Mac DeMarco

When a friend has an extra ticket to a concert this Saturday night and you don’t have any plans, the only option is to comply. Mac DeMarco at Radio City Music Hall—a musician I’ve barely listened to at a venue I’ve been to like once when I was a kid to see The Rockettes. Seats—not the usual general admission. I hesitated to accompany my friend in this sophisticated alternative journey, but, the day before, I texted her, “what time are you picking me up tomorrow?”

Prior to my quick decision, I made it my job to explore exactly who this Mac DeMarco character is. He’s the kind of artist most people haven’t heard about, but because of his prominence in a specific genre (which, in this case, I’ll call ‘stoner indie’), he still manages to sell out shows and gain a following of over 800,000 people on Instagram. I’ve always thought of him as the less popular version of Lana Del Rey in the form of a man—if you’ve ever been on Tumblr, you’ll know who they are.

It’s not my type of music. My music taste revolves around emo and all its subgenres and surrounding genres, but I try to never confine myself to this. When I started listening to Mac, I told myself it was time to broaden my taste anyway. So I entered this stoner indie universe with an open mind, knowing what to expect—gloomy acoustic melodies intertwined with broken vocals—but not knowing how I’d feel about it.

It was not like I had never listened to Mac DeMarco before (no matter how dramatic I make this ‘discovery’ out to be)—I knew two or three songs, but it was on a rare basis that I actually listened to them. From seldom to constantly, Mac DeMarco played through my earphones at work, at school, at home. This isn’t a tale in which I instantly fall in love with his unique sound or realize that indie music is for me—this is just a preface. I had no set opinion on Mac by the time the concert came. I didn’t lose myself in his songs, but I didn’t want to turn them off either. I hoped the show would sway me in a more passionate direction, whether it be obsessive or abhorrent. Though I’d prefer the former.

My friend and I arrived at the venue amid the opening act The Garden, but missed their performance as we endeavored to find a spot in the clump of fans buying merch. I defeatedly spent thirty dollars on a t-shirt, but not regrettably.

By the time we reached our seats, the stage was empty and Mac would be on in ten or fifteen minutes. We inhabited the first mezzanine in the dead center, a row behind the first—seats so pleasant I couldn’t even envy those in the floor seating.

This would be a different concert for me. My experience would rely predominantly if not solely on one variable: Mac’s performance. The crowd’s energy didn’t play too big of a role considering everyone stayed in their assigned positions and everyone’s experience depends on their own feelings—not whether the person next to them is dancing with them, or if the person in front of them is reciprocating their ardence. I spent quite some time just analyzing the differences between general admission concerts and seated concerts to figure out whether or not I’d actually enjoy this change in setting.

And then the time came: lights dimmed, fans screamed, spotlights radiated, figures sashayed into view. My friend and I stood up.

“On The Level”—there is simply no better way to commence a show. The song itself is the quintessential beginning for any escapade to an unorthodox, trippy place. It’s unique with its rhythmic synths rendering a new atmosphere and its insouciant vocals welcoming the listener endearingly.

My stance on acoustic music is really simple: I either adore it or resent it. If an acoustic love song isn’t utterly heartbreaking and raw, then it’s usually a fruitless attempt to be. “This Old Dog” captured my attention more than anything else had. Mac clearly mastered the art of not only writing the lyrics that’ll weigh down your heart, as well as making up chords that’ll act accordingly to the words and only add to the expressed pain, but he also mastered performing it all. Rarely does the performance of a song overpower the recording—rarely can singers even sing live as well as they do in the studio. Mac beats all of these mediocre modern performers by a longshot. His vocals remain as clean and on pitch as they do on his records, and the emotion is amplified—it’s more than genuine, with added vibratos and shrieks (yes, sometimes he just… emits an unexpected whistle note).

