(Drop the Gun)
A thread flows from skiffle through the Small Faces, pub rock and the Sweet to make The Fratellis so identifiably British (two-thirds Scot, actually) that it’s refreshing. It’s like they can’t help it. The songs might change tempo from frenetic to jerky to flighty. Guitar aggression occurs with sparing but dramatic precision. A couple of tunes are destined to be sung at soccer matches. The goofy la-la-la-la chorus of “For the Girl” takes you back to hippie days, with no sense of irony. “Creepin’ Up the Backstairs” is a tour de force of motormouth drunken hijinx. The Fratellis cover screwing up, not blaming anybody and not missing a beat. If that ain’t rock, what is?