By Steve Weinstein
By Bryan Bierman
By Lindsey Rhoades
By Chaz Kangas
By Ben Westhoff and Sarah Purkrabek
By Jena Ardell
By Jesse Sendejas Jr.
By Katherine Turman
Consider that both duos are led by men who pretend to be robots. Wearing a cyborg mask is a theatrical trick; it must be played with tongue firmly in cheek or it comes off as cloyingly as mime. Air's pretensions to mechanicalness are neither fully formed nor entirely intentional. But Daft Punk had a precedent. Their earliest incarnation was an early-'90s lo-fi outfit called Darlin' that released a few singles on Duophonic. To some degree this made them protégés of Stereolab, the semi-Gallic masters of recycling cheese into cool. The Lab made friends with tackiness because they recognized the genuine pleasure in being insincerea delicate pastime, since it depends so much on an audience understanding the joke. Juxtaposing feigned amateurism and antique synthesizers against Marxist dogma and poststructuralist theory, they suggested connectionswith a smirk. Mass culture respected Stereolab's brand identity, but wouldn't sit still for so obscure an in-joke. Lose the philosophy, it demanded. Keep the dopey Moogs.
Like good apostles, Daft Punk replaced Marxism and guitars with dancefloor Zen. Having learned from their elders how to turn a bad stupid idea into a good stupid idea, they now only appear in the media wearing shiny Robocop helmets and cybergloves. At 26 and 27, Thomas Bangalter and Guy-Manuel De Homem-Christo must be too young to remember how exasperating it was when the Earons wore the same costumes for the same privacy-preserving reasons in 1985. Dumber still, they're feeding the press lines about "showing their new robot skin," and explaining that they were accidentally transformed by a studio accident on December 31, 1999. In other words, they're the only victims of the Y2K bug. Household names would seem ludicrous in 'droid drag; on personalities as unfamous as DP it looks silly at best, and at worst like a promotional gimmick for their CD-ROM/Internet marketing strategy, Daft Club. Happily, from Discovery's human foibles you get the sense they know exactly how full of shit they are. Their 1996 debut Homework's most memorable quality was its ability to induce a migraine before the seventh track. Excited to be the first Franco-discophiles to exploit the power of bass, DP turned it up all the way and set the kick drum at the tempo of a harsh cranial assault with a copy of Les Miserables. They called it Homework because it was recorded in Bangalter's house, but it was music made for raves. The Neanderthal beats, obnoxious synths, and repetitive contenttry saying nothing but "around the world" for seven minutescould all be packed up and removed at the first sight of a gendarme. To listen end-to-end was to defy the liquefaction of your gray matter. Daft Punk played house music like Arnold Schwarzenegger played the Terminator.
Despite the cyborg getups, Discovery is a more complicated, human record. The closest Homework ever got to subject matter was a list of "Teachers" (mostly DJs, but Brian Wilson too), and forget musicianship. On Discovery, the bionic duo attempt a little classical concertino in the middle of the instrumental "Aerodynamic," and again in "Veridis Quo." "Digital Love" rips off a catalog of '70s AOR: Doobie Brothers guitars are interrupted by a Supertramp electric piano riff with a Rick Wakemanesque solo in the middle; it has a funky companion in the tender slow-jam "Something About Us." The hit "One More Time," with house veteran Romanthony as guest automaton, remodels Kool and the Gang's "Celebration," not that the accompanying Japanimation video illuminates any connections. Herbie Hancock might get jealous of "Harder, Better, Faster, Stronger," a virtuosic vocoder-and-keys motivational romp. In the four years between these two albums, the Punks have become talented keyboardists and begun taking pleasure in more complicated song structures. Tired of constant bass, for variety they'll solo the mids to produce that filter-disco AM-radio EQ that François K. made a Body & Soul staple. Enthusiasm, inspired silliness, and craft abound on Discovery. And if the second Romanthony collaboration, "Too Long," gets old before its 10 minutes are up, you can't say you weren't warned.