As the end neared, Mac and his band changed the game by embarking on an estimated five to ten minute instrumental, rich with sporadic noises and persistent climaxes. As a member of the audience, it tests your ability to appreciate music, as well as testing your patience—I personally found myself captivated, allowing myself to soak in the music and the moment. But I could see why others may grow bothered after a while, especially when Mac could’ve filled up all that time with his songs instead. I wondered that myself, and I then answered that myself: it’s Mac DeMarco. Known for his obscure behavior, his unconventional attitude, his disinterest in conformity—his aim isn’t to put on the typical show you’d see at Radio City Music Hall. His aim isn’t to put on the typical show in general.

And so he managed to fit the gigantic dinosaur prop onto his back and proceeded to stroll around the stage just like that, before releasing the plastic skeletal monster into the crowd. There are some things I’ve never expected to see, and a dinosaur crowdsurfing at Radio City Music Hall is one of them.

After some more weird moments involving wigs and beer and spit, he performed “Watching Him Fade Away” for his glum farewell of an encore. He had the crowd sit down for this one last moment of coming down from the exhilarating night, and it was an emotional way to tie up the show. As I exited the masterpiece of a venue (the captivating paintings on the walls only contributing to my state of awe), I already brimmed with nostalgia as well as a slight contentment. After shows, I never know what feeling will strike me next—crestfallen because it’s over, pleased because I had a good time, or a mix of both. I decided it was the latter. A gentle wistfulness.

On the car ride home, I recollected: “We have a show at the Bowery Ballroom tomorrow night,” Mac had announced in between songs.

“Was he joking?” I asked my friend Stephanie.

“No—it’s online.”

No more wistfulness. Just determination.

I’m going, I proclaimed.

In fact, I had plans in the city the next morning. It was perfect.

Planning it all on the long ride home, I stressed about one factor: buying the tickets. Mac DeMarco would sell out Bowery Ballroom in seconds—I was sure of it.

So when I got home around 12:30am, I printed out pictures of my AP psychology textbook, I charged up my portable charger, I stole some 20s from my own stashes of money. I thanked god that I received my paycheck literally that day—I prepared myself to blow it all. The next day would be the spontaneous adventure I was aching for.

Anxiously shaking my leg as I stood on the train platform at 9:59am, my right thumb hovered above the refresh button on Ticketfly, ready to take action. 10:00am: leg shakes uncontrollably, finger presses down with all its might, Danielle mutters crazed gibberish to herself, peculiar noises leave her lips as she navigated her way through the ticket buying process like she had never done it before, and finally, the tickets are acquired.

The weight in my chest finally releases after residing there ever since the night before.

Alleviation spreads throughout my body; I laugh to myself as I pace back and forth in victory.

Just ten in the morning and I already spent an entire paycheck on the two tickets. I felt a thrill—I, a soul of many impulses, was finally following through with one of my self-indulgent ambitions.

I bought my ticket and interpreted the mechanical sound of my 20 dollar bill being swallowed by the machine as the theme song of my generous spending on myself. Penn Station: I’m coming.

September 23rd, 2017 could be classified as the Longest Day of My Life. I could tediously ramble about my fifteen hour day in the city—but what kind of concert blog would that make me? I’ll sum it up for you: I met up with my friend Jake at Grand Central (after getting lost because I made the mistake of relying on Google Maps for directions), we made a friendly visit to Uniqlo where he received the devastating news that they didn’t sell the one item he dragged me there for, we parted ways, and I ambled down the busy streets of NYC on an hour expedition to the venue. I’d reach the general area way earlier than I needed to. I tiredly scribbled my psych outline in a cute (and, more importantly, air-conditioned) cafe, I took a nap on my table to restore the energy I was lacking severely, and then I took more walks.

Enough digression.

At 5pm, I found myself on a stroll to the Bowery Ballroom at last. I could only aimlessly explore the neighborhood for so long in such sweltering heat—and why not just sit lazily outside the gig if it means getting a close spot?

