SUNDAY

What came first, the Sunday morning or the need to escape it? I'm thinking about this at mile two, somewhere between "Bright" and "Colours," when the nu disco bassline becomes the only honest conversation I'm having with myself this week. Fourteen tracks of shimmering synths and French house-influenced grooves that sound like optimism feels when you don't trust it yet.

Here's what nobody tells you about nu disco: it's post-punk's emotionally available cousin. Same DNA—driving basslines, metronomic drums, that relentless forward momentum—but it actually believes things might work out. Daft Punk understood this in 2001. Chromeo built a career on it. Now you've got artists like Champyons and Daffodils and LUEK making tracks that sound like Saturday night convinced Sunday morning to give it another chance.

Top 5 Reasons Nu Disco Is The Perfect Soundtrack For People Who Overthink Their Runs:

1. The basslines are relentless but never aggressive—they pull you forward without making you feel like you're running FROM something for once.

2. The 110-120 BPM sweet spot matches your easy pace exactly, which means your brain can't use "wrong tempo" as an excuse to quit at mile three.

3. French filter house production (that Daft Punk/Stardust lineage) creates this shimmer that makes 7 AM feel less like punishment and more like possibility.

4. Vocal samples are chopped and looped enough that you're not processing full sentences—just vibes, which is all your brain can handle before coffee anyway.

5. It's music that takes itself seriously without being self-serious, which is basically the emotional state you're aiming for on a Sunday run you know you should want to do.

I keep coming back to how these tracks sequence. "No Applause" opens without asking for validation—just starts. By "Roaming in Paris" you're in that zone where your legs have stopped arguing with your brain. "Summertime" and "Weekend Friend" hit mid-run when you need something familiar but not tired. The whole thing flows like someone actually thought about the experience, not just the BPM.

Barry would hate this. Too polished, too optimistic, not enough suffering. Dick would nod quietly and mention some obscure Parisian producer from 2003 who did it first. Me? I'm just trying to make it to "Silhouettes" without stopping, and these shimmering four-on-the-floor tracks are getting me there.

There's something about nu disco that matches the Sunday morning runner's dilemma perfectly. You're out here voluntarily, which feels virtuous, but you'd rather be in bed, which feels honest. The music splits the difference—upbeat enough to keep you moving, melancholic enough to acknowledge that yes, you're running to clear your head about something, and no, it's probably not working. The bassline doesn't judge. It just keeps going.

"Sunroof" hits around mile eight and I realize what this playlist understands: Sunday runs aren't about training or fitness or any of that. They're about stealing 40 minutes before the week starts destroying you again. The music knows this. Those filter sweeps and disco strings aren't trying to motivate you—they're just keeping you company while you figure out why you needed to leave the apartment in the first place.

I had a regular customer, comes in every Sunday afternoon, always asks what I ran to that morning. Like the music choice explains something about how you approach the week. Maybe he's onto something. You could run to aggro punk and arrive angry. You could run to singer-songwriter stuff and arrive sad. This? You arrive at mile fourteen having temporarily forgotten what you were anxious about. The music just shimmers and grooves and refuses to let you wallow.

"Shampoo Bottles" and "All Yours" in the closing stretch—these aren't victory lap tracks, they're more like acknowledgment. You did the thing. The week is still coming. But for 40 minutes you had a bassline and some French-influenced house production and the illusion that forward momentum solves problems. Sometimes the illusion is enough.

What I keep thinking about is how nu disco emerged from disco's wreckage—took the optimism, added self-awareness, kept the groove. It's music that knows the party ended but shows up anyway. That's basically the Sunday runner in a nutshell. We know the run won't fix anything. We know by Tuesday we'll have forgotten this virtuous feeling. But we lace up anyway, press shuffle, and let the shimmering basslines pretend with us for a few miles.

"Are You OK?" near the end feels like the playlist finally asking the question you've been avoiding. I don't have an answer. But I have "Mexico" closing it out, all sunset synths and filter house warmth, suggesting that maybe not having an answer is fine. The music doesn't fix anything. It just makes the not-fixing feel less lonely. That's what good playlists do. That's what Sunday morning runs are for.