creepy detours of 2012’s Rock and Roll Night Club EP gave way to the more direct 2. The fact DeMarco isn’t even his real name-he was born Vernor Winfield McBriare Smith IV-captures the duality almost too perfectly. You can’t read about him without seeing the word “slacker,” but in two short years, he’s gone from opening at New York’s 550-capacity Bowery Ballroom to headlining at the 1,500-capacity Webster Hall (could he have done better if he’d tried?). He’s the guy everybody assumes is a stoner, though he claims he never, as they say, touches the stuff. He’s the gap-toothed prankster who sings the sighing love ballad. This alluring ambivalence is one of DeMarco’s defining traits.