In Paul F Cook’s recent review of Rowena Wise’s new album he wrote that she had: been using music as therapy after some difficult years of big life changes and Bad Things Feel Good* is a poetic and often painful autobiography that has left us with an amazing set of songs on an album that fixes her honesty and empathy in amber.
We at Joyzine were keen to find out more detail about the songs so asked Rowena if she would provide us with a track by track breakdown of Bad Things Feel Good* and she very kindly obliged and more than exceeded our expectations.
Introduction:
I wrote Bad Things Feel Good* over the last couple of years while I was touring constantly, moving through heartbreak, difficult periods with my mental health, and some big shifts in how I understood love, identity and myself. Strangely, the more I travelled, the more displaced I felt when I came home — in my heart, my head and my sense of home within. The songs circle the contradictions I kept finding myself inside: loving someone and still needing to leave, wanting freedom and being frightened by it, reaching for things that offered relief while knowing they might also undo me, and realising that honesty can be both liberating and painful. That tension is where the title lives. Bad Things Feel Good* isn’t about glorifying harm; it’s about the grey area where desire, self-betrayal, tenderness, pleasure and consequence can exist at once, and where painful experiences can become part of how we grow. The asterisk is the unspoken footnote—the acknowledgement that nothing is ever that simple. I put a lot of heart into these songs, sat beside the darker parts of myself, and tried to let the mess remain complicated rather than forcing it into a clean story.
Track by Track:
1. Home in this World
I wrote this song to honour the part of me that sometimes feels utterly alone in the universe — and how that loneliness can feel both heavy and strangely beautiful. It grew out of a perspective I’ve carried my whole life, one I only found the language for in adulthood.
I often feel that the world is driven by chaos. We’re born into it, shaped by it, moving along paths that intersect with countless others in ways that feel accidental and unplanned. So much of life seems to unfold without inherent meaning. That lack of control has, at times, left me feeling alienated — like I’m drifting within something vast and indifferent.
But the song emerged when I stopped resisting that feeling and allowed it to settle gently. Instead of fighting the loneliness, I tried to understand it. I began to accept that purpose isn’t something we’re born with — it’s something we create. That realisation is both terrifying and profound. To face your existence at face value, without a grand narrative attached, requires a kind of quiet courage.
There are moments when I don’t quite feel at home here — especially when I look up at the night sky and notice the darkness stretching between the stars. I know I’m standing on Earth, grounded and human. But I’m also made of the same stardust as the cosmos above me. In that sense, I don’t fully belong to this small patch of ground. I am a fragment of something immeasurably larger — a tiny, conscious piece of the great beyond.
The song holds that duality: the ache of feeling small and alone, and the awe of realising you are part of everything.
2. More Horizon
I wrote ‘More Horizon’ to capture the warmth, comfort, and quiet curiosity that come with deepening a new relationship on steady, grounded footing. There’s a gentle magic in the early stages of something real — not rushed or chaotic, but unfolding naturally. Beneath it all was a simple thought: it could have been anybody, and yet it’s you. That awareness made it feel even more meaningful. It filled me with gratitude for the strange, random path that fate lays at our feet — the countless chances and coincidences that somehow lead two people to each other.
I’m deeply grateful for the kind of love that feels bigger than either person alone — where you stand side by side and create something exponential. A connection that becomes more than just the sum of your separate selves. It’s rare to find something unassuming and genuine, where there’s no performance, no pedestal — just two people discovering each other layer by layer.
That discovery happens everywhere: in the rush of music, in the stillness of shared silence, in the thrill of life’s chaos, and in the softness of ordinary days. You don’t always realise how rare that kind of connection is until you’ve lived a little longer, until you’ve seen what it isn’t.
‘More Horizon’ is about that simple yet expansive feeling — witnessing the world shoulder to shoulder, choosing to walk life’s tightrope together, and daring to look ahead toward something wider. Toward more horizon.
3. Blood Ties
I wrote ‘Blood Ties’ after a close friend experienced a mental health crisis. In the aftermath, I watched his father struggle to respond — not because he didn’t love his son, but because he didn’t know how to meet him emotionally. He had grown up in a culture that taught men to suppress their feelings, to equate strength with silence, and to see vulnerability as weakness. When faced with his son’s pain, he simply didn’t have the tools to step into it with him.
