A parliament of owls, a frenzy of sharks, a coalition of cheetahs (no, really). If there isn’t a specific collective noun for the earnest young singer-songwriters leaking from London then there should be – suggestions on a postcard please. The trouble with this troupe of troubadours is that the immediate impulse, on coming across another, can be to think “who do you sound just like?” or “so what makes you any different?”, which aren’t necessarily very fair, or helpful, responses. Jack Cheshire isn’t imitating anybody and for that alone any artist deserves to be considered in their own space.

That said, Copenhagen (actually recorded in Sweden) is a fairly demanding, strength-sapping listen: more overblown than intimate, and delivered with the thick air and heavy heat of a suffocating summer afternoon. This atmosphere is created mainly by Cheshire’s claustrophobic, cloying, almost comatose vocals – stringing out every syllable on songs like album-opener ‘Paperhouse’, as if testing their ductility – or rolling line into line like on ‘Magic Eye Lens’.

Then there’s the stifling six-minute ‘We Are Electric’, where a stilted, stolid delivery of uninspiring lines like “Stormy weather in the mind and / We will swirl inside this vacuum / Blood vessels run through the veins as I am / Part of something strange here”, give way to the audio strobe of a frenzied guitar maelstrom, all-consumingly inward, rather than a cathartic release. It’s enervating to hear.

Whereas these seem to dominate and define the record, others are more enjoyable. Title track ‘Copenhagen’, though over-revving towards the end, carries a spirited chorus with enough oomph to punch some breathing space through the shroud. ‘Ego Machine’ boasts agreeable changes of intensity and makes great use of strong double bass strands that are another of the album’s hallmarks. The final minute of ‘Trinket Box’ is even upbeat, as singing and playing synchronise to break out, stretch legs, beat wings, in less oppressive warmth. “Go out today and do some exercise”, he urges, and it’s a relief all round.

In short, this album sometimes ambles languidly and sometimes drifts lethargically – a sultry sound that ebbs and irks at intervals. It is not a relaxing record, though one made for soporific summer days. Circumspect, yet hardly non-committal, as Cheshire’s second album Copenhagen serves to showcase a competent talent, albeit one possessing neither turn of phrase nor guitar phrase to turn heads just yet. With no special eloquence, no intimate amity, no hurting brusquerie or raw abrasive menace, for now Jack Cheshire remains one of a crowd.