Give up? No way. The Vines have swung back from a series of setbacks and are better than ever. By Chris Martins. Photographed by Jaesung Lee

The Vines' frontman Craig Nicholls looks the same as he always has. He's pretty in a boyish sort of way, all elbows and skinny limbs, with straight brown hair cupping a smooth pale face that ends in a pointed chin. His clothes are as nondescript as always, the usual armor of an unlikely rock star: a black T-shirt, some collared out-of-fashion thing with a zipper, a pair of cords, sneakers. His lone bit of flair is written with Sharpie across the left forearm, a shaky scrawl that reads "The Redwalls" — somebody else's band. He's grinning a mad grin as if he's getting ready to say something offensive.

"Family, friends, and religion," he snarls. "These are the three demons you must slay to succeed in the business of R 'n' R." It almost sounds convincing, nearly profound (albeit in a Spinal Tap-ish way), but he can't maintain the pose: "...which is 'rest and recovery' for me. Or 'schlock and roll.' Whatever you want to call it. It's a big joke to me; the whole thing's a joke."

He means it. Or maybe he doesn't. It's hard to know. One of the symptoms of Asperger's Syndrome, a mild form of autism which the notoriously disorderly singer was diagnosed with in 2004, is mind blindness, a condition that hinders the brain's ability to process the facial expressions and various human errata that communicate intent behind words. Whether or not it has anything to do with Nicholls' affliction, he himself is nearly impossible to read. He makes pompous statements, apologizes for them, then justifies their intent by way of humility. He laughs when he's made a joke, or when he's uttered a personal truth.  He says he doesn't care, but he obviously does — sometimes.

"We're not a new band. I don't have to do this for the money. I've got nothing to prove. We've just got this fucking great album, and that's what I think." Then: "Of course, I don't expect the album to get the recognition it may deserve, just like a lot of albums." Then, choking back fake tears: "I've never been so happy in my life." And, pressing his hair over his eyes muttering: "Um, I forget the question. I keep talking about myself..." 

So what does the return of the former harbingers of the indie-garage-rock revival mean? The Australian foursome's — Nicholls is now the only original member, and is joined by guitarist Ryan Griffiths, bassist Brad Heald, and drummer Hamish Rosser — still-untitled fourth LP is certain closer to the frenetic rock eclecticism of their 2002 Capitol debut, Highly Evolved, than anything they've done since. Recorded in Los Angeles under the tutelage of their original producer, Rob Schnapf (Foo Fighters, Elliott Smith), the record boasts a mix of string-laden balladry, Kinks-inspired retro jangle, grungy punk screamers and even death metal. It in many ways represents what indie rock has become since the Vines first appeared on the scene: A fantastic identity crisis fraught with angst and beauty and highs and lows and all of the rest. As an indicator of the times, the Vines have a conflicted relationship with record labels; at the time we did our interview, they had yet to decide which one would be releasing the new album.

"Like a lot of bands, we got dropped last year," says Nicholls, "and a guy from Capitol came down to the studio recently to hear the new stuff, and I just go up to him grinning, like, 'I think you've heard enough.' I've been a scumbag my whole life, so it doesn't matter what I do. None of this really means anything to anyone, and that doesn't bother me. Music is the only thing I ever really understood in the world."

He really does mean this, at least. He knows who he is: someone whose finds interviews, photoshoots, business meetings, and even performing often difficult and painful. But he reaches down into his sack of grins, plasters one on and bears it, because that's the only way Craig Nicholls can keep doing what he does.