Is it all an elaborate practical joke? Mac DeMarco, at Hackney Empire, reviewed

It’s not just who our pop heroes are that marks the passing of the generations; it’s how those heroes present themselves. Kevin Rowland, who turns 70 next week, appeared on stage for his London album launch in a jaunty sailor’s hat and striped top, looking as though he’d just come from a fashion shoot. Mac DeMarco, aged 33, ambled on in baseball cap, shlubby T-shirt and jeans. Rowland was upstanding, commanding and just a little forbidding. DeMarco sat on a stool and told a long story claiming that he and his keyboard player had been Oregon miners: a story which extended to include coprophagia, hair fetishism and maple syrup. Rowland is total commitment; DeMarco is total detachment.

Both were adored above and beyond the usual level of dedication. Rowland’s crowd was heavy on men of a certain age who are fond of headgear. DeMarco’s was much younger, and dressed like him. But at both shows there was the sense of being among people who were watching not just a singer, but a teller of elemental truths. Which, as a man well into middle age, I found troubling when what I was hearing about was coprophagia, hair fetishism and maple syrup.

In truth, I’ve felt a little wary of DeMarco since 2015, when as an editor I sent a young woman writer to interview him, and he conducted the whole thing in his underpants. When she returned to the office, the word ‘creepy’ was used. For the record, I am not accusing him of anything other than not understanding the importance of trousers in the workplace, but I do think trousers very much have their place in the interview setting.

DeMarco’s generational appeal appears to be based on the dichotomy between his nothing-really-matters persona – claiming his failures for himself, as virtues – and the surprisingly heartfelt sweetness of many of his songs.