Given the self-deprecating and witty Morrisseyesque title, the debut from Sussex, England's Ford doesn't exactly follow through with the poetic gloominess we might expect from such wordplay. Instead, it immediately sounds as if the singer/songwriter suffers from a typical malady of the genre: boring, self-indulgent and desperately emotive songwriting that conjures up James Blunt and Ryan Adams at their schmaltziest. Ford seems to be preoccupied with storytelling, but his narratives fail to hold enough water to be effective. Likewise, the low-key acoustic arrangements sleepwalk through the whole album, never quite announcing their presence. Sounds just like another self-obsessed troubadour incapable of making his thoughts accessible to the world at large. David Ford plays tonight (Thursday, June 22) at the El Mocambo.