There’s a lot of sweaty love in this room tonight, and when the mop-headed Bronx-Russian object of the crowd’s affection trips coyly onstage, the roar of her devoted fanbase takes her by surprise. “Wow, thank you guys so much for coming out,” she gushes, before knocking them into slack-jawed silence with an acapella jazz number, then demanding a sing-along to the joyously bizarre “Carbon Monoxide”.

Spektor’s gormlessly cute onstage persona and art-kook dress sense (punky black accessorised with clothes-pegs: clearly the new safety pins) shouldn’t distract from her formidable songwriting skills. Classically trained piano virtuosity is animated by a grunge spirit and crackpot vocal experimentation that’s equal parts jazz diva and Noo Yoik punkette. Each song is a mix of psychedelia and human observation that is closer to Dylan with a piano and a singing voice than obvious reference point Tori Amos. Many are just plain loopy fun, like ‘Reginasaurus’: “if I was a great big city I'd be reginapolis/ no one would be sickly or achey in my thriving metropolis/ unless of course they came down with bad case of reginitis"
The reginitis pandemic must be imminent, even if she has to suffer the indignity of being Keane’s US support act first. In the heart-in-mouth delicate 'Samson' she croons of how “the history books forgot about us”. Even if Spektor’s songs never take their rightful place in rock history, they’ll write themselves into the hearts of anyone who’ll listen.