Impala

You’re at a house party and you’re not sober. The music thuds through the walls as you slip into the bathroom, lock the door, and find yourself face-to-face with your reflection. The fluorescent light is unforgiving. You stare back at this person in the mirror and think: Who the fuck is this clown? But you’re not angry. You’re not having a meltdown. The drugs keep the emotions present but manageable, like they’re happening to someone else. Instead, you just stand there, locked in this moment of clarity that isn’t quite clarity — more like a psychedelic dissociation from yourself.

This is where Deadbeat lives, Kevin Parker’s latest album as Tame Impala. Throughout the project’s 56 minutes, Parker assumes the role of the man in the mirror multiple times, lamenting his constant fuck-ups, his deepest insecurities, and his inability to truly connect with people — before stumbling out of the bathroom and rejoining the party. Deadbeat toggles between unflinching self-awareness and euphoric avoidance, Parker attempting to rave his way toward some resolution that never quite arrives.

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It’s necessary to mention that this is a completely different Tame Impala than the one most fans are familiar with, and Parker almost goes out of his way to make this clear throughout Deadbeat. Such was the intention behind “End of Summer,” the throbbing, strangely inert club-psych experiment that served as the album’s lead single. Ever wanted to hear what a Tame Impala acid house song sounds like? Do you long to be in Kevin Parker’s brain at 4am, mid-dance party? This is the album for you.

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Inspired by the Western Australia rave scene and extended free parties held in the countryside, Deadbeat is a major departure from the psych rock sound that captivated leagues of Millennials and Zoomers over a decade ago and a much closer step towards whatever RÜFÜS DU SOL are currently doing. There’s some solid guitar riffage and the occasional organic drum beat here and there, but the usual instrumental staples of a Tame Impala song are ditched for smooth, metronomic electronics and the spartan toolkit of the rave: kick drums, synth bass, and just enough ornamentation to remind you this is still a Kevin Parker production.

It’s a bold sonic reinvention, and the new direction certainly adds some dynamism to Tame Impala’s sound. But Parker’s ambitions are slightly mismatched. Tackling weighty subjects like shame and self-hatred against lean, sanitized beats creates a strange friction; there’s a disconnect between the rawness of these emotions and the distance employed in their presentation. Parker approaches nearly every song drenched in some kind of reverb, bemoaning some cyclical pattern and chalking it all up to the idea that this is just who he is.

But far too often, the instrumental backdrops are rendered weightless and devoid of passion. “Not My World” is rooted in a pleasant, pulsating rhythm, but nothing about its kaleidoscopic beat drop suggests Parker is an outsider peering in. The ’80s-esque “Piece of Heaven” follows follows the same pattern, starting with genuine tenderness — strings, crooning, all the signifiers of romantic longing — but soon, a boom-bap beat straight from Timbaland’s computer flies in, almost like Parker is hitting the eject button on his own vulnerability. Far too often on Deadbeat, the songs gesture toward emotional depth without ever fully committing to the messiness required to reach it.

Deadbeat works best when Parker ditches the hypnotic sprawl of house music and fully dons his pop star hat. At first listen, “Oblivion” is a bit of a confusing detour with a dembow beat behind it — but the moment the chorus cracks open and Parker croons “I would,” with glorious harmonies enveloping him, it sounds like the faintest echo of an old Tame Impala song squeezed inside a beat originally written for Bad Bunny.

Meanwhile, “Dracula” is an outstanding cut and one that totally achieves the dichotomy he’s set out to depict on Deadbeat: its effortlessly groovy, vibrant beat captures the allure of a party in the wee hours of the night, the seductive pull of being irresponsible and making bad decisions. Parker even leans into silliness; “Now I’m Mr. Charisma, fuckin’ Pablo Escobar,” goes one line, which could’ve been eye-roll-inducing but instead adds to the song’s playful menace. It’s a track that finds Parker almost too desperate to return to the party, where numbing out feels better than being alone and facing whatever’s waiting in the mirror.

But even below the surface, Parker comparing himself to “Dracula” beyond “running from the sun” is fascinating because he’s casually positioning himself as a villain; Parker never quite goes full ‘Goblin Mode’ on Deadbeat, but he does deliver on the title’s promise by frequently referring to himself as a fucking loser and a lowly, humble, almost pathetic lover boy.

“No Reply” is a great example of this: After a handful of apologies and excuses to his crush for not texting back, Parker confesses that he just wants to “seem like a normal guy” and croons, “You’re a cinephile, I watch Family Guy/ On a Friday night, off a rogue website/ When I should be out/ With some friends of mine/ Runnin’ rеckless wild in the streets at night/ Singin’ ‘Life, oh, lifе,’ with our arms out wide.” Parker slightly overwriting this line suggests that one small comparison — she watches artistically-riveting films, he watches a cartoon show — triggers an entire mental spiral, showing how even the smallest perceived inadequacy can totally unravel his sense of self-worth. It’s no wonder he can’t text her back; just the thought of her makes him desperate to retreat.

But while some of Parker’s exercises in contrast are effective, stagnation and fatalism dominate the album’s lyrical themes. It’s fitting that a lot of the beats on Deadbeat, especially “Not My World,” “Ethereal Connection,” and “End of Summer,” are pulsing and repetitive, because much of his musings end up feeling the same way.

So many lyrics circle back to the idea that he’ll never change, he’s doomed to be a disaster, and he has no choice but to surrender to his inner dirtbag. “Obsolete” is a good example of this, with Parker so fixated on the idea that he’ll screw up a relationship that he confesses to his partner, “I’m already talkin’ like it’s done/ Sayin’ things like, ‘At lеast we had some fun’/ And things like, ‘I guеss we met too young’” At least “Loser” brings a little more drama in the mix, with Parker asking rhetorically, “Do you wanna tear my heart out?”

It’s only towards the end where Parker finally reclaims a little bit of agency. “Afterthought” finds him fed up with being treated as disposable, the quick tempo propelling his frustration forward rather than trapping it in another throbbing loop. It’s a welcome departure from the album’s fatalism, even if it arrives too late to shift the overall mood.

At its core, Deadbeat is an album about someone completely trapped in a cycle of bad habits and self sabotage — which makes its album cover all the more odd. It’s an image of Parker embracing his daughter, smiling with contentment. It’s a sweet, sentimental photo, sure, but it feels remarkably incongruous to the content of the album it advertises. Parker has discussed that the image is meant to represent a reclamation of the idea of the “Deadbeat Dad,” that perhaps he’s allowing himself to acknowledge his shortcomings while owning the reality that he has gotten older, that responsibilities are more important, that there is someone bigger than himself depending on him.

But on an album that spends 56 minutes running from itself, that realization never makes it past the cover art.