Well, I’ll tell you why: 85 degrees. No shade. Directly in the sun like I was its specific victim.

Let’s just say the first hour of waiting was the most brutal. I didn’t think I would make it—but in front of me on the line were six or seven teenagers who had been there for hours before me. They persisted, thus so would I.

When the sun gracefully descended behind a building, every single problem in my life dissolved. Like the moment “Order Processed” appeared on my phone’s screen that morning, a similar sensation of relief washed over me. I was ready to see Mac DeMarco again. I barely knew him, but, in that moment of pure decadence, Mac DeMarco symbolized my getaway. My well needed deviated version of a night out; my first escapade from my house in a while. “Yep, I’m at Dan’s house!” I would say when my mom called me, asking if I took the 2pm train home like I originally planned the previous day.

Considering the show started at 9pm and there was an opening act, I knew I was—excuse my French—fucked. My normal curfew revolved around 11pm and making it home by then would be actually impossible unless I left before Mac went on. Whenever I found myself in a situation like this, I shrugged it off—sometimes you have to take the L. This time I knew it’d be worth it.

Jake met up with me around 7:30, and by this time the line had been let into the venue but lined up outside out the doors to the ballroom. I let my backpack fall from my shoulders to the floor and I took a seat at the bar to lay my head down and close my eyes. I suddenly regretted all the walking I did—and what was to follow? More standing! Woohoo!

Jake, however, brought a more eager attitude with him as he sat next to me and playfully kicked me as I swung my legs back and forth absentmindedly. “Is there gonna be a mosh?”

“What, like, is a mosh?” “Are people gonna be smoking weed?”

After reclaiming my spot in the line a few minutes before 8, I expected the doors to be opened slowly and single file lines to form. I was wrong.

The doors were opened, and one thing came next: a goddamn race.

I’ve tripped up the stairs while sprinting to physics before, I’ve given up on jogs because I’m out of breath after the first fifteen seconds, but for Mac DeMarco, I earned Runner of the Year. The track team would kill for me: faster than the speed of light as I rushed up the two flights of stairs as Jake puzzledly yelled behind me, and then like lightning across the ballroom until my body crashed into the stage.

With my arms stretched out on the stage like I was giving it a pathetic hug, I embraced its closeness, I relished its level at my waistline, I wanted to kiss it and tell it I would never leave it. I praised myself for waiting outside long enough to achieve that spot.

“Why is everyone crowding around the stage?” Jake asked from behind me, laughing to cover up his confusion.

I gave him a bizarre look before remembering that he had never been to a concert before. This would be a weird first concert, I thought. And I still had no clue what it would be like—seeing him at a large scale venue I assumed wouldn’t even compare to seeing him at an intimate surprise show. Seeing him in a seated setting would be nothing like seeing him in an all standing setting. Though I had been in a Mac DeMarco crowd the night prior, this room didn’t hold thousands of people in an organized, even fancy, fashion—this was the Bowery Ballroom, and it was just that: a ballroom. With a capacity of right below 600, the crowd grew as 9pm neared and I remained unsure of what the energy at a general admission Mac DeMarco concert would be like. Do people actually mosh to Mac DeMarco? Even though I was right up against the stage and approaching another nap, I hoped there would be. No matter where I am, no matter who I’m with, no matter how feverishly tired I am, I am always wishing for a mosh.

Complaining incessantly until the ballroom sunk into a darker shade and the crowd responded with overwhelming cheers, I was about to endure what would be one of the strangest moments of my life. I had never heard of The Garden before nor had I bothered looking them up, but I presumed they were some typical indie band with a calm set to which I could rest.

Oh boy, how wrong was I.

Bass-heavy music blared through the speakers and reverberated the room. Out skipped two jokers—faces caked in white paint, one clad in yellow tights and the other in a yellow and purple romper type of outfit (I’m honestly not sure how else to describe it) and both with jester hats atop their heads. My hand habitually met my forehead in the concerned What-Kind-Of-Mistake-Did-I-Make gesture and I felt the crowd begin to morph into more of a mob as everything happened at once.

