Album Review: Mac DeMarco- Salad Days
So I feel like I should be the first to admit that when it
came to Mac Demarco, I was originally part of the problem. I fell into the trap
pretty easily—inconspicuously laid by Pitchfork in the winter of 2012, prior to the release of his EP Rock ‘N’ Roll Nightclub. Sharing “Baby’s Wearin’ Blue Jeans,” I listened, and was both drawn to, and
made uncomfortable by DeMarco’s post-Glam sleaze, juxtaposed with a lite FM
yacht rock jangle—the formula he pretty well milked dry on Nighclub.
Discomfort, I feel is part of DeMarco’s shtick, and
it’s a shtick has worn very thin. He dropped the sleaze, but just upped the
oddball factor on his second release of 2012, the legit full length, aptly
titled 2, and by this point, the joke
that had originally caused some minor, nervous laughter for me—well by then, I
had just stopped laughing all together.
I mean, if you aren’t made at least somewhat nervous by his
entire affect—then he’s obviously doing it wrong, or you are just okay with
someone that is kind of creepy as fuck, and may put down his guitar, kill you,
and make a coat from your skin, grinning like an idiot the whole time with that
goddamn gap between his front fucking teeth.
And now here we are, with Mac DeMarco’s third effort for the
Captured Tracks label—Salad Days.
Like, what does that even mean? What kind of days are salad days? Or do I even
want to know?
Mercifully short, the eleven songs on Salad Days clock in at a little over a half hour, which is just
about 33 minutes longer than it needs to be. And in keeping with the typical
Mac DeMarco fashion, he hasn’t grown much from the 80s inspired yacht rock, or
the slacker, lackadaisical indie slanting pop songs—a style of music he
self-proclaimed to be called “jizz jazz” at one point. The problem with
DeMarco, and Salad Days, is that
nearly every song sounds exactly the same. Like he is just not capable of any
variation at all.
In attempting to listen to Salad Days, which, full disclosure—has been an absolute chore and
burden for me—I came to the conclusion that Mac DeMarco is like Real Estate,
but with a sense of humor. But having a sense of humor doesn’t make the music
any more interesting to listen to. It’s still boring, NPR-approved indie rock,
but it takes itself less seriously. I don’t know if this kind of music is
considered a “fun” listen to some. But it is certainly not for me.
DeMarco, as much of an intentional weirdo as he is, as a
songwriter—he does deserve credit for knowing how to write somewhat catchy
tunes. On Nightclub, it was the
drunk-Elvis impersonation lip sneer of “Baby’s Wearin’ Blue Jeans.” On 2, I mean you could take your pick
between “Ode to Viceroy” or “My Kind of Woman,” because they are practically
the same song.
Here, on Salad Days,
just about every track is mid-tempo, though some of them have a little more
energy behind them. “Treat Her Better” and “Let Her Go” are pretty much the
exact same song—down to the title, even—but they are also front-runners here
for the catchiest, toe-tappiest moments, along with the slightly infectious and
mostly insipid opening titular track. There are a few new additions, musically
on here—as the record closes up, the reverb and keyboard heavy “Chamber of
Reflection” slows the pacing down slightly, and “Passing Out Pieces” also adds
some psychedelic pop synth outbursts, but overall, each song may as well be a
photocopy of one another.
The real issue with Salad
Days, and Mac DeMarco, as well as other very current and popular
Pitchfork-approved indie acts is that it is just so stagnant. This is music
that means nothing—there is no substance or depth to these songs, and they
don’t go anywhere. If you’re able to pull something out of a record like this,
then good for you. I sure can’t. It’s not that listening to Salad Days has made my life any worse,
but it certainly hasn’t made it better or more fulfilling.
Back when I was part of the problem, thinking I could trick
myself into somehow liking Mac DeMarco, I had ordered a copy of 2 on vinyl. It’s release was right
around the same time as Hurricane Sandy, and there was a long delay in getting
it sent out to me—but even if there weren’t a life threatening weather pattern,
the Capture Tracks online store was (and may still be) incredibly notorious for
being generally shitty about getting orders out to you in a timely manner.
Anyway, because of the delay, to make up for it, they sent
me a copy of the limited edition instead—blue vinyl, alternate cover art that
wrapped around the LP sleeve, Mac DeMarco temporary tattoos, etc. The works,
really. And that was sure nice but I didn’t need any of it. I think I listened
to that record about three times. Every time I’d put it on, I’d think to
myself, “Wow. I really don’t think I like this. Why did I buy this album?”
Last December, in an effort to make some quick money and to
start purging some of the impulse buys I had made in the last two years, I
traded in some records and CDs for cash at a Half Price Books in suburban
Minneapolis. This limited edition copy of 2
was one of them—and because it was a special edition, it was perplexing to
appraise by the young man helping me at the store. Months later, I went back to
that same Half Price Books and saw it was for sale for $99. I’m not sure if
anyone has bought it since then—like is there that hardcore of a Mac DeMarco
fanboy out there that needs to drop a hunnid on an LP?
Purging promo mp3s is much easier than trying trade in your
old shit for less than half of their purchase price. I highly doubt that I’ll
ever be moved to listen to Salad Days
again after this. I struggle to comprehend the audience for this, or the person
who openly admits to being a fan of Mac DeMarco. It’s just one more album
released in 2014 in a long string of albums that are sure popular with somebody,
but are excruciatingly boring and easily forgettable.
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