In Montreal, techno has its temples, its rituals, and its discreet priestesses. Kris Tin is one of those who doesn’t need to do much to make her presence felt. This will be evident this Friday, January 23rd, on the main stage of Igloofest.
Accountant by day, actress on occasion, DJ by night, she navigates between worlds with precision, before letting it all go behind the turntables.
Born to Lebanese parents who fled the war in the 1990s, she grew up in Cartierville-Ahuntsic, in the heart of a multicultural community. Far from excess and constant partying, Kris Tin initially described herself as someone who rarely went out. But at university, while studying finance, techno music took hold in her life, first as a reserved consumer, then as an emerging DJ.
“I like techno because when it becomes repetitive, I go into a trance. I don’t think about anything anymore. For me, it’s a form of meditation.”
Repetition as an escape, the loop as a mental space: this vision still guides her approach to DJing today. She discovered clubs, immersed herself in the scene, and quickly developed an obsession with turntables.
“I was in my early twenties, still studying. Around 2014, I became completely obsessed with DJing. Everything happened very quickly: my first gig in 2015 at Salon Daomé, then Stereo Bar… then Igloofest.”
A meteoric rise, almost too rapid. The real shock came when he was offered the opening slot for Carl Cox.
“Originally, it was the small stage I was offered. Then at the last minute they told me: ‘Actually, you’re opening on the main stage for Carl Cox, is that okay with you?’ I said yes immediately… but inside, I was in total panic.”
On stage, adrenaline and stress combine. But Kris Tin makes the choice to slow down internally and remember to be there.
“I told myself: take the time to absorb what you’re experiencing. Two hours of a set goes by incredibly fast when you’re running on adrenaline. It took me two or three weeks to come down afterwards. Carl Cox and his manager were incredible, really kind. And playing in front of 10,000 people, after only a year of practice, was surreal.”
This moment became a turning point in his career. Not only symbolically, but also in terms of methodology.
“It’s definitely in my top 5. It’s where I learned to manage my stress, to understand what it means to open a program. I analyzed dozens of opening sets over several weeks. It’s probably the one I prepared the most for.”
While her first experience at lgloofest is among her top experiences, traveling further refined her perspective on the electronic music scene. In Los Angeles, she discovered a warehouse culture that was still deeply underground. But playing in Lebanon remains a unique experience, one that she considers to be in her top 5.
“(…) But playing in your own country is truly unique. The underground electronic music scene in Lebanon is incredibly developed. Playing there is a shared source of pride. For me, it’s about representing Lebanon internationally, and for them, it’s about seeing me come back to play for them.”
Speaking of methodology, this rigor that is unique to her is also found in her very precise conception of the opening set, an art which, according to her, is often underestimated.
“A good opening is about understanding who you’re opening for.”
You study these sets a bit, you look at what they generally play. Then you consider the time, the energy, the context. Is it a daytime opening? An evening opening? An afternoon opening?
You build something gradually. If you come in too strong, you’ve missed your opportunity.
I always leave a BPM difference with the headliner, about 4 or 5 bpm less. Your goal is to ease people into the evening, otherwise it sounds like one note.
In Montreal, Kris Tin developed a love for Stereo, which became a foundational place for her and her artistic practice. There, she developed a particular passion for long sets, rare in an industry obsessed with efficiency.
A resident for several years, she first performed there as a DJ in 2017, and performs there every two to three months.
“Stereo was my place of therapy. A place where I could feel at home. Phones are banned, the employees have been the same for years. There are no distractions. That’s why it’s called “The Temple.”
And you know, playing for a long time is an art. You can create a world, a bubble. With a one-hour set, the audience doesn’t have time to fully immerse themselves in your universe. That’s the kind of thing stereo offers you; you can do four-hour sets and really lose yourself completely in it.
In 2022, she launched Playground Filth, a collective conceived as a direct response to homogeneous lineups, featuring 100% local artists. The collective experiments, notably with a sober rave that has become a cult classic.
“We wanted to promote local DJs with real diversity. Lots of queer people, women, men. That was non-negotiable. We held a rave from 7 a.m. to 6 a.m. in a Boustan. People could dance, eat shawarma, come and go freely. It was free, safe, sober, and incredibly popular. We even extended the rave by several hours because of its popularity.”
But for what comes next, we’ve decided to take a different direction; we’re going to try to go back to our roots, but I want to keep this project a little secret for now… »
This political awareness is also reflected in his own choices of professional invitations.
“Before accepting a gig, I check if there are other women on the lineup. I don’t want to be there just to tick a box.”
But even with experience, DJing remains a risky activity, where mistakes happen even to the most experienced.
“I once stopped the wrong turntable mid-set, and it was during my Carl Cox set.”
Another time, my headphones cut out for about fifteen minutes. There’s another classic problem too. The CDJs stopped linking. So normally, you plug a USB into a CDJ. All the CDJs can play your playlist. And then it just stopped working. That night, I had to play with three CDJs that weren’t linked. And that was a challenge too. Because you’re playing with the same playlists. Except you have to remember which track you played. Since then, I always carry three USB drives as backups, just in case.
But despite these few mistakes, the future is being written now. After a forced break due to an operation that sidelined him for a year, Kris Tin is preparing for a decisive turning point.
“I’m going to release my productions this year. I also have a European tour coming up. My goal is to make a living from music. Music is my passion. In terms of production, I produce a bit of everything. I’ve done hard rock, I’ve done industrial, I’ve done progressive, even metal. But recently, I’ve been coming back to 90s-2000s techno. Repetitive, loopy, traditional. The kind that puts you in a trance.”
No overacting for Kris Tin. Just melodic repetition, temporal trance, and a love for the origins of techno music.
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