It’s old news, but DeMarco is no longer the goofball party animal that fans and critics idolised, best shown in his earlier acclaimed output. Ever since the turning point that was 2019’s pastoral Here Comes the Cowboy, he’s steered his creative ship to calmer waters – DeMarco has grown older, matured, and loosened the safeguards on his music. Downing bottles of Jameson on stage and being photographed bathing in cigarettes are things of the past, given he’s quit both vices. 2023’s all-instrumental Five Easy Hot Dogs succinctly displayed DeMarco’s newfound purity, documenting his road trip from Los Angeles to New York. Just months later, his 199-track hard drive cleanse One Wayne G proved to be purer for its immense scale alone.
DeMarco is in a spot where he can resign from his expectations. Here Comes the Cowboy, while challenging upon release, seems to finally be getting its flowers years later, with “Heart to Heart” suddenly surging to the top of his streaming charts. He’s on his own record label too. Such feats and securities are secondary to him though, even if he can now immediately sell out shows worldwide. DeMarco dismissing his prosperity for sparser, unadulterated music can easily be taken as performance art, but it’s simply what he wants to do. The public criticism is white noise.
That takes us to Guitar, DeMarco’s latest batch of songs in this weary style. Written and recorded in just over a week at his Los Angeles home, all his fingerprints are over it, bar mastering: “I think Guitar is as close to a true representation of where I’m at in my life today as I can manage to put to paper,” he expressed in a statement. For its half-hour duration, the formula is bare; DeMarco’s intimate riffs are accompanied by not much more than his raspy voice and tippy-tappy percussion, many songs shyly crossing two minutes.
How does Guitar stand out as an offshoot of DeMarco’s recent nonchalance? His penned words have never been so self-conscious. The record’s distinct throughline is DeMarco reflecting on his life, conveying truths, confessions, and regrets with a lump in his throat. The expected romantic lullabies remain, like the insistent “Sweeter”, where DeMarco implores for a second chance at a relationship. Yet Guitar is most interesting when DeMarco transcends such time-tested themes, like on “Nightmare” where he gives a pep talk to his younger, cigarette-burdened self: “Roll up those sleeves, boy / Smoke the whole pack / There’s no turning back from this one”. On “Rock and Roll”, memorable for its quavering solo, DeMarco plainly comments on the elation and pain he felt during his turbulent heyday: “I’m down here screaming overjoyed / But still can’t help feeling down”.
As the tracklist progresses, DeMarco travels closer towards trepidation. “Home”, Guitar’s first teaser, is more languid than “Nobody”, here accepting being unable to see his Canadian hometown as the place it once was: “These days, I’d much rather be on my own / No more walking those streets, that I once called my home”. The most eye-opening is “Punishment”, with DeMarco divulging his impetus to write music: “’Cause mama, I was told that punishment will come to / Those of us who don’t do what we’re made to”.
Perkier instrumentation could elevate the album, but brooding songs like “Holy” wouldn’t be as affecting if not for the deliberate stripped-back sound. Ultimately, with Guitar, DeMarco is working against the friction of his inescapable audience expectations to declare where he stands now: wiser and more intent, although still victim to tedium. Even so, with how much DeMarco has bettered his life, you can’t help but hope the best of his concise meditations is yet to come.
