"A Christmas Record" declares the label, disingenuously. But this is no "Frosty the Snowman", instead it's a wretched tale of world-weariness at another festive season spent amongst vacuous urbanites, heartbroken but unsurprised by another failed romance with a commitment-phobic lover ("He said he couldn't stand in my way, it's wrong. "Way of what?", I asked, but he was gone").
Overprivileged, precociously over-educated, permanently cynical, Cristina made her name with such high-camp vignettes from the gilt-lined gutters of Manhattan, delivered in a bloodless near-monotone, riddled with ennui, mordant humour, and unexpected poignancy (all the more so for its tinsel-thin backing). "I caught a cab back to my flat. And wept a bit. And fed the cat". Merry Christmas, one and all.