Mac DeMarco Mellows Out Marathon Music Works

There is a collective head trip in Nashville at the end of spring, when the thickened air makes everything feel like a dream. Every evening at twilight, the sky in the west fades from a bright orange to a cool violet, eventually turning to a deep indigo at the eastern horizon. This was the ideal setting for the block-spanning procession of dad hats, mom jeans and other assorted semi-sarcastic sportswear amid which The Spin found ourselves Wednesday, waiting for Marathon Music Works' doors to open for an evening of mellow jams courtesy of Canadian psych-popster Mac DeMarco.

DeMarco’s tourmates, the incredible Tonstartssbandht, are certainly the sort of act that gets us to the party early. In addition to being the most impossible band to text about without disabling your autocorrect, the Orlando duo play a style of sample-heavy effervescent psychedelia that has just a touch of krautrock and John Cale. Each song felt like a brilliant puzzle being assembled in front of our eyes. Andy White (who's also a guitar wiz in Mr. DeMarco's band) and his brother Edwin stacked layer after layer of effects pedals and various whirring electronics until the cloudy cacophony seemed about to burst. Though a lot of the crowd seemed disinterested in the obtuseness, the space-jam set was a good trip into the far-out, and it put us in a great headspace for Mac’s fuzz-pop vibes.

Ahead of Mac's set, the main hall began to fill up with stragglers, so we moved to higher ground to get a good view. That’s when we realized just how popular the Great White Northern indie star has become. From a staircase at the back of the room, we looked out into a packed house, the crowd's anticipation simmering on a low boil. Every time the lights on the empty stage changed color, frenzied fans burst into screams and applause. The whole affair looked and felt more like a big festival performance than a mere club gig.

In heavy times such as these, it makes sense that the Edmonton, Alberta, native would inspire such mania: DeMarco’s airy light-rock jams make us think of the shadowy buoyancy of ’80s sophisti-pop, albeit rebranded for the Urban Outfitters demographic. At its highest energy level, DeMarco's sound could be compared to Spandau Ballet or Orange Juice in the way it blends New Wave and smooth jazz. The plodding pace of the vocals makes DeMarco’s voice feel like one long, drowsy exhale. His melodies seem immune to the gravity that holds the rest of us to this planet, as if his guitars and synthesizers are floating freely through the cosmos.

The DeMarco faithful were fully revved-up when the band took the stage and nonchalantly prepared to open with the cult hit “Salad Days.” The bouncing audience knew every word, singing along at the same volume as the vocals coming out of the enormous overhead speakers. DeMarco's slack-paced synth psych is snagging 20-somethings by the collars of their Hawaiian shirts, and to his credit, DeMarco has fully inhabited his role as a star. His feel-good aura spread through the room like a pandemic of smiles, making us all feel like the dude onstage was our gap-toothed buddy.

The festive mood continued to build throughout the night, pristinely performed songs broken up with hints of goofy banter. Mac gave a shout-out to Bolton’s Spicy Chicken and Fish, while aforementioned guitarist White apologized to Music City for spreading his vegan farts all over Centennial Park earlier in the afternoon. A fan threw a rolled-up beach towel onstage (and even one bra), and there were clap-alongs and occasional crowd surfers. DeMarco fired up a lighter during a ballad, inspiring watchers to wave their Zippos, Bics and illuminated phones in response. If we hadn’t looked up to see a ceiling, we’d have easily been convinced we were in a field in Manchester, Tenn., or Indio, Calif.