Sheffield singer-songwriter Neil McSweeney has been called "the most miserable man alive" on one internet forum and even "the Sheffielder most likely to kill himself" on another. None of this squares with his chirpy demeanour.

Struggling to tune his guitar, he quips: "One day I'll have little men in black suits scurrying on, handing me £2,000 guitars."

However, the intensity arrives with his music: deeply felt, brooding songs rich in imagery. With fingers plucking magical hooks from the tuneless acoustic, McSweeney sings of lives on the margins: about being thrown out of pubs and phoning a friend who is never there, or asserting his identity by "pissing" his name in the snow. He sounds like a cross between Tim Buckley, Leonard Cohen and, implausibly, a male Tracy Chapman.

The imposing man with the delicate beard and straggly hair has reason to be cheerful. After two years honing his craft - sometimes with his band, the Gents - his career is taking off. He releases his debut single, Postcards, in June, and has a regional following big enough to cause congestion issues in the fabled pub where the Arctic Monkeys were signed. The audience are hushed to the point of near-trance by Postcards and Flowers, and profound lines like "city life is wearing thin ... and so is my skin". At one point, McSweeney lets forth a Jim Morrison primal howl, showing what a powerful force his usually restrained voice can be.

McSweeney won't have it easy - in a field that ranges from Fionn Regan to James Morrison, the male singer-songwriter genre is possibly pop's most difficult market to break - but he has the tools to make a huge impact. He starts by earning what he says is an unexpected encore. "Get used to it!" somebody shouts.