One old school of thought says artistic ideas thrive in turmoil; that the suburbs, happy families, Democratic presidents and full tummies are anathema to top-shelf writing, painting and music. Maybe The Libertines banks on that.

In terms of talk-show train-wreck interest, only Courtney Love’s tales of drugs, assault, miscarriage and fleeing the law surpasses The Libertines’ soap-opera story. For everyone who’s lived under a rock, here’s the short version: Guitarist/singer Pete Doherty got busted for burglarizing singer/guitarist Carl Barat’s apartment (during his first forced sabbatical from the band), went to jail, returned long enough to record the band’s self-titled sophomore effort, got booted due to a heroin and crack-cocaine habit, checked in and walked out of numerous drug clinics, and, just last week, landed a sentence for possession of a switchblade.

Instead of buckling under the tabloid feeding frenzy, The Libertines, once again produced by Clash guitar god Mick Jones, rally for a sophomore effort that’ll add some much-needed positive clips to the band’s press packet. The album opens with lead single “Can’t Stand Me Now,” a brilliant fusion of prime-cut hooks that veers wildly between crisp, from-the-garage crunch and an almost guilty-pleasure pile of secondhand jangle. Through it all, Barat and Doherty natter back and forth like a married couple in what could be a tribute to rocky loves, if it weren’t for the back-story of robbery, street drugs and on/off/on/off partnerships. With the grace of a Russian ballerina and the poise of a stumble-drunk brontosaurus, it’s everything a great rock single should be – wild, beautiful and painfully honest.

The Libertines have a spot of trouble upholding the pace set by this album’s first track, which, considering the sprint it takes out of the gates, shouldn’t surprise anyone. Then The Libertines mines an autobiographical vein and indulges in the sort of on-tape band therapy that’d make even Stevie Nicks and Lindsey Buckingham blush. Go your own way, indeed. “What Became of the Likely Lads” uses a blend of snarky garage riffs and grimy rock as a vehicle for another look at the duo’s parasitic relationship, while “The Ha Ha Wall” self-consciously confesses its issues as the band dabbles with a rowdy tune that suggests the band’s 2002 debut, Up the Bracket (Rough Trade).

When The Libertines shift gears and move their eyes toward more conventional songwriting, things aren’t quite as powerful. “Last Post on the Bugle” churns with crisp guitars that spar with ghosts of The Jam and The Strokes amid rumbling dynamics, but the love-song lyrics make the band chip away at run-of-the-mill rock’n’roll. A bouncy bass line and spidery guitar figure give “What Katie Did” a touch of merriment, and the act’s doo-wop chorus (“Shoop. Shoop, shoop de-lang de-lang”) opens the album up for a dose of whimsy. They’re good songs, for sure, but hardly the compelling, raw-hearted rock of the act’s autobiographical work.

The Libertines isn’t the monumental London Calling sort of album it was heralded as – it’ll be lucky to take many album-of-the-year nods. It’s proof, however, of just how sweet bands can sound when the world around them is going sour.