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His voice still gravelly with sleep, DeMarco introduces himself and extends a hand. Stubble staggers across his jaw and chin.
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In a distressed Sublime t-shirt and trunks, Mac DeMarco, trailblazer of indie rock, the gap-toothed frontier of the DIY music scene, bizarre stage antics legend, saunters out from the hall barefooted, a tired grin dribbles up his cheeks. She lets me know Mac will be out in a second, “Here Comes the Cowboy” still barreling through my head. The kitchen is whitewashed and bright, ornamented with long-limbed plants and garage sale trinkets. She is enveloped in a grey cherub hoodie, has smile like a gust of wind, and soft dove eyes. Once I reach the house, sweat studding my blouse, the door flings open, and I am greeted by Kiera. “Here Comes the Cowboy” is throbbing in my head the beat synchronizes with each step.
Mac demarco this old dog rip full#
I am trudging up a street that is endless, feeling like a pack mule dragging itself up the side of a mountain, saddlebags full of stones. It is the kind of heat where you sweat behind your knees and between your elbows, and I wish for handfuls of wind. After the show we all loitered around the stage, taking swigs of something that stings and rambled about how when he plays, his bones look light as eagles.įour years later and it still feels like the desert, Los Angeles to be exact. Failed magicians, frat boys and surfer bros, a fistfull of atheists, herds of psychedelics, Instagram influencers, skater chicks, and many more have trekked miles to see him. His voice was barbed with a Canadian twang. Each pluck of the guitar lassoed our hearts, with a beat tough as raw-hide, a cigarette dangled from his lips. The cowboy had a gap-toothed smirk, a silver bullet smile. On stage, he towered above the tumbleweeds of fans, as we stampeded to the crack of his voice, ricocheting like a shot from a winchester rifle through the valley. I first saw the cowboy in the heat of the Coachella Valley, so dry it chaps your lips to sandpaper.