There’s a particular sense of nagging dread when one’s favorite musicians cross over. Not “sell out” mind you—though on this night Mac DeMarco did sell out a stinking, sweaty Skully’s in his first Columbus appearance—but instead become a symbol of momentary cool for not just oneself, but for everyone. DeMarco has always embraced the everyman role, only in secret. The effortless woozy jangle of his songs is the zeitgeist, and it transferred perfectly in front of scads of grooving millennials into a soundtrack for the good times. There’s nothing wrong with that, but it was hard not to mention Jimmy Buffet or Phish under one’s breath in reference to DeMarco’s goofy pied-pipering. The guy was pissing into the mouth of babes—and quite literally spiting water  into the mouths of those smashed up against the stage—and they were lapping it up.

I could never wish the Canadian-born, Brooklyn-teethed savant to stay secret forever. His rich, quixotic discography already warrants obsession and allegiance. I’m now more curious as to what Rube Goldberg–like apparatus vaulted him into the spotlight in the span of half a summer? Attribute it to the absolute death of irony. Nothing is sacred, everything is hip—no matter how insufferably unhip something might appear. With an overly competent band surrounding him (his guitarist was positively ripping at every corner), DeMarco’s “jizz-jazz” had chameleonic powers. They could be a breezy beach band on “Let Her Go” or dope-riddled county fair classic rock dinosaurs on “Rock and Roll Nightclub.” They could even play brunch jams equivalent to Steely Dan on “Freaking Out the Neighborhood” and do a heartfelt cover of Coldplay’s “Yellow.” The latter became a dead serious sing-along, again, without a hint of irony. What was not nostalgic was pure novelty, but neatly tucked under DeMarco’s hyper po-mo facade. Clad in a Simpsons t-shirt and play-acting like the periphery misfit in every John Hughes flick, his shtick was so achingly infectious you could probably add another “post” to post-modern were you writing a thinkpiece.

About halfway through the set, he launched into “Picking Up the Pieces.” The dubby, synth-driven confection must be the hit because at that point the buzz was palpable. Post-chillwave? Whatever the case, it was difficult not to revel in his simple genius, furled brow and crossed-arms be damned. DeMarco was playing bait and switch. For every Sublime-tinged jobber he tossed out, he’d reel in the natives with something resembling Ween in their shape-shifting glory days (“Salad Days,” “Brother”) or the grotesque beauty of Ariel Pink (“Chamber of Reflection”) broadcast with the confidence of the boy most likely to succeed. It was the true portrait of a young artist who is just getting warmed up.