There's a big, bouffanted shadow looming over
Aimee Duffy's debut album, but it would be reductive to write off the Welsh
songstress as the second coming of Amy Winehouse. (Though that certainly hasn't
stopped anyone.) There are obvious similarities: Each traffics in highly
polished neo-soul and maintains a calculated retro-chic aesthetic, and the
"yeah yeah yeah" hook of Rockferry's ultra-catchy single, "Mercy," echoes the
ubiquitous chorus of "Rehab" a bit too closely. But where Winehouse's boozy
growl conjures up smoky corners and regret, Duffy's world-weary voice radiates
a cool remoteness that proves just as affecting. That ice-queen intrigue adds a
certain cachet to the 23-year-old's occasionally overstudied lyrics. But the
real joy of Duffy's best songs (especially "Stepping Stone" and "Warwick
Avenue") isn't in her words, but in the interplay between her vocals and the slow-burning
arrangements that hearken back to the best moments of Motown. Crooning over
sparse, noir-y piano lines one moment, then belting over soaring strings the
next, Duffy's voice creates an almost eerie sense of isolation, as if her
universal laments on love and loss are a secret known only to her.