In utmost disbelief, I maintained my spot against the stage by literally never letting it go throughout the entire atrocity that was their performance. And I use the word ‘atrocity’ as a compliment—I believe that The Garden aim to put on the weirdest show you’ve ever been to, with their laughable getup, unorthodox dancing, morbid melodies, and questionable props (including a fire extinguisher which I was grateful was neglected). The crowd reacted with a fervent energy I didn’t understand then and I am still yet to understand. For a Mac DeMarco concert, the audience sure did know a lot of the words to The Garden’s music. By the third song, I accepted the fate of a bruise on my right hipbone, which I would later discover was the size of Australia. “Is this a mosh?” Jake questioned as he got pushed continuously from right to left and often into me. “Yes!” I yelled back. “WOOOO! I LOVE THE MOSH! I LIVE FOR THE MOSH!” Jake hollered and reveled in the violent movement.

Gradually adjusting to my frantic surroundings and abandoning my attempts to nap, I bopped my head and swayed around a little and mostly laughed. “You want the scoop? Yeah, we gotchu baby!” The Garden repeated in a distortedly low voice. Soon enough I couldn’t help but sing along to the increasingly catchy words. I watched as the drummer threw his drumsticks into the air and then proceed to catch them without messing up the rhythm—“I wish he would juggle me like that,” Jake yelled.

Finally, when the time came for The Garden to leave the stage and for the stage crew to start setting up for Mac, I was fully awake and anticipating what was to come next. “What did you think?” Jake asked me regarding The Garden’s set. I told him I wasn’t ready to talk about it yet—I had never been in such an ambivalent position before. Especially while waiting for Mac DeMarco to emerge on the stage right in front of me.

And when he did, with his magically nonchalant bubble of his, my eyes widened and I probably mumbled admirations to myself including phrases like “wow” or “oh my god” or “jesus christ”—I felt like a disciple coming face to face with God (if God wore dad hats and socks with cute little patterns on them). His presence sent wavelengths of pure joy and shock to everyone within the premise and no one could hold themselves back from responding insanely, loudly, and zealously.

I felt “On The Level” resonate in my body another time—like a more intense and sensational mimic of the night before. The lights drenched Mac in red and purple and blue soft blurs as he moved slickly to the beat—simple maneuvers with his feet stepping to the rhythm and his body following along naturally. His voice matched this physical expression of carefreeness—he crooned with ease, like singing came easier to him than speaking did. Within these first few seconds, he established the ultimate paradoxical atmosphere of sedateness and exuberance. You wouldn’t think such an unlikely clash would feel so euphoric.

Next, the crowd was transported into his album, onto which I place the honor of calling his best album, Salad Days, with the song you’ll never be able to guess…: “Salad Days.” Being such a different song due to its playful rhythm and higher pitched vocals, I took interest in its quirkiness—especially live, as the crowd danced along carelessly and shrieked the “la la la la la”s as if the song didn’t sound silly enough already. While this may have been a highlight for me because of its catchy melodies and fun ambiance, I don’t hesitate to critique Mac for not playing more songs from Salad Days (besides for the essential “Chamber Of Reflection,” which is coming up soon so stay tuned). I harbor no other complaints pertaining to the setlist besides for the lack of material from, as I said, his best album. But anyway.

“No Other Heart” and “This Old Dog” both stuck out as the perfect sulky acoustic songs for which I endlessly applaud Mac. During T.O.D., apparently a couple had been holding up a sign inquiring if they could slow dance on stage. After reading it, Mac obliged by requesting that everyone make a path for them to get up onto the stage. I watched as first a man in his 20s (don’t quote me on that) hopped up and then took his girlfriend’s hand and pulled her up too. Mac said something along the lines of “I better see the slowest dancing I’ve ever seen in my life.”

