January inevitably brings endless lists of the year's hotly tipped new artists. In 2007, those lists were packed either with artists who didn't quite make it, such as the Twang, or artists you quickly wished hadn't, such as Mika. This year, they are all headed, unlikely as this seems, by the third-place runner-up from the 2003 Welsh-language version of Pop Idol. Thus far, 22-year-old Duffy has attained such a degree of blanket approval that actually selling records seems like a formality.

Watching her on stage, you can see why: she is blonde, pretty and offers a voguish brand of retro-soul, not a million miles removed from the sound her producer, Bernard Butler, plied on Yes, his hit mid-90s collaboration with singer David McAlmont. The presence of the erstwhile Suede guitarist and Libertines producer on her team lends Duffy a leftfield hue, but otherwise, she is precisely the kind of thing that major record companies' dreams are made of in these difficult times.

In a certain light, she looks like a more user-friendly version of Amy Winehouse, who won't frighten off the Strictly Come Dancing audience. But user-friendliness is not necessarily an unconditionally good thing in rock and pop. On the plus side, Duffy refrains from throwing up or threatening to set her husband on the audience when he gets out of the nick. But equally, there is none of the gripping high drama of Winehouse's live shows here - just shy charm, steely professionalism (she even remembers to work the balcony) and the odd extravagant hand gesture, which should gladden the kind of person who walked out of Winehouse's recent tearful, drunken performances in disgust.

Comparisons aside, there is the quality of Duffy's songs to consider. At their best - the southern soul-inflected Hanging On Too Long, the glorious Spector-ish sweep of encore Distant Dreamer - they are very good indeed. And she's certainly got the pipes. It is obligatory for any female singer of Duffy's ilk to be compared to Dusty Springfield, but the 1960s diva she most obviously recalls is the less venerated Lulu: her voice is a confident, gutsy rasp. "It's been fun, if not emotional," she says, announcing the last song and virtually reviewing herself in the process.

· At the Pigalle Club on Wednesday. Box office: 0845 345 6053. Then touring.