Tricky one, Bruce Springsteen. It may seem quaint now, but there was a time when so-called alternative music (indie, punk, whatever) held itself up as the opposition to hoary old stadium rock clichés. Some still feel the same way, but for the younger generation the battle lines are a little less well-defined. After all, we live in a world that’s seen first The Clash, then Nirvana and most recently Green Day launch themselves towards world domination – admittedly with varying results in the personal, commercial and artistic stakes. Meanwhile indie, always the vaguest of terms, has been stripped of all meaning, and is now predominantly used as an umbrella phrase for pretty boys with guitars. And then, of course, there’s the small matter of the internet democratising music, making for easier access to the once-obscure and removing some of the sense of “otherness” as a result. Basically, the definition of “alternative” ain’t so clear these days.

Step forward Generation Y. Like the Ramones and Blondie before them, all they want to do is recreate the excitement of the pop songs they heard on the radio as kids, except that they didn’t groove to Bobby Freeman or The Crystals. Nope, they grew up to the sounds of their parents’ car stereos, which means Springsteen. Tom Petty. Dire Straits. Well, okay, maybe not so much that one, but you get the idea. Some of these bands – The Gaslight Anthem, Constantines – spent the noughties applying arena-sized choruses and road-weary tales of Bobby Jeans’n’Mary-Sues to the tricks they learned from skate punk, and when it works, it’s great fun. Sometimes, though, there’s a whiff of Dadrock to this stuff, and rather than transcending the age barrier to become anthems for The Kids, it just sounds like deathly dull AOR fodder. That’s where Nude Beach come in. Taking the E Street Band’s fun factor and rolling it around in the rough’n’ready scruff of basement punk, the sweat-sodden Brooklyn trio are broken and weary, but high on life and in no hurry to be put back together. Dammit, they’re exciting.

Okay, I admit that I might be slightly overselling the Boss-iness of Nude Beach II. True, ‘Walkin’ Down My Street’ cops more poses from ‘Blinded By The Light’ than Manfred Mann Earth Band managed when covering the fucking thing, but this album ain’t no flat-out Broooooce homage. The influence of the aforementioned Tom Petty looms almost as large, particularly during some thrillingly strangulated yelps on ‘Love Can’t Wait’, while ‘You Make It So Easy’ scooches along like Elvis Costello’s best George Harrison impersonation. Elsewhere there are shades of power pop notables such as The Shoes, The Records and Badfinger, all refracted through sloppy delirium and pounding hearts. In fact the only time they really come a cropper occurs during ‘Some Kinda Love’, where the ragged glory of the rhythm section fails to disguise the fact that the melody has been at least partially nicked from Kings Of Leon’s ‘Sex On Fire’ (now there’s an example of horrific, empty stadium bombast). Aside from that it’s good ol’ American guitar pop all the way – nothing fancy, nothing schmancy. Just hooks, cars and girls.

Singer Chuck Betz is in fine form throughout, managing to sound impassioned and gleeful even when hollering is-he-serious-oh-my-god-he’s-serious schtick like “you’re a fuel-injected engine, baby”, seemingly without a trace of irony. So no, he’s not exactly vying for poet laureate status, but ultimately this is deliberately dumb pop music designed for boozy singalongs and car stereos. To over-analyse it is to completely take the fun away, and when you’ve got a powerhouse drummer like Ryan Naideau to crash like violent waves against the coursing melodies, it’s almost a crime to do anything more than let yourself be washed away.

To some ears – particularly, one suspects, some American ones – this is all gonna sound redundant: the sound of your Dad or your boss at work’s record collection made even more insufferable by punk kids trying (and failing) to get to the bottom of the American dream. Unless you’re a real fucking idiot, you know as well as I do that Springsteen doesn’t arrive home from tour and head straight to work twelve hour shifts as a mechanic. He’s a millionaire rock star, which is why lazily-conceived one-of-the-guys tracks like ’57 Channels (And Nothin’ On)’ and ‘Queen Of The Supermarket’ ring hollow. But to these ears, it’s all about escapism – those tales of hitting the road and getting the girl have a certain romantic appeal, particularly on this side of the Atlantic, where the wide open American highway seems full of promise and adventure (unlike British motorways, which represent little more than traffic jams and tedium). Maybe that romance is enhanced when the old dude is taken out of the equation and replaced by some beerdrunk kids with guitars to hit and nothing to lose but the hope in their eyes.

Alternative review: This is a very uncomplicated guitar record. And it’s great fun. So there.