I so wanted to write that “Nothing in their career became them like the leaving of it”. Daft Punk, the electronic music pair, retired last week with a message that was, comme d’habitude, wordless, faceless and sumptuous. But their career became them quite enough, thanks. Over three decades, the Parisians took a problem — how to infuse synthetic sound with feeling — and solved it to the tune of six Grammys and legion sales. When Emmanuel Macron hosted Donald Trump for Bastille Day, the army band struck up a medley of their hits.

Lasting success is rare enough. It is the retention of mystique all the while that distinguished Daft Punk as precious beings in a chatty age. Headgear — first masks, then chrome helmets — meant their “public appearances” fulfilled neither word in that phrase. Naked-faced, Thomas Bangalter and Guy-Manuel de Homem-Christo can ride the metro undisturbed in their own town. (Imagine Adele on the Northern Line in London.) There is likely to be no-one more fa...

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