We love Miss Kittin, we do. We think she rox. We think she knows how to fuck up Detroit bigstyle and smack Prince round the face till he stops being such a Purple twat, and make him thank her for it. We think how Miss Kittin behaves is how people should behave. Badly. And technotossers are redeemed by Professional Distortion. And ditzy wannabe electrocrappers should stop growing rubbish 80s haircuts and listen to this album, cause if there’s one thing Miss Kittin don’t do, it’s try too hard. She doesn’t have to. She writes beats and creates streetwise slithery DogPop with b-lines and brawn and occasionally shows us that wide-open vulnerability is as vital and visceral as virulent heartsteppin’ sin-sharing.
This is why we love Miss Kittin. Miss Kittin’s dangerous. And Honest. Miss Kittin starts songs with lines like ‘show me your tits and let’s make a hit’ and loops groans over pure 4floorfuckinpumpery. Cause it’s blippy n bleepy n hip n hiphop and raps and sings sweaty and sweet attitude of sheer independent energy. Of neural giddiness and cerebral edginess. Of what real Bitches do at 3AM. They live. Properly. We love Miss Kittin. So should you.