After a day of personal mishaps and a less-than-lustrous week post-WOTW, my expectations upon heading out on Friday night were, to say the least, managed. I was quietly pessimistic. To my relief, the familiar Prince of Wales bandroom and delightfully apt sound system improved my mood as did the friendly coat-check crew. It was close to 1am and a rocking vibe of electro fans were already shaking their sequined booty in appreciation of the spinning skills of Toupee and Quirk. Champagne was flowing, shiny disco balls spinning. I promptly forgot about Altona and rediscovered the joys of champagne.

So, “Are electro people elitists?” Not sure but I’m pretty sure they were all there and the stray who’d stumbled in donned in a beanie and bathrobe seemed pretty comfortable, so they must be a friendly bunch after all. Don’t be fooled by the level of glitter eyeshadow and designer fragrance.

I hadn’t quite hit my straps to be tolerant of Dave Pham’s opening. Not having heard him before, I’m not sure whether that’s a trademark or a bit of self-indulgent experimentation, but the classical track overlaid with noise in excess of 3 minutes was, in my opinion, best left to the bedroom. His bedroom. And I’m an industrial fan. The dance floor emptied and only Visage’s classic Fade to Grey could coax the punters back. A steady diet of popular uplifting electro spiced with strains of Simon and Garfunkle kept them there. Funny how we can’t resist the music our parents listened to. My annoyance dissipated as Pham’s set heightened a crowd clearly ready to be heightened. The temperature soared as fans stamped their kitten heels in tribute to the forthcoming headliner and her suave companion.

A brief announcement and the crowd howled in unison as Miss Kittin and The Hacker appeared. An audible communal “Inhale”, “Exhale”. A vision in a white sleeveless zip up cotton drill dress, pigtails with disturbing monochrome Cleopatra inspired eyeliner, it’s hard to resist analysing Miss Herve’s look. Cowgirl, nurse, biker, trucker, disciplinarian or dental technician? A confused crowd projected a million fantasies on the buxom songstress. The Kittin clapped for Pham then lit up, clearly relaxed and happy. The Hacker slunk past with the hint of a smile. He’d dressed up too, in his own fashion – with more than a dab of hair product and a Chicks on Speed T. Knobs were twiddled, the Kittin rocked out, the crowd surged forward. Miss Kittin responded in coquettish French tones and that irresistible signature accent: “Melbourrrrrrrne …......... you’re …. SO …. gasp .... HOT. whisper It makes me want to just come out there and do some stage diving”. From that point, no heart was left unmelted. It must be hard to be her.

Having done the adoring Kittin fan thing at WOTW, this time my focus shifted to the oft neglected Hacker. The man intrigues me. He is clearly fucking good at what he does, and he is clearly having a hell of a time doing it, but he stands there practically motionless and emotionless. The man makes Kraftwerk seem positively effusive. Is he playing a private joke? He’s so frustratingly anonymous – like the quiet guy on the bus back in high school, the guy that served you at Kinkos. shrug I give up. In Miss Kittin’s words “He was the only man I knew with such machines and such a haircut”. An enigma, a genius.

Despite or because of their contrasts, they are clearly a winning combination. The dancefloor hopped to their back catalogue of hits. 1982, Stock Exchange, Life on MTV, Stripper ... they were almost all there, although Frank Sinatra was left so late in the piece that many were wondering whether it would be omitted in defiance. Sweet Dreams was a notably absent. “I can tell you are waiting for what is coming next” teased Caroline before coming out with Stock Exchange. Finally – “I think we will die singing this song” she said with an exasperated laugh. It’s 8 years on, they’re clearly sick to death of it now, despite it’s lasting popularity. It’s just so damned difficult to resist a woman who requests hundreds of people to suck her dick daily. They relished an unreleased track as an encore, and our ears pricked up in interest. The performance was slick, tinged with smoking, go-go-dancing and a hefty dose of too-cool-for-school attitude, Miss Kittin’s sexy reserve slipping only briefly during the outrageous banshee inspired wailing rendition of My girlfriend is a stripper. Fabulous. The crowd sighed as the set ended, satiated in the knowledge that their 2 hour dj set was imminent. Time for a refuel.

The set list did not mention an interlude, so I was entirely aurally and emotionally unprepared for the Casio man. Armed with a blue handheld Casio synth that must date from the 1970s I turned to see the Casio man in a full bendback banging the shit out of it. My brain was in a funny place right then, but he fully rocked my world with his cabaret style and sa-ka-ta theme. We were entertained with a history of Casio for approximately 10 minutes. I hope this man is introduced to Gonzales. I want to book him for my children’s birthday parties. My friends regretted not packing tomatoes. Heehee.

Miss Kittin has for some time expressed bemusement at her reputation as a singer, claiming first and foremost to be a dj. “I love playing records, it’s probably the best thing I know how to do in life.” And as she hit the decks, I got the distinct impression that we were now witnessing the “real” Caroline Herve. Intent concentration replaced the disdain of her earlier vocal delivery. Pure enjoyment replaced performance. She wasn’t doing it for us – she was doing it for her. Off came the “Miss Kittin” persona and the crowd lurched as off came the wig, in a move far more confronting than the antics of the Casio man. She was jack of it and scratched her shaved head joyously. She tried to put it on The Hacker. Well at least he loosened up a bit too. She took off her hair, he took off his jacket.

Good-bye “Miss Kittin”, HELLO Ms “Monstertruckdriver”. The cute French girl had been usurped by a fucking awesome Berlinette-femme complete with shaved head, tatts, head-banging and a nasty taste in techno. From this point, the night spun into such pure audio heaven that I kind of hope they stop playing live. With a set that showcased their technical skill, complementarity and eclecticism, each artist spent longer on the decks each time than a standard versus-set but yet fed off each other in an instinctive fashion that illustrated a decade of collaboration. They absolutely caned it with dark German precision, treating us to the likes of Kraftwerk, Nitzer Ebb, DJ Rush, Vitalic, Raumschmiere, The Hacker and a few instrumental strains of Rippin Kittin with Miss Kittin frequently holding up the vinyl in tribute to the music she loves. It was 4am, we were all tired, but hopping like mad things witnessing something really special.

An hour later they wound it up in a wave of Vitalic noise, the lights came on and artists and fans just grinned and blinked at each other. After the applause, there was just awed silence as crowd and stars smiled in the closest thing to PLUR I’ve ever experienced – ironic given the contrasting absence of fluff from last week. For those that could move, the artists were forthcoming with autographs and smiles. But a nasty security guard hastening our exit pragmatically brought my semi-religious experience to a close. It was time to head home, crank up the stereo and bring it back to the music. Oh and check out the price of flights to Berlin…