Another summer hearthrob, another forgettable puddle of ice-cream and tears. Harmless Hawaiian himbo Glenn was promoted here as a kind of male Tiffany – same corn-fed origins and good-luck story. Like her, he’s not an especially good singer: unlike her, his plod through a devotional checklist doesn’t have the enthusiasm or lift to make it likeable. Maybe the arrangement can help? Nope: it’s a disaster – a key change that would shame Eurovision, greasy sax, and a session guitarist doing his freewheelin’ best to upstage Medeiros completely. A thoroughly grim experience.