“One More Time” built a whole world out of the horn fanfare from Eddie Johns’ 1979 disco-funk obscurity “More Spell On You.” The late New Jersey house producer Romanthony, a hero to Daft Punk, sang gospel-informed party exhortations through the same kind of early Auto-Tune filter that Cher had just used on “Believe” while drum-machines skitter-thumped and aqueous organs sighed. In all those places, “One More time” had the same effect. I heard it in big clubs, at weddings, in downright-disgusting DIY punk venues, in someone’s kitchen while maybe five people were sitting around drinking wine. “One More Time” was an instant serotonin-rush floor-filler in absolutely any context. I don’t think I can properly convey the feeling of hearing “One More Time” in a group of people during that stretch. Since Daft Punk had the best videos, nobody much cared what they looked like.įor a good solid year and a half after the release of Discovery, when someone would play “One More Time” in any kind of communal setting, shit would get wild. Their singles wormed their way into your brain and stayed there. Daft Punk, on the other hand, made vast, thumping, insistent house tracks, sculpting huge hits with minimal material. Fatboy Slim was the face of the shameless, repetitive hard-partying subgenre known as big beat. The Chemical Brothers specialized in starry-eyed psychedelic odysseys, sometimes with rock stars along for the ride. The Prodigy made druggy, punky droog music, and they had a frontman who looked like a villain’s henchman in a post-apocalyptic action movie. Like everybody else, Daft Punk had a gimmick. The duo’s debut album Homework came out amidst the 1997 electronica gold rush, when labels and critics were convinced that faceless dance music would be the proverbial next grunge. Once upon a time, Guy-Manuel de Homem-Christo and Thomas Bangalter were dorky DJs who spun records at clubs or even at sprawling Midwestern open-air raves. Daft Punk didn’t always wear the helmets.
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