If the electroclash movement did anything besides get a bunch of gawky people laid, it nourished the liberal vertical marketing of electronics through the sediment of music. That fief's unintentional yet nevertheless influential royal Miss Kittin takes its latent notions to heart and foot for I Com, her solo debut. By 2003 a mostly full-time Berliner, Kittin collaborated for the record with that berg's Tobi Neumann and Thies Mynther, producer dudes who have files on both Chicks on Speed and Peaches. This feels right, as Kittin has cut a solo rug that's informed by the Chicks' newsprint clothing art beat futurism and dyed in Peaches' sexy muddy juice, but is drier and droller than either, and cooler than a night on the town with the universe's most hippest kid. She's always been smart, this one called Kittin. But with I Com, she has winnowed her dueling personas -- brilliant techno-inflected DJ and haughtily self-aware vocalist -- into a fantastically complete, wildly inventive package that offers the lunatic best of both badass sides. "Professional Distortion" splatters guitar distortion over clicking rhythms and rap detachment from the woman herself; "Requiem for a Hit" drops salty lyrics ("Um, excuse me, would you mind to...pump?") on a peppery beat, before getting all naughty over lite rock plinks. But I Com isn't all about the dancefloor. "Happy Violentine" is a coldly functional valentine, a blippy Teutonic take on Björk's odd bird emotion poetry. "No love is part of the job," intones Miss Kittin. "Switch me in a standby mode/Until someone presses play." "Allergic" and "Clone Me," too, sound like electronicized versions of shrill post-punk detachment, while Kittin's old pal Hacker appears for "Soundtrack of Now," I Com's Detroit techno interpretation. The album's production is strong and the beats are varied and inventive throughout. But Kittin's album truly excels in its darkest, weirdest moments. The seven-minute-plus "Dub About Me" is unsettling in its extrapolated, minimalist rhythms -- its dark shadows steadily coalesce into a demonic lover built from blown circuit boards. Best is "I Come.com," where Kittin becomes the robotic voice of Wi-Fi feminism, daring you to take a trip through her wires. Careful -- the essence of Siouxsie Sioux is haunting your Blackberry. In the end, none of I Com is really techno -- it's technique. The best bits and pieces of the post-everything genres have been rearranged in a newfangled data stream to represent Miss Kittin's very elusive, entirely accessible muse. The alluring result is cool, reloaded.