At its heart, ‘Blood Ties’ is about how essential vulnerability is within the relationships that matter most. Loving someone isn’t just about providing or protecting — it’s about being willing to sit in discomfort, to speak openly, and to let yourself be seen. When we can’t do that, even the deepest love can feel distant.
In Australia, especially, emotional restraint has long been normalised — reinforced across generations by men and women alike. Depression has often been framed as a failure of character, something you fix by working harder and keeping quiet. But that silence creates space for shame to grow, particularly within families where unspoken pain lingers beneath the surface.
The lyric, “…the black sheep running around / it was always you,” speaks to the father’s own buried hurt. While he saw his son as the “black sheep,” he was carrying his own unresolved trauma from an emotionally avoidant upbringing. Without realising it, he passed that pain down. Not through cruelty, but through silence. Through the inability to say, I’m struggling too.
The song acknowledges that no one is entirely at fault — we are all shaped by the environments that raised us. But it also argues that love demands more from us. The only way to break generational cycles is to choose openness over pride, honesty over discomfort. Being vulnerable with the people you love isn’t weakness; it’s courage. It’s how we show up. It’s how we heal.
4. No Angel
‘No Angel’ is a song about heartbreak, remorse, and the loneliness that comes from confronting your own limitations. I wrote it after suddenly parting ways with someone I truly believed I had a future with — someone with whom I shared a rare, electric connection. It felt pure and expansive, like the kind of love you’re supposed to hold onto. They saw something in me that not many people do, and for a while, I let myself believe in that version of myself too.
But when I realised I couldn’t give them what they needed, something shifted. The clarity was painful. I felt a deep sense of alienation — not just from them, but from myself. There was self-loathing in knowing I couldn’t love them in the way they deserved. Their adoration felt bright and unwavering, and I felt like a fraud standing in it.
The lyric, “I’m no angel / stop looking at me like I’m not human,” came from that moment of reckoning. It was born out of disgust and shame — a plea to be seen not as an ideal, but as someone flawed and uncertain. I’ve struggled with low self-esteem and depressive periods for much of my life, but realising my heart had changed made me distrust myself even more. I felt weak, undeserving of their respect, incapable of living up to the image reflected back at me.
I rushed into the relationship, and it burned intensely — so bright that it blinded me to a quieter truth: I didn’t have the capacity to love them fully. I’ve always been the one who believes in love, who follows it fiercely wherever it leads. But this time, I was the one walking away. In doing so, I hurt someone I cared about deeply, and I fell from the pedestal that new love had placed me on.
What I’ve come to understand is that breaking someone’s heart doesn’t make you heartless — it makes you human. Telling the truth, even when it causes pain, is sometimes the most honest act of love you can offer. Owning your mistakes, fumbling through someone else’s heart, and accepting your imperfections hurts deeply. But it’s real. And in the end, it’s better to be human than to pretend to be an angel.
5. Sum of Two
I wrote ‘Sum of Two’ when I was processing my complex emotions around a breakup. It captures that quiet, devastating moment when you realise the spark that once defined your love is beginning to fade — even while you’re still holding each other close. There’s something especially heartbreaking about feeling someone’s arms around you, sensing the warmth and history you’ve built together, while privately questioning why you no longer feel whole inside it.
From the outside, you look like two people who fit — who add up perfectly. But behind closed doors, there’s an imbalance. The words “I love you” begin to feel heavier on your tongue, because you know your version doesn’t quite match theirs. What once felt effortless now carries doubt, and that doubt grows louder in the silence between you.
There’s always something unquantifiable about a connection between two people — a kind of invisible current that expands beyond logic. But within that space of intimacy, there’s also room for uncertainty. And sometimes, the most loving thing you can do is tell the truth: to admit that you’re not the person who can fill the space they’re asking you to fill.
Even as you hold their hand through the goodbye, even as every instinct tells you to cling to what’s familiar, you understand that letting them go is an act of care. Choosing honesty over comfort is painful, but it’s also merciful. Sometimes love isn’t about holding on — it’s about having the courage to release.
6. Diamond in the Rough
I wrote this song to explore the darker side of being seen as exceptional — praised for your talent, charisma, or beauty until that praise becomes a cage. It’s about the loneliness of standing on a pedestal you didn’t entirely choose, and the quiet pressure to remain impressive at all costs. When you’re elevated like that, it can feel as though there’s no room to be ordinary, no permission to fail, and no safety in simply being human.
