Daft Punk is playing my head, MY head ... and they're not leaving.

Daft Punk is playing my head, MY head ... and they're not leaving.


Usually when I see a show that really blows me away, the initial impact is stunning, and then fades to a fond moment or two in my head. Certain things can spark the visceral re-enactment of a single moment, such as the tear that ran down my cheek at a Flaming Lips show, seemingly spurred by the mixture of sirens, lights, and vocal tone during "Lightning Strikes The Postman." Or the time I almost broke down in a friend's kitchen in college listening to "Under Pressure," a song I'd hear a million time before, but from that moment never heard the same again.

There were no tears involved when I watched Daft Punk a few weeks ago, but I did walk away from that show with an entirely new inner relationship with the band. No drugs were involved, and to be truthful, the full impact of their show was lost on me until I ventured out and submerged myself in the middle of the crowd in order to convey an honest account, sans the usual disconnect suffered between most critics and the audience they write for, of the performance of two robots atop a pyramid. And that simplicity does in fact capture the heart of the show, but it does no justice* to the full scope of the physical presence of the volume, and the stunning glory of the images interlocking and propelling that volume across a field packed with rapturous voices and bodies joined and worhipping in union with the almighty beat.


And I'm kind of exaggerating, and kind of not. At the time, that's not precisely what happened -- for instance I know for a fact not everyone walked of that field impressed -- but as far as my internal monologue is concerned, the show has expanded over the past few weeks. When I see video of the performance, something in my chest tightens and I feel nostalgia for a time far further gone than a single month, and I realize that Daft Punk did do something incredibly special with their performance. And I still can't put my finger on it. And it still doesn't make sense, especially since, for all we know, those two guys sat atop that pyramid and did nothing more than hit "play" on a CD player.

But all attempts to make empirical sense of an event that touches are doomed to fail, and why would one want to strip away all of the mysticism surrounding such an event in the fist place? Personally, I know I've grown used to watching the music, and performance, and dissecting everything involved with it in an attempt to make sense of the experience for people that weren't there, or haven't heard what I've heard, yet. Every once in a while it's a relief to encounter something that can take those filters, decimate them, and allow something unadulterated, possibly mythical, past the gates.

*Alternate definition of "justice" is "a band whom, more apparent now than ever, owes their entire career to Daft Punk." See, I just can't help myself.

Top photo by Calbee Booth for Time Out Chicago
Bottom photo of the band in Düsseldorf by AndiH