I am into my own imagined form of holistic medical treatment when it comes to headaches. I was on a flight to Maryland last month for work, and for some reason (not even a hangover this time) as soon as the plane went airborne the back of my right eye-ball started throbbing with a piercing jab to my inner cranium. From the wisdom of the David Bowie song, when it comes to a skull-splitting headache you can fight pain with torturous, driving pain itself. As I press firmly with the dagger points of my fingertips to my temples I can drill directly to the source of the pain, a congested nerve center, and cruelly torment my tormentor with a blinding surge of blood-curdling agony. After pressing, digging, and gouging that one single focus of anguish for a beat past despair I begin to feel the thudding pulse of the veins in my wretched skull opening wide to relieve my afflicted mind.

I’m sure it’s poor form to start the second paragraph with a second illustrative anecdote, but let’s carry on with exploring pleasureable pain. Someone today told me a story about a “catheter” slipped directly into a nerve in their leg, such that a tiny, time-released droplet of sweet pain-diffusing medication could drip, drip, drip and alleviate their aching knot of nerves. There must be some irreconcilable damage beset upon that extremity that only an insidious fiber laced with synthetic salve could quiet. Sometimes digging deep to coax a wound feels so exquisitely sweet. Nevermind the irreparable damage. Just like when I would take scalding hot showers to pain through the infernal itch of that tinge of poison ivy I caught once in Louisiana.

I have been digging a little deeper into Daft Punk lately, and I’m delighted to learn that they have tendencies to jab into one’s nerve centers with relentless, repetitive electronic agitation. Normally, I would rely on Underworld, Atari Teenage Riot, Leftfield, and even a remixed Bjork for those times when I want to push through the topical discomfort of noisy techno. (“You may feel a slight pinch”). There are those tracks that seem immediately repulsive with acerbic, cacophanous repetition, but with the right frame of mind they’re inviting, warm, and corrosively engaging. It’s the stressing, piercing, inner-ear abusing auger that breaks through to a deep pleasure center. Who knew that Daft Punk, the two French high school kids wearing robot suits everywhere and showing signs of going Michael Jackson, are not just korny disco throwbacks (Discovery), but foremost know the best application of drillbit to cranium for our benefit?