After four days of hanging out in the unventilated rectangle, my eye started twitching persistently he calls this “smoker's eye.” “In Canada, we call this ‘the Indian hot box,’” says DeMarco, who grew up in Edmonton. For the past few weeks, he's been toiling on his third solo record in this space, recording every instrument on the record while chain smoking about two packs a day with the door closed.
Fruit flies hover around a full Viceroy-brand ashtray. There aren't any windows.Ī month previous, after returning to New York from an extensive tour behind his breakout album 2, which included some arena gigs opening for Phoenix, DeMarco went to the store to stock up on everything he needed so he wouldn't have to leave this room. His room is maybe 15 feet long, and rumpled-up clothes and a five-piece drum kit take up at least 90% of the walkable floor space. There's just enough clearance for his door to open, though sizable chunks of wood usually chip off whenever you close it. In the hallway, there's a baby doll with demon wings hanging from the ceiling, twine tied around its torso. He points to a cluttered box of a room on the left, says it's his, and tells me to make myself at home while he takes a piss. He's got a mustache and scraggly facial hair in that nebulous zone between “five o'clock shadow” and “actual beard.” He's wearing the hat he wears all the time, the one with the patch on it. The 23-year-old comes to the door looking and sounding like he's been up all night-eyes drooping, not really smiling. It's late October when I walk up to Mac DeMarco's home studio in Bushwick, Brooklyn, where the creaky iron gate outside never seems to shut all the way.
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