Situated at the vanguard of Euro-Folk Noir, Their songs reflect a sonic landscape stretching from the Old World romanticism of Jacques Brel or Fabricio de Andre to the visionary realm of American balladeers like Bill Callahan or Michael Hurley.

The result is like some exotic desert fruit of indeterminate provenance - equal parts ragged glory and brooding noir, the crepuscular glow of the violet horizon and blood pooled on a motel bathroom floor - all delivered in, what accidental fan Lucinda Williams who caught their set one night at the Hotel Cafe in Hollywood calls, Georg’s “great sexy-gravelly voice,” leavened by Heike’s translucent harmonies, like roses circling a tattooed heart. (Paul Cullum)