You Am I
Convicts
EMI

It's been four years since their last studio album; a year ago, they apparently briefly broke up, in the wake of their leader's increasing, and rather public, penchant for self-destruction. It's probably being melodramatic to suggest that going to the brink has bought out the best in these boys, but I do know one thing: You Am I are back, and with a vengeance. 'Convicts' is, in a word, a corker. In time it may come to be seen as right up there with their classic mid-90s triumvirate of 'Hi Fi Way', 'Hourly Daily' and '#4 Record'.

With 12 songs in 36 minutes, guitars turned up to 11, and not a ballad in sight, You Am I haven't sounded this hungry, lean, and urgent since, well, maybe since their debut, 'Sound As Ever', 13 years ago. Indeed, 'Convicts' sounds like, and has all the conviction of, a bunch of kids in a garage discovering the thrill of power chords and volume for the first time.

Even that description, though, is selling the record short. Sure, much of the time they're shirt-fronting you (particularly on the testosterone-fuelled openers Thank God I've Hit The Bottom, It Ain't Funny How We Don't Talk Anymore, and Friends Like You), but there's nothing mindless or blustery about it. Beneath the overdriven guitars and pounding rhythms are melodies, metaphors and tales that are as memorable and enduring as anything You Am I have done. Most of the songs are growers - always the sign of a good album - revealing nuances with each repeated listening.

Much will be made of the fact that this is You Am I's big rawk record. But that would be missing what makes 'Convicts' so compelling, which is simply consistently strong songs, and the fact that those songs transcend their influences. Tim Rogers was always good at a nod and a wink to his heroes without mimicking them; here You Am I go one step further and sound like no-one but themselves. I don't know what makes the difference, but listen to those gorgeous understated pop moments on Secrets and I'm A Mess, and the perfect wedding of boogie and wistful melody of The Sweet Life, and you'll hear what I mean.

The best example, though, is on Gunslingers, where Rogers draws on the age-old analogy of rock'n'rollers as outlaws and yet sounds contemporary at the same time: 'well they say there ain't no gunslingers left in town', he observes over a staccato Strokes-like riff, before the band explodes into one of those glorious choruses that will be lifting the roof at You Am I gigs for the rest of their career.

Fans are going to be walking around with big dumb grins on their faces for weeks now after hearing this record. After around 15 years in the game, there's something righteous and beautiful about having one's faith in a favourite band reaffirmed so spectacularly.

Peter Strelan