Given it’s now two months later than this album was originally supposed to be released, you’d imagine that the anxiousness has got to the stage where Ladyhawke should be sitting against a wall with her head between her knees, breathing slowly into a paper bag.

Poor Ladyhawke. What did she do wrong? It’s hard to fathom the reasoning behind record label decision-making at the best of times, but to delay and delay and delay and delay the release of Anxiety appears to be a weird call. Perhaps, at the time, the singles weren’t on the right playlist. Perhaps, at the time, she hadn’t been in the right magazine. But it’s tough to see much difference between then and now. In fact, putting the release off seems rather to have sapped any momentum that was building around the earlier release date.

Poor Ladyhawke. The delay has meant that Anxiety has had a while to sit and fester in the imagination. Unfortunately, that wait hasn’t entirely been kind. Anxiety has not aged like a fine wine. Okay, equally it hasn’t turned to vinegar. It’s just sat. Looking a bit awkward. Not really knowing what to do with itself.

Let’s be fair, nothing on here is bad, and there are bits which fizz and delight. ‘Sunday Drive’ has a breathless, big-hair, stonewash-denim, Fleetwood Mac charm that is undeniable. ‘Cellophane’ circumnavigates what you think should be a bit of a lyrical dead end (“Looking through pink cellophane?” Really? Like a chicken breast with a really positive outlook on life?) to produce something heartfelt and sweet, while ‘Black, White & Blue’ is a zippy ode to how brilliant Ladyhawke choruses so often are.

But it’s like watching a firework display. Oh, there are sparkles. Oh, things zoom and zing across the sky and they look ever so pretty! But then they extinguish. They land with an ungainly crash. Then you look around and realise that you’re standing in a muddy field with a bunch of strangers. And you’re cold. Which is a shame. Because it doesn’t feel nice raining on Ladyhawke’s parade. She is likeable. Which, let’s face it, helps. As good as an album or song or gig is, if the main protagonist is a class A tool, any respect is tinged with a bitter taste of begrudging.

Ladyhawke is most definitely likeable and Anxiety is very likeable to. But, there isn’t a ‘Back Of The Van’ here. There isn’t a ‘Paris Is Burning’. There certainly isn’t a ‘My Delirium’. It doesn’t gleefully ingrain itself on your consciousness in quite the same way that the debut album did. Which, in the end, makes Anxiety ever so slightly disappointing. Poor Ladyhawke.