Pop must always, always be stupid – stupid as in not understanding the rules, as in running blind, as in stupid with desire, stupid with joy, as in stupefied. That kind of stupid. Supergrass, then, are the most unremittingly stupid band I have ever met.” – Taylor Parkes, Melody Maker

That was in 1995. Two years later, the only way Supergrass could have gotten less interesting and less “stupid” would have involved drafting Roger Waters and Howie B into their line-up. After the plasticky brilliance of I Should Coco, 1997’s In It For The Money must rank as one of the most disappointing follow-ups of the decade, where Supergrass’ pop instincts withered almost to nothing, in favour of stodgy classic rock-isms.

It had its moments – the title track, ‘Going Out’ – but overall wasn’t worth the candle. It was personified by the shift from the dayglo colours and open-chord harmonies of ‘Alright’ to the browns and blacks of the video for ‘Richard III’, an incredibly grim slice of heads-down rock riffery.

So, with Britpop long defunct and their core constituency somewhat eaten away by Robbie Williams and the godawful Stereophonics, Supergrass have responded in the only way they know how: by making a wonderfully stoooopid pop record. The sound is still identifiably Seventies in tone and content – anything I haven’t heard here from The Kinks I’ve heard from Bowie and 1994-era Blur – but there’s a new zest and enthusiasm that was missing last time.

You can hear it from the off, as opening track ‘Moving’ kicks into glorious life, belting through its allotted four minutes in wonderfully raucous fashion, underpinned by the best guitar-and-piano riff you’ll ever hear outside of an early Madness album. Indeed, Supergrass often remind me of Suggs’ mob, purely because of the wide-eyed sense of fun that both bands have in common and effortlessly convey to their audience.

Lupine-faced singer Gaz Coombes – who still looks as though he should be out on Bodmin Moor savaging sheep, incidentally – knows his vocal limitations, and accordingly he cuts his songs’ cloth to suit the measure, never straying far from the template of classic 4/4 Seventies pop. Only on ‘Mary’ and the caustic ‘Beautiful People’ is he called upon to hit anything resembling a high note.

Otherwise, it’s as you were. ‘Jesus Came From Outer Space’ resembles The Boo Radleys getting it on with Julian Cope in a lift shaft; ‘Your Love’ could be neglected Scottish popsters The Nectarine No 9; ‘Shotover Hill’ is almost a knock-off of one of the ballads from Prince’s Graffiti Bridge.

The Kinksian influence is so omnipresent throughout as to be almost laughable, while I’m amazed that nobody’s twigged ‘Pumping On Your Stereo’, cracking single though it is, as a direct steal of ‘Rebel Rebel’. Meanwhile, ‘Eon’ paraphrases mid-period Pink Floyd to a frightening degree, which is why it’s a relief that the lads have otherwise curbed their classic rock tendencies for the most part on this album.

Supergrass won’t change your life, it certainly won’t give you any insights into the human condition, and it has some of the dumbest lyrics I’ve ever encountered (“Life is a cigarette/ Smoke it till it ends”). But as 45 minutes of straightahead, damn-the-torpedoes, simplistic, stupid pop, it’s tremendous fun.