It appears that our favourite indie gunslinger may finally be missing the target. Mac DeMarco’s latest album Here Comes The Cowboy feels more like a lonesome tumbleweed than the spur-heeled, tipped hat hero we all hoped it would be.
With previous albums seemingly on a downward trend (depending on who you ask) the latest prior to Here Comes The Cowboy, 2017’s This Old Dog, was wrapped in vulnerability and pure emotion. This LP though feels more like Mac is just going through the motions.
There are of course some shining moments. The singles off the album ‘Nobody’, ‘All Of Our Yesterdays’ and ‘Preoccupations’ showed off Mac’s indeterminable style of laconic and loving lo-fi gold. Offering a glimpse of the DeMarco we all know and love. However, aside from the funk-led tunes ‘Choo Choo Choo’ and ‘Baby Bye Bye’, which offer an electrified jolt to the sound, the album feels like one long, slightly boring note.
Now, it wouldn’t be fair to not acknowledge that if you were looking for an album full of funk or fast-paced indie bangers then you were never going to be appeased by this album. Mac has made a name on being able to deliver a set of work which marries the hazy drawl of summer with the cold light of winter, but where this album falls down is on the delivery of that tone.
The songs themselves, when examined separately, are neither brilliant nor awful. And if you’re a Mac DeMarco fan then this LP will still stand up for you alongside his recent output. The tracks roll through the airwaves with a tempered beat, touched by Mac’s open lyricism and will be destined to soundtrack the inner emotions of adolescents, but they seem to just flop out of Mac.
There’s a legitimate argument that this album is, as they say in the business, “a grower”. The songs continue to gather warmth with every listen and we’re expecting the album to continue to find a happy home in the vinyl shelves of fans. But there seems to be a lack of effort from DeMarco.
That’s the crux of the issues with this album. It seems to just flabbily fall on to our record player. A record without real definition or haste, a record that relies on Mac’s personality and fandom over his undoubted talent. In essence, it’s far more Meh DeMarco than the Mac we had hoped would swing open the saloon doors.