Dallas Gets a Beautiful Breath of Air at the Band's Fair Park Concert

The austerity held for only so long.

As the lustrous opening song — the nearly eight-minute instrumental “La femme d’argent” — reached a plateau, drummer Louis Delorme excitedly waved both hands at the audience, an enormous grin splitting his face.

The unexpected gesture elicited an equally ecstatic response from the capacity crowd inside the Music Hall at Fair Park.

At a glance, such spontaneity would not have necessarily been expected. At the stroke of 9 p.m., the lights dimmed and the three musicians who would compose Air Tuesday night in Fair Park — Delorme, Jean-Benoit Dunckel and Nicolas Godin — strode to their spots inside a long, narrow white box tucked at the foot of the stage.

Each musician was dressed in spotless white attire, and their instruments — save the guitars and basses — were likewise neutral.

It was a severity that belied the humanity within. Air was making its first North Texas appearance in more than 20 years, and its first appearance in Dallas in 26 years. (The band ceased extensive touring about seven years ago, but even before that, the French ensemble largely confined its stateside appearances to major festivals and the American coasts.) Dunckel and Godin were men of few words Tuesday, confining their remarks to gratitude for the audience: “We are so happy to play for you tonight,” the long-locked Dunckel said early on. “Thank you.” (If the sum total of speech from the stage exceeded 50 words, we’d be stunned.)

Not that any sort of extended monologue was necessary — the giddiness of local fans at seeing the influential act on stage was palpable throughout the 90-minute performance. Hands leapt into the air to play piano figures long ago inscribed in memory; voices sang out harmonic grace notes and murmured satisfaction with bass lines, keyboard runs and drum fills.

Air is winding down its tour in support of the 25th anniversary of its 1998 debut, Moon Safari. The roughly 43-minute record and its 10 tracks — lush, electronica-fueled dream pop; songs like “All I Need,” “Remember” or the patently beautiful “Ce matin-la” enveloped the room like mist, rendering sharp edges fuzzy — were performed in full, with a second, encore-ish set (that ventured no further back than 2004’s Talkie Walkie) following. What comes across as more gossamer on record had a pleasing heft and crunch Tuesday — there was a vitality to the material that felt thrilling. The music itself would have been attraction enough — it is remarkable how fresh and vibrant these compositions feel a quarter century on — but the visual presentation took the evening to an unforgettable level.

By squinching the band into such a confined space, the effect, early on, was almost like watching a movie happening live before you, amplifying the music's cinematic tendencies. The musicians would move a little, but largely stayed put, flitting between synthesizers, electric pianos and other esoteric gadgets.

Easy, Breezy

With a blank canvas, however, Air applied eye-catching visuals, elevating the already intoxicating atmosphere. Shimmering stars behind, above and below the men making music for one moment; the striking evocation of a sunset during “Radian,” or the stuttering spotlights stabbing the pitch darkness during “Run” — the crisp synchronization was utterly transporting. Throughout, the audience, which frequently leaped to its feet for standing ovations, was dipped in vibes, bathed in mood and drenched in light and sound.

The Music Hall at Fair Park also, thankfully, turned out to be the ideal setting in which to behold Air’s nuanced work — the acoustics served to enhance, rather than detract from what was on display.

That sense of blissful release never abated Tuesday. While it would be easy to chalk it up to nostalgia — such is the desire for reclaiming youthful sensation that attendees didn’t flinch at shelling out an eye-watering $90 for a blue hoodie at the merch table — Air’s performance also felt tapped into a historical symmetry of a sort.

Moon Safari was initially released at a moment of relatively high cultural anxiety — in 1998, widespread handwringing had begun about the impending Y2K crisis at the turn of the century, and all the chaos it would incite. Given that, Safari’s midtempo, faintly psychedelic temperament was a welcome balm, a way to give over to the feeling of escape, if only for 43 minutes.

Tuesday, a week away from an existentially charged election that has often felt like a referendum on basic humanity, the feeling outside the venue’s doors was no less charged — arguably even more so. Twenty-five years on, Moon Safari is right on time: once again a tonic, a gorgeous masterwork that cannot help but soothe.

Indeed, to step into the vast room, set aside any gnawing feelings about the world, take a seat and be carried away by the luminous music seeping into every corner was to take a deep breath of Air, and exhale, sated and calm.