Whether all this is evidence that DeMarco is that rarest of things, an artist who genuinely doesn't care about success, or of something rather darker and wilfully self-destructive, is an intriguing question.
On another occasion, mercifully unfilmed, he apparently disrobed again, before offering an alarmingly literal interpretation of the slacker aesthetic he's frequently painted as being a spokesman for, by quite literally standing around with his thumb up his arse. And nor does he act much like a man interested in capitalising further on his modicum of success: "The shows are going to be sold out," he shrugglingly offered, "so I'm going to get fucked up." This explains the audience-shot footage on YouTube, in which, while performing a version of U2's Beautiful Day that sounds like the end of the world, DeMarco strips naked, tucks his penis in between his legs in the manner of The Silence of the Lambs' serial killer Buffalo Bill, then stuffs a drumstick up his bum. "I was like, what the fuck?" he said, on discovering that one of his UK shows had sold out: anyone requiring confirmation of his low commercial expectations might note that the venue in question was a basement in east London with a capacity of 250. Nor does he sound like one, constantly protesting his bafflement at the surge in popularity that followed the release of his second album, 2012's 2. One journalist, obliged to speak to DeMarco while seated in a King's Cross doorway so the 23-year-old singer-songwriter could chain-smoke, became increasingly concerned that passers-by might think that, rather than interviewing a hotly tipped new artist, he was pestering a rough sleeper. He certainly doesn't look like a star in the ascendant. O ne should, of course, be wary of judging someone's character based on a few interviews and YouTube videos, but nevertheless, it's hard to avoid the feeling that Mac DeMarco may be a man ill-equipped for fame.
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