For years, industry insiders have sought the ever-elusive white female MC to take the major labels by storm. But who would have suspected she’d come in the form of British spitter Lady Sovereign? Jay-Z ­ that’s who.

The Troubadour Café in London’s Wembley district is a tattered-looking hovel that’s seen better days. Bob Dylan played his first London gig here, and rock legends Hendrix, Led Zeppelin and Joni Mitchell soon followed. All the more ironic, then, that today the café’s speakers belt out light polka ditties that you’d be more likely to hear at the dentist’s office. Soiled copper pots hang from the ceiling and the seats are hard wooden benches half-strewn with dingy, moth-eaten cushions that have long been sadly flattened out. It’s not a place where you want to think about kitchen hygiene too much.

Just after two p.m. on a rainy Monday afternoon, a scrawny kid who looks no more than 14 slinks through the Troubadour’s heavy wooden door. No one notices Louise Harman, aka Lady Sovereign, when she plunks herself down at a table in front and orders two eggs-and-soldiers, a British creation with half-cooked eggs still in their shells and four narrow strips of toast for dunking. “Mmmmmm,” she says, sounding like a little mouse, fidgeting with her lighter and cheap Sovereign brand cigarettes.

For Lady Sovereign (or “Sov” as she likes to be called), it’s been a speedy journey from total obscurity to being the first white female MC to ever ink a major-label record deal in the U.S.- signed to Def Jam as Jay-Z’s personal discovery no less. In 2003, Sovereign bought a small, crappy Dictaphone machine, started recording rhymes and uploading them to facepix.com (an earlier version of MySpace). The Internet was good to Sov. It connected her to London’s grime scene ­ that evolution of two-step garage most basically defined as an MC-driven, high-BPM cross between hip-hop and drum & bass- and DJ Frampster, a pirate radio and club DJ she met on the sprawling London-based So Solid Internet chat boards. Together she and Frampster formed the Heavy Like Dat crew and Frampster eventually got Sov airplay on his show for On Top FM, one of the bigger pirate stations. Several white labels and live gigs later, Sov signed with Island U.K. and Universal Music Group (Island U.K.’s parent company) worldwide. (Frampster is now part of Sovereign’s touring band, which also includes Basement Jaxx’s drummer, Tugg).

Before things took off, Sov describes her life as “doing nothing, just bumming around.” She grew up in South London’s council estates (aka the projects) with her younger brother, Richie, and older sister, Chloe. She was good at soccer, which largely kept her in school until she was 16. Sov then dropped out and left her parents’ house two years later. “There were times I remember when it was a happy family,” she says, “but I always used to watch them fight and stuff. My parents went their own ways when I was about 10.” (Her mother moved out before she did).

Sov’s area wasn’t known as the roughest part of London, but it was far from posh. When she was 14, a neighbor informed her that some boys in her hood had found it amusing to kick her beloved pet cat, Tiggles, over and over again until it died. “That’s just how it was there," she says flatly, referring to her former home. "I just held that cat dead in my arms for hours," she remembers. "That was very painful for me since I had him since I was four." (Sov mentions crying over her cat's murder on her track "Cha Ching"). Poverty, it turned out would prompt other actions in her life.

"The last time I was in prison, I was 17," pronounces Sovereign. "Chucked in a police cell for like nine hours. I was a thief. I couldn't afford nothing. Same way I didn't have any clothes or Christmas presents. I had to go and get them like that." She explains, "That's how I got my name. Because I stole somebody's sovereign ring once. I don't steal anymore, but that was a way of life for me two years ago." Her manager, Zak, signed her around the same time. "She didn't have a pot to piss in," he agrees, nodding.

At 19 years old, Sov is still very much an adolescent. She worries about the same things most teens do (whether her outfits match, how to quell drama with her friends) and thinks she's been in love once. She laughs at the way Americans say "wanker" ("wengkirrr," she giggles, "that's worse than 'asshole' in England, you know") although she doesn't often say "the c word" ("that's really filthy"). She adores all the free stuff she gets nowadays ("mainly clothes by Puma and Adidas, although I recently got a snowboard") but she's puzzled by her financial management, which she leaves up to her accountant (all I know is that my taxes are ridiculous now"). She punctuates her words with "Yeee-aaah'" and "really" (pronounced "reee-leeey"). Like other natural MCs, even in normal conversation, she seems to speak in rhythmic verse; she moves within her words fluidly, the way a pro diver might cut through water.

In some ways, Sov is a curious girl. She hasn't made millions, as widely reported, but she has money now and is currently saving up to buy her own house. Still, for a teenager signed to Universal, she hasn't sprinted to buy the usual trinkets, like a hot ride or bling. Instead, she counts among her splurges "paying for cabs" and extra take-out ("like ordering pizza and chicken and maybe I'll just toss out the pizza"), Some things, like a working-class ethic, aren't as disposable as others.

