An ice queen who doesn't melt in disco infernos, Miss Kittin
delivers deadpan lines (You know Frank Sinatra? He's dead
) in an exotic, yawn-smothered accent. On record, her voice drips with ennui, even as she sets smutty scenes in limousines. It's the aural equivalent of the inexplicably intriguing bored-model pose. Working with new-wave revivalists Felix Da Housecat and the Hacker, this established minimalist-techno DJ earned a new rep in the electroclash scene as a detached narrator, the polar opposite of the dramatic dance diva. I.Com
, her 2004 solo debut, proves that her talents transcend monotone moonlighting. Her beats thump and snarl like live animals stuffed into suitcases, and her vocals make even inscrutable lyrics sound suitably trashy. Live, Kittin drops the jaded persona, her entertainment instincts flashdancing back to her days as a French pole dancer. Her concerts re-create the most compelling elements of the pop-star world that her songs satirize: huge hooks, outlandish costumes (a leather catsuit, a rubber nurse's uniform) and a spotlight-devouring stage presence.