There's always a real danger in comparing a new, relatively unknown artist to an all-time great. Take, for example, Aimee Duffy, and the baffling parallels drawn between her and Dusty Springfield; such lofty analogies will either pique peoples' interest, or cause them to dismiss such folly with a contemptuous wave of the hand. Well, wave away, folks - because on this evidence, there's nothing to suggest that the 23-year-old Welshwoman is worthy of such illustrious company. Although the songs on Rockferry do have the same polished, shimmering glow that would accompany the likes of '60s icons like Lulu and Cilla Black, this can be attributed solely to Bernard Butler's gorgeous production. Duffy's voice - ironically, the supposed strongest selling-point of this album - is criminally overrated for the most part, and totally unremarkable for the remainder. Devoid of depth, texture and power, her vocals waver between a overdone nasal squeak that's reminiscent of Leona Lewis-with-a-cold (Stepping Stone, Serious)and Eddi Reader (Syrup & Honey), but which simply fail to illicit any real emotion or goosebumps - something which her contemporaries can manage on occasion, at least. It's the songs, with their rich, string-heavy arrangements, Butler's own take on the Wall of Sound technique (Distant Dreamer, Warwick Avenue) and the subtle touches here and there, that come close to touching on the 'classic' feel that Duffy (or her record company) tries so hard to emulate. Mercy brings some retribution, its funky, uptempo click providing some respite from the unpersuasive and overwrought ballads - but overall, Rockferry is really just an average album with some good songs, great production, but what can only be described as an ineffectual vocal performance. I'd stick with Adele or Winehouse, if I were you.