"Hey, d'you remember that night when you told me, 'You know, you're pretty good, but you're no Ray Davies'?" asks Tim Rogers, with raised eyebrow and a sly grin, before cuffing me on the shoulder, laughing like a drain, and spluttering, "I'll always remember that..."

To try and make amends for this gaffe, from a draughty vantage point roughly 4,000 miles north of your good self, this whinging pom would like to take a dew minutes of your valuable (drinking) time to reflect upon why Australia is one lucky-assed country to have a band like You Am I warming your cockles, nursing your broken hearts, and sound-tracking the downing of a schooner (or three).

Since 1992, You Am I have bagged seven ARIAS, set a record for three consecutive straight-in-at-No. 1 albums ("Hi-Fi Way", "Hourly Daily", "#4 Record"), attracted legions of adoring fans, sound-tracked two movies (Idiot Box, Dirty Deeds), picked up some heavyweight admirers/touring partners (Oasis, Soundgarden, Sonic Youth), been asked to gig with their idols (The Who, The Rolling Stones), gave foreign artists their first widespread exposure downunder (The Strokes, The Detroit Cobras, The Dirtbombs), AND inspired a host of Australian bands to do things their own damn way (Silverchair, Jet, The Vines, The Sleepy Jackson, Wolfmother, Dallas Crane, etc, etc). Well, that ain't too shabby, for starters...

Now that we've got the maths outta the way (never anyone's favourite part of the equation), it's down to the real business at hand. Also, you can just forget them headlines concerning onstage meltdowns, celebrity dwarf tossing, and whiskey-stained action slacks, cos this here album offers cast iron proof that You Am I are still at the top of their game. And, as ever, ladies and germs, that game is pure-brewed rock'n'roll - in the form of a freshly-squeezed pint (and a half) of soul juice known as "Convicts", You Am I's first outing for their new home, Virgin/EMI.

To paraphrase the late Bob Hope, "Convicts" will put hairs on your chest (or other places), and part them in the middle. It's a darned effective musical elixir for whatever ails you. It's a quick (36 minutes), slightly grubby and occasionally freaky, 12-track reminder of Messrs Rogers, Hopkinson, Kent and Lane's considerable collective charm. The sheer vim and vigour of "Convicts" makes it gosh-darn difficult to grokk that it's YAI's SEVENTH album – let alone their ninth, if you count live set "Saturday Night ‘Round Ten" and the double-disc retrospective, "The Cream and The Crock".