Words by Oliwia Pelc
Mac DeMarco is an artist many people first encounter in late adolescence, and I was no exception. His blend of dreamy synths, jangly guitars and offbeat humour shaped a very specific feeling of that time – a hazy mix of drifting around, falling in and out of love, questioning everything and nothing, and taking life slightly less seriously than you probably should. Even when he touches on existential themes, like in Salad Days, he does it with a lightness that keeps things playful rather than heavy. That surreal, warm and oddly sincere quality is what’s kept his music alive for me years later, which made the chance to see him again feel unexpectedly full circle.
Of course, despite all my excitement, I ran late. I rushed into the venue, sweating, heart pounding, ready for the usual pre-concert chaos. Instead, I caught Tex Crick mid-set. Crick’s gentle, conversational singing style alongside warm, minimal arrangements settled me instantly. The music felt quietly joyful and unhurried, light-hearted in a way that almost felt nostalgic and the room reflected that calm. The usually bustling crowd was chill and attentive, captivated by the softness of the set and the nimbleness of his band. Crick and his musicians created such intimacy and cosiness that it felt like being in a 70s elevator, or maybe late at night in someone’s bedroom.
What struck me early on was how mixed the crowd was. Down on the floor there was a busy blend of twenty-somethings and teenagers - the kind of audience you'd expect for someone whose music still resonates so strongly with that stage of life, and whose tracks have found a second home on TikTok. But the stalls were even more varied: groups of friends, older fans who’ve clearly loved him for years, a few people who’d come alone, and even a family sharing the experience together. It felt like every version of a Mac DeMarco listener was in the building.
This intimacy carried into Mac’s set, which began with bassist Daryl Johns walking out in nothing but pyjama bottoms. From there, everything remained casual and down-to-earth, with no sense of theatrics for theatrics’ sake. Mac came across as unapologetically himself, focused on being present and building a genuine rapport with the audience. The night was relaxed, but far from boring.
The set was fun and dynamic, spanning early classics and newer material, including “Shining” from his August release. There were bursts of energy, like during “On the Level”, when the whole venue swayed to that unmistakable synth riff. Softer moments revealed his tenderness too, especially during the heartfelt performance of “Still Beating”. And whenever he put the guitar down, he slipped into his chaotic, endearing mode - dancing around the stage and pretending to fence his bandmates. The crowd matched him completely, shouting jokes and declarations of love; when he teased about buying a house in Brighton, "Whitehawk!” erupted from the crowd.
When the band stepped offstage, it didn’t feel finished, and the crowd clearly agreed. They came back out for a final performance of Shining, this time with the house lights off at Mac’s request. The room swayed together under hundreds of phone lights. It was an unexpectedly beautiful way to end the night.
Leaving the venue, I realised how naturally Mac bridges who I was when I first heard him and who I am now. The night never tried to be profound, but somehow it was in the same soft, strange, comforting way his music has always been. It felt like revisiting an old friend and finding they still make you feel at ease.