“It’s crazy, it’s crazy…” Mac DeMarco repeats softly, like a mantra he’s using to hold himself together. He’s talking about life, relationships, and that elusive figure who’s been absent for as long as he can remember—his father.
On a sunny morning in Los Angeles, DeMarco answers a phone call, still half asleep. His voice carries a mix of vulnerability and honesty, as if he’s just woken from a dream and now faces the weight of reality. He talks openly about his father’s illness, his childhood, and the many things left unsaid between them. Ever since his 2012 debut, DeMarco has painted his life with a laid-back yet sharp lens, but this time, the focus is on family—the father who was kicked out when Mac was only five.
This fractured, never-quite-started father-son relationship became the emotional core of his latest album, This Old Dog. “I never really thought about it seriously until that moment,” he confesses. “Suddenly I realized, ‘This might be my last chance to deal with it.’”
While staying at an old friend’s place in Edmonton, Mac’s hometown, his father was hospitalized, battling his illness. “He’s out now and can get around,” Mac adds, casually dropping these details like a neighbor talking about someone they barely know. But he knows this isn’t an ordinary story—he and his father have never had a normal emotional connection.
“I don’t know this man,” he says softly on the phone. “But he’s my dad. He’s part of my blood.” There’s no anger or tears, just a gentle bewilderment—an emotion often found in his music—a “I don’t know if I should care, but I guess I do” kind of feeling.
This Old Dog is Mac DeMarco’s calmest, most serious work to date. It lacks the carefree, rebellious vibe of his earlier records, replaced by quiet introspection. His signature rhythms and melodies remain, but this time, he sings not about rage or love, but about understanding.
Sometimes we think pain only comes from losing someone we once loved deeply. Mac’s pain is different—it’s from never really having had that person in the first place. His lyrics don’t say “I hate you” or “I love you,” but rather “I’m trying to understand.”
This feeling is most apparent in the slow, synth-driven track On the Level: “Carrying the name / ‘Til the end of my days / Who else can I blame?” The weight of this line isn’t in clever wordplay, but in its brutal honesty and acceptance. Yes, he acknowledges his father’s absence, but he also admits his own struggle. There’s no rush to forgive or blame—it’s the messy reality of maturity.
In My Old Man, he looks into the mirror and sees a face that increasingly resembles his father’s. “Yeah, I worry about it,” he admits. “Smoking, drinking, partying—I got all that from him. Anyone can suddenly realize, ‘Damn, I look just like my dad these days.’”
Over in Brooklyn, a young graffiti artist named Ben shares a similar story. His father left when he was 12, and they never spoke again. One day in a park, they passed each other without recognizing it. Since then, Ben’s street art has featured a single-eyed crying wolf—a symbol of his father. “That’s what he looks like to me,” Ben said in an interview, “incomplete, but always in my head.”
Mac DeMarco didn’t paint his father on the album cover, but he carved him into the melodies. He says he doesn’t see himself as a “real songwriter,” but more as a bedroom musician. “I’m not into writing choruses or bridges anymore. I just want to keep things simple.”
Maybe that’s the charm of This Old Dog. It’s not crafted to impress or to fit emotional trends. It’s a private diary, intimate but not self-absorbed. Mac even kept many first takes on the album, aiming to capture “something real I can listen to quietly.”
Don’t let his casual “I’m just messing around” talk fool you. Playing sold-out shows in London for thousands isn’t something anyone can pull off. He might joke, “Maybe I’m getting worse,” but the elegant harmonica in Wearing My Cape and the Paul Simon-esque melodies tell a different story.
The album’s final track, Watching Him Fade Away, is about a phone call he never made. “No courage to call him / Walking around like I never cared.” Everyone who’s been hurt dreams of calling that person one last time to spill everything. But when death arrives, silence often takes over.
“I did think about doing it,” Mac admits. “Then I’d think, ‘Why the hell would I?’ Things get messy.”
He says maybe the album itself is that phone call. “Maybe recording the record is my conversation. I don’t know. Maybe I’ll get some weird family calls because of it. But hey, if I didn’t make these songs, those calls might never come.”
His father is still alive, but their relationship remains unresolved. Some things he’s said through music. Some conversations don’t need words to reach the heart.
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