In 2008, it was weird to watch thousands of American festival-goers — kids who had only moments before been watching Vampire Weekend and Hot Chip, who had all but ignored Amon Tobin way out there on another stage — watch what amounted to a couple DJs. It was weird to see San Francisco’s Treasure Island explode when Justice took the decks; even weirder to watch the sweaty, neon mess of humanity stay rapt — not just interested, but moving; not just moving, but freaking the fuck out — for well beyond an hour. These were the early days of America’s pseudo-mainstream love affair with dance music and DJ culture. Justice, for all anyone knew back then, was the future.
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