He my brother mac demarco
Discovered on the road and distilled at home, the music conveys experience and subtlety, scars exposed to carry the chronicle. The music, the music, the fucking music. On Sorcerer, the brothers chart a heavenly course above the storm and stress, one explored over years of touring and a poetic language forged between performers and siblings.
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Sorcerer offers three long form depictions of Tonstartssbandht's boundless spirit; ambitious noise rock narratives buoyed in a swampy sonic scene of delay, distortion, and virtuosic interplay. The album displays larger lyrical concepts within the framework of a guitar and drums duo; Andy's guitar and vocal loops creating a cascading sheet of interpretative reverb and future melodies, Ed's high-stakes drumming divided every which way but loose, a deep canvas of cohabitating sounds. Recorded live in the living room of Le Wallet, the affectionate name of Andy and Ed's former Bushwick, Brooklyn apartment additional vocals were added after a move back to their hometown — and present dwellings — of Orlando, Florida , elements of the environment Sorcerer was captured — a water heater's hiss, a passing cop car siren, the rumble of the train — bleed in and out while the music fills the room to reflect its very shape.
Lyrically shaped by relapse, recovery, and lost relationships, the brothers' harmonized voices and trademark glossolalia shade the songs of Sorcerer with a beautiful, unsettled subtext. A desirous unmaking of design happens across the three album parts, eventually recovering and cohering as an earnest, honest experience.
Andy and Ed never halt their working pace, and never cease to stroll the path they've invented despite the challenges at hand. Intentionally striving for and then subverting self-sabotage, weathering the storm they've summoned, Sorcerer is the romantic abstract of this invented space and the individual's relationship with that space. It is raw and flawed, but brilliant and real because it is intentionally so.
This is Tonstartssbandht at the height of their song — and story — craft, channeling pure motion and emotion through a soulful filter at the speed of sorcery. Witness the incantation and let the spell take hold. There are currently no videos. Sometimes, his entire body heaves, on the beat, from side to side.
Cover Story: Mac DeMarco | Features | Pitchfork
DeMarco's got just a few more days to finish three more songs for what will be his most scrutinized album yet, Salad Days. When he talks about what he's got left to do, he runs his hand through his hair which then sticks directly up , his eyes glaze over a little, and he sounds exhausted. His slumped-over presence is a sharp contrast to his public persona, though he's not humorless. He sounds beleaguered as he talks about his fanbase, which ballooned over the past year.
Before 2 came out in late , DeMarco was playing sparsely-attended shows in person capacity rooms, but he just sold-out an upcoming set at Manhattan's Webster Hall—that's 1, tickets. He's concerned that his new songs, which he describes as negative, may put off some fans. Agnes doesn't remember that. DeMarco's year-old brother Hank, who's currently studying ballet in Calgary, says that whenever he took a bath between the ages of 8 and 17, Mac would unhinge the lock and come into the bathroom to annoy him.
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When I speak to DeMarco's friends, they struggle to offer specific childhood stories—there are just too many. Still, Alex Calder, a member of DeMarco's old band Makeout Videotape, can't help but recall one of the many times when he woke up with Mac's bare penis resting on his face. When DeMarco was in high school, he and his friends would hang out in Agnes' garage and play blues jams, which eventually led to his first joke bands. He pissed off a lot of girls with that band. But everyone always just called him Mac. Though his parents never married, when DeMarco was five, Agnes gave his dad, Mac III, an ultimatum: pay child support in the next six months or the kids legally take her last name.
The money never came. There's a video on YouTube where they meet up in a parking lot before a show in Santa Ana, California, last year. Mac III hands his son a beach hat—the kind dads wear—but the overall interaction is palpably tentative; he doesn't stay to see the show. When I stop by DeMarco's apartment again the next day, his girlfriend is home.
Naturally, she has a very durable sense of humor. Once again, DeMarco looks like he's about to fall over. It's after 9 p. And then do two more. I've always loved you. Last summer, they moved away from Montreal, where they had a bigger apartment and a much more domestic lifestyle. They decided to try Brooklyn, eventually finding the small room in their current apartment, dubbed The Meat Wallet, alongside experimental and psychedelic bands including PC Worship, Tonstartssbandht, and the Dreebs.
From the hallway, you can hear their roommate Pat Spadine, the composer behind Ashcan Orchestra, blaring noise music. But while their tight quarters offer a very intimate kind of tobacco-stained sanctuary, DeMarco's rise has affected his relationship with McNally, too. Last year, he was on tour for 10 months, with very few breaks in between. At one point, the pair went more than 90 days without seeing each other. The increased attention paid to DeMarco's music also means there are now pictures and videos of the couple together online.
He reiterates that Salad Days marks the first time he's written songs that are so personal. It's Saturday when DeMarco appears at the Wallet's gate with a huge smile. He's shaved his face except his mustache and changed his clothes for the first time all week. Come on in! I'm done! He woke up watching videos on YouTube. He's happy. As he gets ready behind the drum kit, I find myself in the role of de facto engineer.
Midway through a good-sounding take, he stops and tells me to rewind and hit reset. While he drums, he's incredibly focused. His eyes are closed, his hat backwards, a cigarette dangling from his bottom lip. His ash is about an inch long, just precariously teetering until it finally falls onto the snare after the chorus.
Is Mac DeMarco Growing Up?
He makes it to the end of the song and then listens back briefly. That's not something I am.
Fuck that. The purpose is to reflect on what you've done in your life already and move on from it. The next time I visit the Meat Wallet is three months later, in January, and this winter's never-ending snow is coming down hard outside. Some things haven't changed—the demon baby still hangs in the hallway, DeMarco is in the bathroom when I arrive—but his room has become more efficient and cozy. The drums are gone, the guitars are up on hangers.
A rod near the ceiling now offers a place to put shirts and coats. There are clothes on the floor, but it's a manageable pile.