It's obvious why Sov refers to herself as "the midget," At a petite 5’1” tall; she has a tiny, scraggly physique, especially in her preferred garb of oversized jacket, baggy jeans and keys jangling loosely around her neck. With large amber eyes and hair up in a mini ponytail on the side, she strongly resembles somebody's kid sister. She screws up her nose and pulls faces, chuckles often and becomes quickly enthusiastic. Once in a while, she'll shoot an appraising look that reveals the wary eye of someone much older.

Sov still speaks in the absolutes of the very young, which is part of her charm. “I hate liars," she says bluntly. "One little lie and that's it - piss off. Get outta my life," Three years ago, when she was 16, an indie label called Casual Records put a two-page document in front of her and told her that she'd get £2000 (under $4,000) for a five-album deal. Sov, who was poor, a minor and without a lawyer, signed the contract and as a result, spent much of 2004 - during which she was assembling her first album - deep in litigation with Casual. (The label now has an amicable licensing arrangement for some of Sov's older material).

Most successful UK artists never score a U.S. record deal, but Sov was eager to start piquing American interest early, so she went to Chicago and New York to perform last summer. Her discovery by Island/Def Jam turned out to be a special moment bursting with ... vomit. A "dodgy" McDonald's cheeseburger was apparently to blame. It was Sov's first time performing in NYC, and she turned to the internationally familiar golden arches for a little comfort food. She ended up puking violently for the rest of the day. After canceling her remaining Stateside press, Sov retched and heaved for hours until the moment before going onstage at the Knitting Factory, where she feebly performed five tracks and then barely made it offstage before she started spewing again in the club's hallway. ("I swore off McDonald's after that," she shudders).

Digestive issues aside, Sov's brief performance earned her a speedy return invite from Island/Def Jam. Just one week later, the label flew both Sov and her manager first-class back to NYC for what they assumed was a casual meet-and-greet. What followed instead was a fully orchestrated record-deal meeting, with Island/Def Jam CEO Antonio "LA" Reid, Jay-Z and 20 other execs in attendance, including - most inexplicably of all- Usher. ("That was totally random, since he was just standin' there the whole meetin', not sayin' anything," Sov recalls).

Jay asked Sov to freestyle on the spot. "I was shakin',” she professes, her eyes widening. "There were so many powerful people in that room. I just wanted to get outta there, to be honest," Of all people, it was Jigga who set her most at ease. "He's a cool guy, very sweet. Kinda shy really. And by the end of it, he was smilin'. It seemed like he was pleased," she. grins, "I made him laugh a few times."

It's clear, however, that this 19-year-old will be expected to deliver hits to her new American bosses. What's unclear is how the Lady Sovereign franchise will translate to U.S. audiences. Sov's MC-driven sound is more eclectic than her fellow grime export Dizzee Rascal, but she's less crossover (or two-step-softened) than The Streets (although Mike Skinner is rumored to be a producer on her upcoming album). As an MC, Sovereign cuts an arresting presence: there's a steely bite to her sing-song flow, and she rolls out her rhymes in a thick ragga lilt. The effect is startling: If her "Vertically Challenged" EP is any indication, Sov's crisp dancehall patois offers something invigorating for U.S. ears - like a harder, faster, edgier Sean Paul. Predictably, the beats on her new album, Public Warning, (dropping in spring '06 in Britain and the U.S. two months later) are already being massaged for Stateside release in the typical way of lining up big-name guest producers like the Neptunes, Timbaland or Soul Diggas. The Americanized version will almost certainly offer more mid-tempo tracks (i.e., catchy, radio-friendly numbers for U.S. audiences to sing along to).

But it's the tweaking of Sovereign's commercial image that will be most interesting to watch. Her grime style has appealed to British clubgoers, but it's a sobering industry truth that Americans, unlike Europeans, have a weaker sales appetite for club-derivative genres. More importantly, there's no precedent on how to successfully market a white, female, British MC to Stateside audiences - mainly because a white female MC does not yet exist on U.S. charts, but also because no one has ever tried to sell a white British MC as legit. (Or, as Sov observes on her "Random" remix, "U.K. Yankee flows are not sellable/So I keep it U.K. real/ Tha's credible").

Sov's race became an issue from early on. "When I first started, it was harsh. People were like, 'Oh, you're a white girl. What're you tryin' to do? Shut up: But now people have sort of dropped it," she shrugs. Apart from her spitting skills, Sov's street cred might be her most marketable asset. With her welfare-class background, lightening-quick raps and taunting wit that doesn't delve too deeply into social issues ("cheeky!" she insists), critics have drawn quick comparisons to a female Eminem. (Sov might not share Em's intense battling history, but the "Feminem" analogy isn't altogether off; her main producer, Gabriel "Medasyn" Olegavich, discovered Sov in 2003 after she starred in a short film called X-ed that was essentially a mini-8 Mile about the dropout-cum-MC life).