The idea came after watching a close friend move through an identity crisis. She placed enormous pressure on herself to be extraordinary — to be the most captivating, the most accomplished, the most desired. But when she inevitably fell short of her own impossible standards, she felt alienated and ashamed. When her heart was suddenly broken, that fragile self-image shattered. Because so much of her identity was built on overperforming — socially, emotionally, romantically — she didn’t know who she was without the applause.
She wore a mask of capability and charm, even in deep heartbreak. Vulnerability felt incompatible with the image she had worked so hard to maintain. But overperforming to earn acceptance often traces back to earlier blueprints — childhood neglect, conditional love, past relationships, or even being told from a young age that you’re “special” or “gifted.” When your worth is tied to being exceptional, being average can feel like failure.
This song is an invitation to step down from that self-made pedestal. To pause. To let yourself unravel a little. To reach toward others not from above or below, but on equal footing. There’s freedom in allowing yourself to be imperfect, complicated, and unremarkable in the best way.
We are all layered, flawed, evolving people. And perhaps the most liberating realisation is this: we don’t have to be extraordinary to be worthy. We are not special — we are simply enough.
7. The Anchor
I wrote ‘The Anchor’ as a way of confronting my own unhealthy codependency in romantic relationships. After a major rift with someone I’d shared a long-term partnership with, I was forced to recognise how much of my identity I had quietly built around them. I’ve always carried this romantic notion that to truly love someone meant to lose yourself in them — to dissolve into the relationship entirely. But when things fractured, I realised I didn’t fully know who I was without that dynamic defining me.
Touring heavily over the past few years only sharpened that awareness. My time at home felt scarce, and I noticed how little energy I’d invested in nurturing my own hobbies, friendships, and independent rhythms. Without the relationship as my anchor point, I felt untethered. The song holds both heaviness and gentleness because it was written in a moment of sad clarity — pulling back the covers on a belief I’d treated as gospel for most of my adult life.
Admitting how deeply entrenched that attachment had become was confronting. The love was real, layered with history and meaning, which made the need to change even more painful. Letting go of my old understanding of what our relationship meant felt like grieving a version of myself. But it was necessary. I needed to reclaim a sense of self-possession — to feel whole without relying on a partner to shape my identity.
The Anchor is about learning to exist in polarity rather than fusion: to stand beside someone, not inside them. To love deeply without disappearing.
8. Unlearning of Love
‘Unlearning of Love’ is a song about surrendering to the mystery of connection and allowing love to take shapes I hadn’t previously imagined. It was written during a time of forming new friendships and bonds that felt expansive — relationships that lived somewhere between platonic and romantic, where intimacy wasn’t defined by possession or expectation. Non-monogamy was the context of writing this, but the song isn’t necessarily about that relationship structure itself. I wrote it to reflect that gentle, searching space: sitting beside someone like you’re both driftwood, offering comfort without answers, asking yourself quietly what defines a good friend. It’s about learning to hold someone’s hand without trying to own it.
Over the past few years, I’ve felt myself slowly dismantling long-held beliefs about what love is supposed to look like. I was raised on the idea that closeness meant exclusivity, that devotion required boundaries drawn tightly around two people. But new connections showed me something different — the idea of loving unpossessed, of feeling compersion for companions and community, of letting go instead of gripping tightly. There’s vulnerability in that openness. A rush. A sense of coming undone.
Changing your fundamental beliefs about love can feel destabilising — like your identity is cracking open. I wrote “I’m coming apart for the slow unlearning of love,” to capture that internal rupture. To unlearn is to dismantle something that once felt like truth. It can feel destructive, even frightening, to let go of the frameworks that shaped your sense of self. But within that unraveling, there’s expansion.
This song documents that fragile in-between — where you’re shedding an old version of yourself to make space for something more generous and less possessive. It asks whether you can hold space for someone without holding onto them. Whether you can wait in the dark with an open heart. Unlearning of Love is about breaking apart just enough to rebuild a way of loving that feels freer, kinder, and more communal — a love that doesn’t cage, but connects.
9. Bad Things Feel Good
I wrote ‘Bad Things Feel Good’ while wrestling with the idea of purpose — and the pressure I’ve always put on myself to make the “right” decisions in order to be worthy. For a long time, I lived as though every choice was tallying up toward some final judgment, as if there were a moral ledger waiting at the end of my life. The song came from the exhaustion of that mindset — the paranoia of trying to be perfect, of fearing that one wrong turn might cost me paradise.
