other Nature, all ornery and bitchy, decked out in her black-and-piss-yellow Arctic Monkeys t-shirt, delivered a painful baws kick to those who usurped the Sheffield ensemble’s “best new band” crown. Back on December 31st, a hearty, Hogmanay tempest rained on the trash rock parade of the Fratellis, who were slated to play the gig-of-a-lifetime twice in one night: at Glasgow’s George Square for their native city’s New Year’s festivities, followed by a zip down the M8 for a performance at Edinburgh’s Royal Bank Street Party.

Nearly two years of unchecked momentum was slowed by the duel cancellations. Since making a modest debut at O’Henry’s Bar in March of 2005, the Glaswegian trio garnered three top-40 hits and turned in a rather bracing appearance on “Top of the Pops,” sold out a pair of shows in a Glasgow Barrowlands record seven minutes, opened for the Who at the Roundhouse in Camden, headlined the NME’s Rock ‘n’ Roll Riot Tour, and landed a song (“Flathead”) in Apple’s 2007 iPod television campaign. In the U.K.’s post-Monkeys music world, it was the first pop apotheosis.

Costello Music, the Fratellis’ much-anticipated debut, nutshells all the attributes which contributed to the group’s heady ascent: brow-mopping energy, laddish charm, and a winking wit (track number three: “Cuntry Boys & City Girls”; get it?). It’s also proof that five years on now, the Britpop-meets-Baudelaire Up the Bracket is still having a profound effect upon British listeners, for better or worse.

Like Doherty, Barat, and company, the Fratellis are cutups who cut up the catalogs of revered predecessors (T. Rex, the Ramones, the Stone Roses), rearranging the sonic rummage into something fresh and idiosyncratic. And like the Libertines (and Arctic Monkeys, for that matter), the Fratellis frequently deviate from first-person narratives, spinning mental cock-and-bull tales of everyday stoners and loners. However, and quite dispiritingly, rather than paint vivid portraits of the Caledonian hoi polloi—much like Arctic Monkeys did with their native land, spouting about lairy girls and trilbies, or how the Libertines tackled English classism—the Fratellis suck all the tartan out of their zeroes and villains. (Quite possibly to be more universal for us myopic Americans?)

It’s a shame, really. One gets the sense Jon Fratelli could be the north-of-the-Pennines counterpart to Doherty (without all the extraneous bullshit, of course), spinning folksy Burns-like balladry with aplomb, returning phrases like “Well done, cutty sark!” into the vernacular—but more importantly, following in the footsteps of fellow Scots who made their music Scottish, either by romanticizing (Deacon Blue on Raintown) or spewing playful vitriol about (ballboy’s “I Have Scotland”) the place from whence they came. But hey, maybe it’s just me.

Still, the Fratellis are beyond infectious, filling their three-minute, pop-punk ditties with melodic snarl, flouncing sass, and enough lusty sing-along parts to keep the punters busy: bara-bap-bara’s in “Flathead,” la-la-la’s in “For the Girls,” and der-der-der’s in “Chelsea Dagger.” Tracks such as the ska-influenced “Cuntry Boys & City Girls” and the Clash-pastiche “Everybody Knows You Cried Last Night” employ a stroll/sprint pace: the rhythm section of Barry (bass) and Mince Fratelli (drums) worming along in the dirt, Jon’s rabid playing then kicking up dust as he attempts to outstrip every other guitar band from the last five years. He shines behind the microphone, too, from his werewolf yelp on “Cheslea Dagger” to the way he appears to be fighting a head cold brought on by the dreich weather in the bluesy, swaggering “Doginabag.” And on the album’s closer, an ode to groupie venery dubbed “Ole Black ‘N’ Blue Eyes,” he alternates between low-key and throaty, and downright snotty.