Mac DeMarco
Birmingham O2 Academy
Saturday 8th November 2025
Amiable slacker brings his sleepy but superb balladry to a heaving Birmingham. Caps, fags, moustaches and mullets abound. Sam DeLambeth reviews.
Jesus, the queue is long. It’s almost like Covid times when people were standing in line for hours to get a loaf of bread and some Andrex. Only this time, this crowd all look the same. Head to toe in Carhartt. Vintage clothes that probably cost more than pre-owned stuff. Some have mullets, some have moustaches; those that have completed the evolution have both. Everybody resembles a surly mechanic, or like they’ve just come off a shift landscaping. Passers-by probably think the O2 Academy is hosting a convention of farmyard labourers.
It’s a cult. It’s an aesthetic. It’s the Mac DeMarco train, and it’s rolling back into Birmingham, and his zealots has strapped on some dungarees, rolled up a few fags and are now in a line in the freezing cold. Once inside, it’s packed to the gills with these hillbilly types and their beaus. One fan tells a story about his dad losing his virginity in a voice so loud that even the balcony has stopped to listen. Another set of fans openly mock another punter for daring to read a book in between sets. It’s all pretty immature and dickish, but then again, aren’t these the cornerstones of Mac DeMarco’s live act?
The last time this writer saw the Canadian crooner back in 2017, he got pissed and did a 15-minute version of A Thousand Miles mixed with There She Goes. Then he tried to shove some cigarettes into his arse crack. The crowd lapped it up, making it clear they were here for the zany sloppiness as opposed to the musicianship.
But the drinks and the fags were from a bygone era. DeMarco is pretty much straight edge these days, so the chances of the gig descending into debauched frivolity look unlikely. When he steps onto the stage, it’s as no-frills as the audience’s sartorial choices. There’s no walk-on music, and his four-piece backing band – ably led by topless bassist ‘Scorpion’, who looks like a cross between Johnny Borrell and Har Mar Superstar – are all close to the front of the stage. In fact, they’re so compact you could probably fit another five-piece band behind them. DeMarco himself is dressed suitably, looking like an eccentric side character from Twin Peaks or Gilmore Girls.
The vices may have gone, but DeMarco is still, in the words of one audience member, a “pretty weird dude”. At some points, he’s barking in an odd Scotch-English accent, while at another, he’s jerking his body around like a frog that’s been hit with a cattle prod. By the time he starts warbling a ditty about Ashby-de-la-Zouch and doing handstands mid-song, he gives off the vibe of a guy you invited to your stag do cos he seemed a laugh at work, but you’re now deeply regretting your choice.
DeMarco is pretty damn good at sequencing a setlist, though. A friend once told this writer the best way to make a playlist for a stranger is to have one song they love followed by a song they don’t know, and repeat ad infinitum. It’s pretty much the formula DeMarco applies here – for every new cut from latest album Guitar, there’s almost immediately a stone cold classic to prevent anyone from going to the bar (not that they could, for it’s so damn busy most people can’t even jiggle around to retrieve their phones).
DeMarco expressed a desire to really strip everything back on Guitar, but tonight the embellishments give them fresh energy. Shining is a lugubrious reflection on the confusion and wanderlust that can often infect long-term relationships. Phantom’s suitably dark, brooding aura is provided by a mercurial, slippery bass line. Rock N’ Roll lives up to its name, DeMarco’s strident and supple falsetto bolstered by dissonant riffs and pounding drums. Meanwhile, Punishment and Home represent DeMarco at his best – muted, reflective melodies augmented with shaggy, inward-looking songwriting.
In truth, though, DeMarco has long been a tortured soul beneath his merry jester exterior. Even his ‘jizz jazz’ classics, such as Salad Days and Passing Out Pieces, both of which go down an absolute storm, bear the lyrics of someone deeply troubled. Another One takes a lingering look at infidelity to the throbbing melodies of late-period John Lennon. The synth-heavy On the Level and Heart to Heart ache with longing. All the way through, DeMarco – weird dude though he may be – sings commendably and professionally. “We’ve played a lot of songs tonight, and they’re all sad,” he correctly decrees at one point.
And that’s the interesting thing about DeMarco. While his vibe has been the chain-smoking, beer-loving rabble rouser, his music is anything but. It’s easy listening, it’s jazzy, it’s bluesy, it’s lounge-y. It’s clean and crisp, while DeMarco’s voice is wry and soothing. Maybe if Jack Johnson had taken up smoking rather than surfing, he’d have an army of young fans clutching him to their bosom right now.
It’s been on the cards ever since 2017’s This Old Dog, but tonight is further evidence that the beer-swilling, charming buffoon of old is gone and Mac DeMarco has truly grown up. As parts of the audience laugh at a particularly deadly fart and try to loudly find the culprit, however, it looks like most of his fans aren’t quite ready to do the same.
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Mac DeMarco can be found on Facebook and via his website.
All words by Sam Lambeth. Sam is a journalist and musician. More of his work for Louder Than War is available on his archive.
Photos by Robert Barrett. Find out more about Robert’s work via his website.
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