There’s something fundamentally off about seeing Mac DeMarco on a soaking-wet evening in November. His slacker-rock catalog is built for hazy afternoons and sun-drenched loafing, after all. He’s one of the few artists who plays better in an easygoing festival slot than in a standalone show. With Storm Claudia rolling in and the rain absolutely pouring, we silently thank the powers that be for our Doc Martens as we dodge puddles on the way to the venue.
The Prospect Building—a former Ministry of Defence torpedo warehouse—was taken over last year by promoters A Man About A Dog (AMAAD). Since then, it has undergone a £500,000 overhaul, turning it into a cultural hub for music, markets, comedy, boxing, and more. The 3,500-person venue is sold out, and more than 400 hopeful fans are still scrambling for tickets on resale apps.
Thirteen years after his debut, Mac DeMarco’s imprint on indie music is unmistakable. His trademark guitar tone and woozy melodies continue to shape a new wave of pop, psych, and lo-fi artists. And while he’s still relentlessly productive—touring behind this year’s Guitar—it’s the stretch from 2012’s 2 to 2017’s This Old Dog that locked in his status as one of the 2010s’ defining figures.
Which is why it was a jolt to the system to walk into the venue and find a sea of Gen Z fans packed shoulder to shoulder. And so began my “old man yells at cloud” evening.
I was well aware of the digital currency that 2014’s Chamber of Reflection” held. Thanks to TikTok, that trippy little number pulled in over a billion Spotify streams. It was so surreal that an artist in his mid-30s had an audience that was about 90 percent under 25. Fair enough, good tunes endured, and it was great seeing new generations latch on. But then came the roar: an endless wall of chatter, the kind you usually hear in the foyer after a show.
When supporting act Tex Crick took the stage, the roar didn’t let up. A natural fit for Mac’s laid-back charm, the Australian delivered melodic piano pop that wouldn’t have sounded out of place on an easy-listening station. Unfortunately, it was a problem for the thousands who simply wouldn’t stop talking. I assumed I was stuck in a particularly chatty pocket, so I moved—five times. No luck. There was no escaping the gossip, random screams, and general student nonsense.
I started observing the crowd like a zoologist. Maybe the Prospect’s cavernous warehouse was just bouncing the sound around. But I’ve rarely heard such disregard for a supporting act—or for one’s own wallet. It was fascinating, in a maddening way. Could COVID really have wiped out all forms of public etiquette for younger people? Maybe I’m just an old-ass millennial.
Luckily, Mac DeMarco’s arrival completely shifted the energy. The roar that greeted them was deafening, and it was instantly clear the crowd genuinely knew his back catalog. In a world as turbulent as the one we’re living in, there’s something undeniably comforting about Mac’s intimate, cozy pop textures.
They opened with “Shining,” the first track from his latest record. Thankfully, the repetition that could feel heavy on Guitar was softened in the live setting. The performance carried a welcome vitality, with new songs sliding effortlessly among the older, more blissed-out moments. In the end, Mac was all about the vibe, and this set created it with zero effort.
Fan favorite “On the Level” went down a storm, while the twee catchiness of “Salad Days” sparked a predictable sing-along. Chatter still lingered in pockets, but the mood leaned toward giddy excitement. It became clear that for many, this was one of their first real shows.
Mac was in hilarious form throughout—attempting terrible English accents, conjuring demon voices, and fumbling early when he nearly called Bristol “Birmingham.” The stunt automatically earned a wave of boos.
For half the set, he stuck to pure vocals, letting his band carry the trademark melodies while he focused on singing, which sounded better than ever. “Now, I’m gonna make a deal with y’all. If you shake yours… I will shake mine,” he said, pointing to his ass before sliding into one of his groovier cuts.
And so the night drifted by. Outside, the rain pounded down, but inside, the venue glowed with a welcome burst of color on an otherwise bleak night. Mac and his band moved through 25 mellow numbers as The Prospect Building’s column lights and back screen bathed the room in shades of purple and blue.
For a brief moment, I thought I had lost faith in the purity of live music. Then Mac’s charm pulled it back from the brink.
