Album of the week: The Fratellis

THE FRATELLIS: HERE WE STAND

***

ISLAND, £10.99

A WISE man once said "rock'n'roll was never meant to be difficult". Actually it was John Lawler, aka Jon Fratelli, writing on his band's website, who said it. And he is right. All the great rock'n'roll bands, from The Stooges to The Ramones to Oasis, know that rock'n'roll is a dish best served dumb, even when it is accidentally profound (Oasis haven't had that accident yet).

The Fratellis have not yet demonstrated that they have the potential to keep such exalted stupid company, but they deserve at least grudging respect for slaying the country with a handful of "da da da" choruses in 2006, courtesy of a debut album, Costello Music, recorded less than a year after the trio – Jon, Mince and Barry Fratelli – formed, and which went on to sell a million copies.

By that point, they had apparently written half of this follow-up, which might account for the sameyness and sense of déjà vu. Here We Stand is only following the time-honoured guideline for any new band who enjoy a stratospheric rise with their debut album: stick to what you already know works, don't start experimenting at least until album three. Given that The Fratellis are proud to say they won't pursue a tune for more than 15 minutes, there may be a wait before the concept album about a tramp they met in the park sees the light of day.

In the meantime, the ringmaster on the cover of Here We Stand invites us to roll up for all the fun of the indie circus. Current single Mistress Mabel is the usual bells-and-whistles oompah about a jaded Maggie May-like character. Surprisingly, Lawler considers this to be the only nonsense lyric on the album, when actually it makes a whole lot more sense than the majority of gibberish he turns out.

Lawler is still suffering from lyricitis. Though there is less of the "he said, she said" baloney that infested Costello Music, he still falls back on repetitive imagery when he creates his character studies or spins his bravado yarns. There's still a high incidence of drink-related high-jinks, dodgy geezers and shady ladies, crazy nights and lost weekends, and some remarks on sartorial appearance.

Opening track My Friend John is apparently a self-portrait, but an oblique one at that. It is pointless sweating the details, as this cuts into valuable moshing time. The important point is that The Fratellis have retained their way with a big infectious singalong chorus while jettisoning their trademark "ba-ba na-na ooh-wa-ooh blah blah blah" chants in favour of words.

A Heady Tale sounds simultaneously like The Charlatans, Supergrass and Oasis, all taking their cue from The Who at their most pub rock disposable. Hoping we won't notice the lack of a chorus, it accelerates into a spirited indie knees-up, with rollicking piano accompaniment.

The chorus returns on Shameless, a big dumb glam rocker which sounds like Oasis on the few occasions these days when they remember how to have fun. That should be a recommendation, but already I'm starting to get weary of being cajoled into having a good time. Listening to this album is like being the only sober person in a room full of mugging loons having the time of their life. Which is literally how it feels to be at a Fratellis gig.

Lawler's love of Neil Diamond finally manifests itself on Look Out Sunshine! which briefly perks things up with its 1970s sunshine pop, even offering a better class of nonsense lyric.

Stragglers Moon, one of the last songs to make it on to the album, is also a slight departure with its suggestion of Hispanic flair, a melody borrowed from the Beatles' cutting-room floor and a fuzz guitar fade-out. It is one of a handful of less frantic tracks on which the band give themselves space to at least attempt to produce a song rather than just string together a selection of irresistible hooks. See also the relatively coherent but rather dull lost-my-girl-to-religion blues of Jesus Stole My Baby, and Babydoll, a shuffling Arctic Monkeys cast-off with flashes of poetic potential.

Ostensibly, The Fratellis have served up the same dish again, but have played about a bit with the ingredients. They bow out on a hopeful note with Lupe Brown, which exhibits a hitherto untapped way with a skyscraping Bay City Rollers-style chorus, and Milk & Money, a piano-led foray into Bowiesque territory that hopefully points the way forward now that Lawler has discovered the joys of keyboards. Now, can I go home and lie down, please?