If you're the type who's noticed Pitchfork's gradual ideological shift away from considering indie rock the de facto center of the musical universe, you've probably also cottoned on to Daft Punk's unique standing within that world. Revered in DJ circles, respected on singles charts, and still the dance act you're most likely to hear at an indie party, Thomas Bangalter and Guy-Manuel de Homem-Christo have retained an improbable portion of their life force over the years-- despite being flogged alongside the likes of Fatboy Slim and the Prodigy at the altar of electronica in the late 90s, birthing videos arguably more iconic than their songs, and keeping the most leisurely release schedule this side of Kate Bush's home office.

Maybe there was something to the presentation. It seemed so gimmicky at first, a couple of hams in robot masks, mugging for the camera. That corny French sensibility was conceivably one misstep away from a drippy house remix of "Also Sprach Zarathustra" or "Popcorn" or "The Pink Panther Theme". What we didn't realize was that it was designed for longevity. Whether in the splashy logo or the robot packshots, each ensuing Daft Punk release has arrived with only slight variations on the theme. But now, almost a decade later, is there another dance act from the "120 Minutes"-era that doesn't seem downright anachronistic in 2006? Norman Cook's Hawaiian shirts, Tom Rowlands' yellow specs, Keith Flint's bald-hawk and jackboots-- all aspirational rockstar images that run counter to dance music's needs by drowning it in nostalgia and making it difficult to locate in the here and now. In comparative terms, Daft Punk have little of that attendant baggage. They are now exactly what they always have been-- something less like people or rockstars and more like complicated engines. Their machinery is their songs, and beyond that, there is nothing.

Despite its stuffy title (we'll get to that later), this greatest hits collection actually picks up in 1995, which is when Daft Punk started releasing the string of 12s that led up to Homework, their 1997 debut. It's probably still their best-known era, and Musique features no fewer than six tracks from it, including the underrated title song as well as no-brainers like "Da Funk" and "Around the World". You've heard them, you love them, and you probably don't really need them on another disc, but strung back-to-back like this, they're still pretty overwhelming.

So far, so good. Here's where it gets inexplicable. Of the remaining tracks here, only six are originals, which means a criminal three from 2002's Discovery (full disclosure: this is one of my favorite records of all time) and a criminal (for different reasons) three from 2005's Human After All (full disclosure: Discovery is one of my favorite records of all time). Not only are "Aerodynamic", "Voyager", and "Digital Love" (!!) snubbed in favor of 2005's "Technologic" and "Human After All", but slam-dunks like "One More Time" and "Around the World" appear as inferior radio edits. It doesn't help that three very capable but ultimately immaterial Daft Punk remixes (of tracks by Scott Grooves, Ian Pooley, and Gabrielle) are lamely tacked on to the end. Not only do they take up real estate that would have been more wisely earmarked for Musique's glaring omissions, their curious inclusion suggests higher-than-ordinary levels of label involvement.

In other words, small potatoes conspiracy theorists who believe Daft Punk intentionally shit the bed on Human After All so as to accelerate their split from Virgin will have no shortage of material to work with here either. Assembled chronologically, with thoughtless deference to proper singles over tracks and an undiscerning ear for Daft Punk's actual best work, this is a maddeningly incomplete record that has all the hallmarks of a contractual obligation. What saves it is the cumulative thrill of hearing a decade's worth of Daft Punk singles in sequence and once again realizing they're a better act with two-and-a-half albums than most are with five.