If the search for a life-affirming riff is a daily ritual, time will be well spent here. And whether the Black Dog of the title is of the Churchillian or mutt-next-door variety, Airbourne can help bring both to heel.

Like their exalted compatriots, the quartet are carriers of that Australian no-frills rock gene: 10 songs in 34 minutes, no power ballads and more testosterone than WrestleManias I-III combined. With eyes closed, it's like reliving the glory days (and bedroom shape-throwing) of MTV's Headbangers Ball on a weekend.

When it comes to rough-and-ready muscle (that's a new song title right there, lads), Airbourne have plenty, but perhaps the best thing about their third album is the consistent delivery of party choruses to rival the greats from that golden age, the one where the bands wore more make-up than the women in their videos.

See, they do make them liked they used to.

Harry Guerin