Mac DeMarcoās gap-toothed grin is the greatest advertisement for his music, personifying both its childlike charm and mischievous essence. Born in 1990, DeMarco (nĆ© Vernor Winfield McBriare Smith IV) wasnāt necessarily predestined to become indie rockās reigning king of chill; he first came up in Vancouverās late-2000s DIY scene making a spirited, foot-stompinā racket with garage band Makeout Videotape. But after relocating to Montreal and signing with the Captured Tracks label as a solo artist in 2012, he began to apply the pervading gauzy aesthetics of chillwave to traditional indie guitar-pop tropes, yielding a funhouse-mirrored version of the classic singer-songwriter archetype. Seen from one angle, DeMarco is the consummate slacker, extolling the virtues of morning cigarettes (2012ās āOde to Viceroyā) and lazily watching the world go by (2014ās āSalad Daysā) as he coasts atop a lattice of mercurial guitar jangle that serves as his swimming-pool floatie. But seen from another, heās a master craftsman and keen observational writerāin the mold of his heroes John Lennon, Harry Nilsson, and Randy Newmanāwho can deceptively coax profound sentiments from seemingly mundane scenarios, while his increased affinity for tastefully twangy guitar leads posits him as a millennial Mark Knopfler and certified dad-rock revivalist. As his star has risen, DeMarcoās records have only turned more musically simple and emotionally complex, whether heās pondering his estranged relationship with his father on 2017ās campfire-bossa-nova serenade āMy Old Man,ā or diving deep into existential malaise via the amiable cowpoke amble of 2019ās āNobody.ā But his increasingly refined approach has not come at the expense of his relatability. As he said to Apple Music, āI think the DIY mentality is an important one, especially at my level, to put across. Iām overweight, Iām going bald, I brush my teeth only once a day, I canāt really play my instrument. But look, Iām enjoying myself. You can do it too.ā