An Intimate Night With Mac DeMarco

Mac DeMarco stood alone in a rusted gazebo in the center of the Music Box with a wide, lopsided stance, cigarette dangling at the corner of his gap-toothed grin. The sharp November wind rustled the trees around him. “Everyone remembers where they were when Michael Jackson died,” DeMarco reminisced, out of the blue. “I was in the shower, had a good cry.” Hordes of jean jacket-clad Millennials surrounded him, giggling. After the brief anecdote, he digressed: “Anyway, this one is called ‘This Old Dog.’”

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