As if the two minutes and thirty one seconds of “This Old Dog” didn’t suffice to encumber my heart the first night, I prepared myself for a sequel to that moment of pure heartache. It felt right the first time when he serenaded the audience hundreds of feet away from me, and it felt right when he lulled just a few feet away from me. I watched as the couple slow danced on stage and the crowd cheered them on and made suggestive noises whenever things got a little spicy (including Jake who blurted “fuck on stage!”). It all made the song feel even more wistful and bittersweet.

“Ode To Viceroy,” one of the more memorable songs for me at the time, I deemed a song that was made to be performed live—with its vivacious guitar riffs and distinct drum beat. It was moments like these that inflict pure nostalgia on me as I recollect how carefree I felt, carrying no worries about anything (not even about work the next day or my mother blowing up my phone) and only focusing on losing myself in the music and cherishing my closeness with Mac and appreciating it all with Jake next to me. The second I stepped through the doors of the Bowery Ballroom, I left behind everything in the past and in the future. I was teleported to a strange gap in time.

Of course, I shouldn’t have been surprised when Mac began repeating the line “makin’ my way downtown” over and over into the microphone as the music of “A Thousand Miles” played in the background. I had watched a video of him performing this parody (I guess I’ll call it that) before because Stephanie had sent it to me, and again my hand met my forehead as I tried not to loathe Mac for his peculiar obsession with this meme and memes in general, but I still laughed and thought about how lucky I was to experience such a thing firsthand.

After that interlude of creative humor in the form of a song, Mac proceeded to play some of his greatest stuff. “Freaking Out the Neighborhood” had me hooked and now I can’t listen to it without associating it with the lively vibrancy that overtook the room. “My Kind Of Woman” was again performed slower than the recording, one to which someone might dance provocatively on the stage—and a teenage (again, don’t quote me) boy in a yellow Adidas shirt and a pink dad hat seductively swung his hips to the beat with suggestive facial expressions. He didn’t hesitate to drop to the floor and implore the audience with his gestures when Mac sang, “and I’m down on my hands and knees, begging you please, baby…” Performance art reaches its peak at Mac DeMarco concerts.

Finally, we arrive at the iconic “Chamber Of Reflection.” There is not much to be said about this song—you either feel it or you don’t. And I felt it before the show, actually way before the show; it had been one of the Mac songs I had known from a time so long ago that I don’t even remember how I found it. I felt it again when I listened to it again a myriad of times the week before the concert and recognized its comfortable familiarity. I felt it when Mac sang it on the exact polar side of the venue from me. I felt it when he sang it within my arm’s reach. I feel it now. And if I must be limited to just one consistency, let it be the way this song makes me feel.

A whole lot came after that. Bombarded with more of Mac’s weird antics after the eleven o’clock mark, I grew concerned. When he jumped into the crowd, when he climbed onto the balcony and spit on the crowd (to which Jake responded, “he should be spitting in my mouth!”), when he tiptoed along the rim of the balcony, when he jumped off the balcony back into the crowd. At this point, I questioned the reality of it all. I mean, it was nearly the middle of the night and it was beginning to resemble my nonsensical dreams. It also didn’t help when Jake handed Mac one of the brownies I brought (...I get hungry at concerts) and he accepted it, probably assuming it was a pot brownie. Reality boggled my mind.

Mac again ended the show with “Watching Him Fade Away,” telling the crowd of 600 to take a seat just as he told the crowd of 6,000. My phone had died so I slouched against the wall in the back with my phone charging in an outlet, gazing at the surreal sight—it was the most intimate and heartfelt a show could possibly get. No one disobeyed or interrupted as Mac sat down himself and sung to the hundreds perched just below him like he were a teacher reading a story to a kindergarten class for story time. The sight filled me with contentment and peace—the kind that makes you smile but also makes you want to cry. But I don’t know. That’s just me.