Arctic Monkeys - welcome back, lads ...

A painful air of discomfort has surrounded Arctic Monkeys in the 18 months since they made it big. The earliest sign of their unease under public scrutiny arrived when their first official single, I Bet You Look Good on the Dancefloor, went to number one, and they duly called their debut album Whatever People Say I Am, That's What I'm Not.

Since then, interviews have been rare and stony-faced. Their bassist lost the plot, and was substituted. Headlining Reading Festival, singer Alex Turner appeared poleaxed by the sheer magnitude of the crowd.

Events beyond their control seemed to have robbed the four Sheffield lads, barely in their twenties, of the innocent joys of rocking out.

It's something of a miracle, then, that this second album has arrived so quickly. Even less foreseeably, Favourite Worst Nightmare is totally the equal of its predecessor, full of exhilarating twisty-turny structures, shout-along choruses, dashes of sublime melody and observational lyrics which unswervingly nail their subject.

Brianstorm, the opener, surfs in on a militantly tough riff, as Turner offers a withering portrait of an American schmoozer the band met in Japan. "We can't keep our eyes off your T-shirt and ties combination," he notes, drily.

Arctic Monkeys, in their anoraks and straight-leg jeans, are fiercely anti-trendy. So it's surprising that they recorded this in fashionable East London.

Perhaps Turner pitched himself into the midst of everything he despises to keep his lyrical fire burning. On Balaclava, he acerbically satirises the callous womanisers who bar-hop around Shoreditch, leaving conquests "with salty cheeks".

That caustic wit is often levelled at male malignancy. On The Bad Thing, a confused woman justifies her fiancé's beatings. Mercifully, the music recalls the Smiths at their jaunty best - indeed, throughout the album, there's melodic light to offset the narrative shade.

Only Ones Who Know is just beautiful, a ballad of desperate dreams and echoing twangs worthy of the young Elvis Costello.

At the last, on 505, we find the singer emotionally adrift on the road, his longing for home set to a simmering organ which builds to a furious guitar crescendo - a magnificent end to a brilliantly paced record.

Favourite Worst Nightmare cannot fail to sustain Arctic Monkeys' tenure at the top. Following second-album triumphs by Franz Ferdinand and Razorlight, could it be that a new strain of post-Britpop bands has emerged, equipped to survive the pressures of fame? Andrew Perry

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