Public Warning features an anthem called "My England" that lightly canvasses the global issue of class lines. '''London ain't all crumpets and trumpets/It's a bit of a slum pit:" she quips from the joint, explaining that "all the verses are jokes.” "That's about how I see London - how it ain't all posh. 'Cuz especially from an American point of view, it's all tea and biscuits:' (Sov launched a Web site called savethehoodie.com, partially to scorn classist British laws banning hooded tops from shopping centers - the notion being that only" chavs" or white trash hoodlums in England wear them).

For the most part though, Sovereign's music fees rooted in an angst that's more generalized than race or class. It's about the continual impatience of rankled youth, that defiant yearning to make your mark while giving the establishment the finger. For Sovereign, it's also about trumping what many young people dread the most: becoming forgettable. Which could be why Sov calls her onstage persona her "true self, but happier.' "Performing has never been scary for me, unless it's to an empty room,” she declares, something grim in her voice. "That's why I hate doin' sound checks. Because for a split second, it feels like no one's turned up. It feels like I'm performing to no one.”

London's Institute of Cultural Arts is a formidable structure. With its Long, backlit colonnade and British flags whipping around outside, it looks more like a government palace. The ICA only allows one act a month to perform there, so it's a fairly prestigious venue to kick off Sovereign's European tour. It's a sold-out show, and a few hundred people are milling about the smallish stage. Nearly all of them are white men, some easily twice Sov's age. Most are clutching large plastic cups of watered-down beer, reinforcing a college concert feel. Somebody in a full-body gorilla suit is passing out flyers. DJ Cameo finishes warming up the crowd. "Sov! Sooooov'" he calls, but she's not out yet. She's backstage, resplendent in braids, purple eyeliner and a bright orange Adidas track suit. Her band and about 20 other people are loitering around, seemingly oblivious to the waiting throngs outside.

Sov is sipping neon yellow liquid from a cup. "Try it!" she squeals, thrusting the drink at her friends. It's her favorite mixture of lemonade and Pernod ("my granny's drink"), and it's sickeningly sweet. She's twirling a rubber mask of Chucky (the midget doll from the horror flicks), which she plans on donning for her entrance onstage. With its horribly bulgy eyes and acid-red stitches blistering up the side, the mask forms an odd, lumpy shape. Sitting atop Sov's slight, wispy figure and pumpkin-colored jacket, it looks truly grotesque.

Sov has been wearing the Chucky face around backstage, skipping around and freaking out her crew. After about 10 minutes, she pushes the mask off onto her forehead in order to light a cig. The shock of seeing her own face again stills her entourage into momentary silence. She studies their faces for a second. "It's the same, inn it?" she guffaws.

Earlier tonight, Sov caused a little stir when she ran up to the bouncer for the VIP area and smacked him hard across the face. It turns out that this bouncer made the unfortunate mistake of refusing Sov's father entrance backstage to say hello to his daughter. Sov's roadie, an older white man named Guy, recalls the incident with a mixture of relish and disbelief - an understandable reaction, given the size difference between this particular bouncer and Sov. "For real,' he nods, smirking.

Sov struts onstage in her Chucky mask. The audience seems confused. She peels it off and dives into her opening number, "Blah Blah.' The crowd cheers. The track's breakneck speed is too fast to sing along to, and its jittery programming makes Sov's MCing nearly impossible to understand live, but this doesn't stop people from immediately nodding and shuffling to the beat.

Entertaining comes naturally to Sov. In between tracks, she tells stories and cracks jokes, and it's clear she enjoys riffing off her fans as much as she does MCing. She's rude and crass, and her audience loves it. "You in the back, piss off!" she yells, for no apparent reason. Sov notices the gorilla suit skipping around stage front. "Is that a freakin' monkey?" she jeers, drawing laughs from her audience. "I would looove to spank the monkey,' she teases. The gorilla jumps onstage, bending over. She immediately boots him off the stage. "Fucking monkey, tryin' to steal my spotlight'" she scoffs. She holds a live burping contest. She sounds surprisingly throaty, although that could just be the Pernod. Sov's show is a little juvenile and somewhat raw, and its production could be smoother. But it's undeniably engaging, and it feels authentic to see her perform now, before Def Jam turns her into something gleaming and sexy whose purpose it is to sell more records. Onstage, her tiny size is more apparent than ever, especially when flanked by her all-male band. She doesn't have many fancy moves and somehow, her enormous magnetism isn't quite captured by her stage presence - yet.

But the video projection screen behind her belies this impression. With clever shots and glammed-up camera angles, Sov's charisma practically leaps off the screen. Somehow, her 15-foot self almost looks more accurate than her actual one: it's as if her diminutive height can't properly display her massive persona. Onscreen, like in the music world, this midget has already become larger than life.