Deadmau5

The day after I watch him at work, Deadmau5 plays a concert downtown, to be broadcast live on Canada’s MuchMusic cable network. The venue is small, with about 400 Deadmau5 fans ”“ girls in party dresses slightly outnumbering boys in sweatshirts ”“ cramming in. Many wear glowing plastic mouse ears for sale in the lobby, but a handful sport heads they made themselves. Alex, a burly 22-year-old student, tells me that the papier-mâché job he’s wearing took a month to construct.

When Deadmau5 takes the stage, he wears his current favourite helmet (he has six) ”“ its face is one big LED screen, wired to flash images in time with the stage. Several of his mouse heads are air-conditioned and have screens within them, displaying software interfaces. As his music roars, fans bop up and down rapturously, holding smartphones, taking pictures.

At the end of the set, they deliver a spirited rendition of ”˜Happy Birthday’ ”“ Zimmerman turns 30 in a few hours and, even though he didn’t make an announcement or anything, they all seem to know anyway. He comes out of the cube, doffs the helmet and, waving his skinny arms like a conductor, beams. Backstage a few minutes later, Zimmerman says, “What the fuck is that?” Someone from his label ordered a cake topped with a basketball-size Styrofoam mouse head. “Is that edible?” he asks, poking it. Zimmerman’s mother is here, as is his older sister, Jennifer. His mom is a first-class doter. She gives him an alarm clock made from translucent glass, so you can see its inner workings ”“ it’s a gift she’s passing along from someone else. “I told her how you used to take things apart as a kid, to see how they work,” his mom explains. Joel plunges his hands deep into his jeans and, eyes trained on the floor, retreats into the shell he cracked momentarily during ”˜Happy Birthday.’

After some cake, Jennifer says goodbye and goes for a hug. Joel leans into his sister and, looking the other way, mutters, “See ya.” (It’s not a rebuff, his mom says: “That’s just the way he is.”) He suffers through some photos with label folk and other assorted well-wishers, responding to their small talk with as few words as possible.

“You going out after this, man?” one of them asks him. Zimmerman doesn’t pantomime jerking off, but you can almost see him consider it. He shakes his head, frowns and says, “I’m going the fuck home.”