John Butler has had enough. After nearly two decades of hard touring, the singer had disbanded his long-running John Butler Trio, the band that helped make him not only one of Australia’s musical icons but also one of its biggest exports ever. Despite a contentious lifelong relationship shaped in part by violence and abuse, his dying father had moved into his bedroom, Butler sleeping on the couch as he tried his hand at palliative care. His wife, Danielle, was across the country, tending to her ailing father, too. Having endured the tension of decades on the road and the strong wills of two energetic creative halves, their relationship was now faltering. And finally, the home studio that Butler had at last upgraded so he could make music alone—without the interference and anxiety of involving anyone else—broke, his recording rig stalling so that he could no longer work at all. His solace became his stressor, and he thought the time had come, just maybe, to quit. But then he asked for help. Butler rendezvoused with James Ireland, a member of Pond and a crucial part of a younger Australian cadre surging to international attention. They cut “King of California,” a radiant celebration song of sorts for Butler’s perseverant journey with Danielle, and Butler realized anew the magic that making music when it felt good could hold. Rather than dip, he theorized the most ambitious artistic plan of his 30-year career: a four-album cycle that allowed him to restart in a place of pure tone and culminate, three records and several years later, with another band of his own. He would call it all Four Seasons. The third volume, PRISM, may be the most candid, poignant and powerful record of his life, proof that to get back to something we believe in we sometimes have to start, once again, from next to nothing. PRISM is the urgent work of someone with a lot to say, with emotional terrain to explore and the understanding that music is still maybe the best way he’s ever found to do so. These dozen songs fall loosely into three compelling categories. First, Butler doubles down on his activism for nearly half the record, criticizing mega-corporations upending the earth and celebrating the natural wonder that remains. Where “Wings to Fly” is a spoken-sung tirade over undulating synths that recall the later works of fellow Australian Nick Cave, “Outta My Head” is a spring-loaded rock song about fending off the craziness of our post-truth oblivion. These songs are righteous reflections of our time and warnings about what we stand to lose. Butler turned 50 not long after PRISM was finished. He sees that as nothing but a blessing. It is not so much an ending as the close of a new beginning for Butler. He is now fully aware that he has not yet had enough, because this is just a start.