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Given its huge achiever and indeed the hullaballoo that surrounded its release – the snatches of it dropped into ad breaks during Saturday Night Live, the rapturously-received premier of the video recording at the Coachella Festival – there ’ s something appealingly low-key and unassuming about Get Lucky itself, peculiarly in the context of current pop music : no vocal pyrotechnics, no chorus signposted by a huge instrumental breakdown, and – a abruptly collapse of vocoder digression – none of the sonic trademarks of Daft Punk records that have subsequently become the sonic trademarks of noughties pop ( “ gimmicks that didn ’ metric ton used to be gimmicks, ” as Thomas Bangalter wryly described them ).
On an album packed with exalted sonic gestures – episodic tracks that lurch from electronics to Broadway showtune to high-camp disco to balladry – there ’ s nothing flamboyant about Get Lucky ’ s sound at all, just a sequence of small, subtle pleasures : the way Nile Rodgers ’ distinctive guitar weaves elaborately around the electric piano, Williams ’ colloquial “ look … ” before the first base bridge. Its solicitation rests about wholly on its melody and an insistent hookline. The scale of its success – five months after its publish in April, it had sold 7.3m copies – felt indicative mood of a wind-change in pop. surely, there appears to be something telling about the fact that the two biggest singles of the year – Get Lucky and Blurred Lines – had nothing to do with the formulaic rave-pop that ’ s exerted a stranglehold over the lead 40 in late years. In their aftermath, anyone cling to the honest-to-god blueprint – whether it was Lady Gaga or Jessie J – on the spur of the moment looked a bit déclassé : pop stars, producers and songwriters might have to try a spot harder in future, which was Daft Punk ’ s point all along. “ Let ’ s raise the legal profession, ” Williams had sung, cockily. Get lucky punctually seemed to do precisely that .