I am eternally grateful for the times when the only things that seem to make sense are the crash of guitars and a catchy middle eight. I can find as much comfort in a ragged voice bemoaning the world as I can in the warm buzz of inebriation. The best music springs from the well of feeling and from these depths a listener can find comfort in the fact that someone else shares your pain. A life lived isn’t always pleasant. It is less self-destructive to find meaning in a record than at the bottom of a glass or the end of a fight.

I have the highest regard for the power of music. It is meant to be an emotional experience. However, there are times when music seems to make too much sense: the songwriter’s catharsis cuts too deeply, drawing insights like blood. These are the times when you do not want to listen to anything. I have ruined records by letting them soundtrack the melodramatic nonsense of my life. Even years later, songs can make me twinge. The poignant impact of music is a double-edged sword.

Veteran Australian rock band You Am I have been through tough times recently. Once feted in the Antipodes, inspiring the likes of Silverchair, The Vines, and Jet, they were dropped by their record label and frontman Tim Rogers even made headlines after attacking an Australian Idol judge in an airport. But, as their latest record Convicts reveals, it was really all about a woman. The protagonist on this record is in a destructive spiral, thanks to a woman who’s “got soul,” but “when the going gets tough she’ll kick you in the nuts.” I can relate. These women inhabit my life. Sure, I might not be a divorcee rock star who’s had to endure media frenzies and near band break-ups, but if I ever go on a Rogers-esque bender I’ll hand over Convicts as my alibi.

The album clocks in at just over the thirty-minute mark, leaving room for little more than power chords, bile, and poncery. The blistering opening combo of “Thank God I’ve Hit the Bottom” and lead single “It Ain’t Funny How We Don’t Talk Anymore” is a clear indication of You Am I’s current modus operandi. High octane rockers abound. “Constance George” is a dirty ragged older brother of a punk song. You Am I fans will lap up the call and response on “By My Own Hand,” whilst “Gunslingers” has the huge sing-along chorus that’ll make any crestfallen fool howl to the moon. The songwriting may not be consistent—“A Nervous Kid” won’t be on my desert island mixtape—but this record will show how far vigor can take you.

Amidst the testosterone and sweet hooks, there’s acridity. It is in the slow burners that this record really gets you in the gut. Only with the maturity of this venerable band could “Secrets” come off with such assuredness. “The Sweet Life” starts off with a sleazy blues riff, but is all about the heartbreaking chorus. And forget the conceit of an attention-seeking writer; directness is Rogers’s standard play. The candour of “You’re beautiful, but you’re fucked” or “those long sad goodbyes / Did we have to pay such a price?” aren’t particularly poetic, but the blows of anguish are never all that subtle. I’ve flipped the bird in my time.

I was worried that I would ruin the record with this current funk I’m in. I had visions of a future where Convicts would be too painful a listen—the yearning of “I’m a Mess” forever identified with my own soap opera. These songs do not deserve such a fate.

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