At its core, the track is about surrendering to the reality that life isn’t black and white. Right and wrong blur. The moral compass wobbles. Sometimes you throw it away altogether and follow your heart, even when it makes a mess. There’s a line in the song that asks, “Who wrote the book?” — questioning who decided the rules in the first place, and whether there really is a gatekeeper checking IDs at heaven’s door. The truth I keep circling back to is that there is no cosmic point system. There’s no divine scale weighing our every move. We are the ones who live with our choices, and we’re the only ones who can measure them honestly.
The song acknowledges something uncomfortable: sometimes the “bad” things feel good. Not because harm feels good, but because indulgence, desire, rebellion and authenticity can sit in the grey areas society warns us about. Maybe you’re queer in a conservative community. Maybe you love someone you’re not supposed to. Maybe you experiment, deviate, or step outside the boundaries you were handed. The fear of getting it wrong can be paralysing — but so can denying who you are.
There’s also an existential undercurrent in the song — the recognition that nothing may be waiting for us when we slip away. That we are shadows playing, chasing meaning in a vast universe. Without a promised legacy or eternal reward, what guides us? For me, it comes back to something simpler: doing my best because it feels good to try. Seeking kindness over perfection. Accepting that every action carries both light and shadow.
‘Bad Things Feel Good’ isn’t about glorifying recklessness — it’s about releasing the fear of moral absolutism. It’s about understanding that growth often happens in the grey areas, and that being human means stumbling, questioning, desiring and doubting. If there is a greater purpose, it doesn’t demand flawless decisions. It asks for honesty. And sometimes honesty feels dangerous — and strangely good.
10. Days Ahead
I wrote ‘Days Ahead’ after a period in my life where I was unraveling — partying too hard, numbing out, and handing my heart over without care. I could feel the damage accumulating, aware that each decision was leaving a quiet trail of ruin behind me. I remember a particularly lonely moment when I felt warm and woozy, my friends together partying down the hallway, but I was alone staring at myself in the mirror. I had not entirely recognised who I’d become.
The song came from hitting that low point — from knowing I couldn’t retrace my steps or undo the hurt I’d caused myself and others. You can’t go back down a road you’ve already walked. All you can do is lift your head, set the heavy load down for a moment, and unpack it. I began to see my past not as something to be ashamed of, but as something to examine. Somewhere inside the mess — inside the fear, the impulsivity, the love I drove away — there were small pieces of gold. Lessons. Hard truths. A chance to become more self-aware.
There’s a line in the song about needing to be “hard and humble,” and that’s really what it’s about. I didn’t want to collapse into self-loathing or continue the spiral of self-destruction. I wanted to let those painful experiences toughen me in the right ways — to humble me, not hollow me out. It takes courage to look at the parts of yourself that sabotaged something good, to admit you weren’t ready, or wise, or steady enough. But reflection is where growth begins.
‘Days Ahead’ is ultimately a song of consolation and resolve. It acknowledges the wreckage without glamorising it, and it looks forward with quiet determination. The past can’t be rewritten, but it can be repurposed. And if you’re willing to sift through what you’re carrying, you might find exactly what you need to sustain you for the days ahead.
Our heartfelt thanks to Rowena for taking the time to give Joyzine readers such a great insight into the tracks on this most complex and beautiful album.
Rowena Wise: Bandcamp | Website | Instagram | Facebook | TikTok | | Tidal | YouTube
Bad Things Feel Good* is available to stream, download and CD and there are a range of coloured and standard pressing vinyl including a vinyl and CD bundle with her debut album Senseless Acts of Beauty on Bandcamp.
UK Tour 2027
Thu 4 March – London – Moth Club
Fri 5 Mar – Bristol – The Louisiana
Sat 6 Mar – Birmingham – The Sunflower
Sun 7 Mar – TBA – Venue TBA
Tue 9 Mar – Newcastle – Cluny2
Wed 10 Mar – Glasgow – The Glad Café
Thu 11 Mar – Leeds – Headrow House
Fri 12 Mar – Norwich – Voodoo Daddy’s
Sat 13 Mar – Brighton – Green Door Store
Sun 14 Mar – Manchester – The Abbey
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