She’s a pre-glitz Polly Harvey mapping out the uncharted emotional territory between nights out and moving in; a smoker-songwriter with a larynx as elastic as Diamanda Galas (if you push her hard enough), the B52s cruising over the Velvets late nite New York. Just don’t ask her to agree with you about any of this, that’s all.

The strange name, then: brought up in deepest South London by a mother forced to flee Hungary (and her aristocratic privileges) on the arrival of the Russians; the teenage Gena found herself f itting in with the sleepy hang-ups of suburbia about as easily as, well, an exile. Having secured an escape route via a degree course at Goldsmiths (Blur/Damien Hirst) she enrolled in as many bands as any student union can hold before realising that there was only going to be one way of doing this: hers.

Here, deep in the singer-songwriterly otherworld of Denmark Street’s legendary folk-club hangout the 12 Bar Club, Gena started playing solo and attracting the attention of the rock-biz royalty wing of artist-management (Queen downwards, basically), who saw her as a 21st Century Kate Bush.

Shunning the suffocating deals put to her -all along the lines of Gena ditching the spiky, brutalist approach of her songs for a more commercial sheen - she decided there was only one thing these would-be svengalis hadn’t suggested: form a band and play her acid-tinged Patti Smith blues at every dive-bar that would have her.

Which is where you come in. Mystery and longing. Late nite romance and diamonds in the gutter. Hang up and people hanging up. Gena’s here to tell you about it, and all in a voice you’ve never heard before

Not to be missed.
Paul Moody(NME)