Five years after 2020’s Slow Rush, Kevin Parker—better known by his musical project Tame Impala—finally released his fifth studio album, Deadbeat, on Oct. 17. Since then, the album has been the subject of endless criticism for its lyrics, sound, and overall concept. Parker's newest project shifts a bit from his usual synth–backed sound, bringing in influences from ‘70s Turkish music, techno, and Western Australia’s “bush doof” rave scene. That blend alone is enough to send all corners of the internet into a frantic debate. Few artists are expected to please such opposing audiences at once, and fewer still end up using that tension to make a point.
If you’ve spent any time on Reddit or reading reviews, you’ve likely seen the same complaints: that Deadbeat is “A huge step down from Kevin Parker’s last works,” or “The worst Tame Impala album to date.” Both longtime fans and casual listeners have weighed in, with many declaring Deadbeat a misstep from an artist who built his reputation on genre–bending, psychedelic pop. To some fans, Parker’s new direction is less an expression of the fluid experimentation they expect and more of a detour into disunited, unfamiliar territory.
But to call Deadbeat a failure misses the point. Parker’s work has always been defined less by a fixed sound and more by the way he constantly reshapes himself. His music is always evolving: taking risks, pushing boundaries, and constantly adapting to new surroundings. The same shimmering synths and hypnotic hooks of Currents and Lonerism are present here, only refracted through a darker, spookier lens. What’s changed is how these sounds are layered. The nods to Australian rave culture connect the album to Parker’s roots, giving the record a sense of urgency and anxiety that’s different from his previous work, although the signature Tame Impala haze remains. Whenever the music veers into new territory, a familiar chorus or swirling echo reminds you exactly whose world you’re in.
The album’s title, Deadbeat, carries heavy baggage—it’s often used to describe an absent or neglectful parent. For Parker to use that word and then appear on the cover with his young daughter, Peach, feels at once self–aware and deeply personal. Rather than hiding behind the label, Parker seems to confront it head–on. A classic father–daughter portrait alongside the album’s title becomes a meditation on reinvention, burnout, and the pressure to balance creativity with real–life responsibilities. Throughout the album, the lyrics balance self–doubt and self–awareness, all delivered with Parker’s signature wink. There’s an exhaustion in the music, but also humor, resilience, and an ongoing commitment to making art that means something. It’s as if he’s saying, “Yes, I’m tired, but I’m still here, making weird pop songs for you.” The cover and the music together gently challenge the idea that an artist can’t be present as both creator and parent.
These themes play out across the album’s highlights. “Dracula” stands out as the song of the season for me, and it’s one of the album’s tracks I still have on repeat. Its dramatic, “Thriller”–inspired opening and cryptic lyrics have polarized listeners, but it’s precisely that weirdness that gives the track its energy. It pulses with a menacing groove, its baseline stalking the melody while Parker half-taunts us through a wave of reverb. “Afterthought” launches right in with a fast beat and punchy electronic textures—it's frenetic and danceable, yet still layered with those lush soundscapes and dreamy lyrics that Parker fans know so well.
“My Old Ways” has a chorus that’s been stuck in my head since my first listen. The unexpected piano intro quickly gives way to a classic Tame Impala groove, almost as if Parker is reminding us he hasn’t gone anywhere. “Oblivion” starts off sounding like a house track, then shifts into a dreamy haze, sporting a chorus that floats above the mix. The mood swing is deliberate and captures perfectly the album’s focus on disoriented renewal. “Piece of Heaven” leans into bedroom pop, while “Obsolete” dips back into the Currents era. Then there’s “Ethereal Connection,” an eight–minute EDM–inspired track that slowly builds until, around the six–minute mark, everything finally blends together in a wash of sound. The experimentation across the album is a large part of what makes it so great.
If you needed any more proof of Parker’s versatility, look no further than the NPR Music Tiny Desk Concert released the same day as the album. Stripped down and acoustic, the songs prove they can stand on their own, even without all the studio layers. Beneath all the experimentation and online debate, Parker’s songwriting is as sharp and affecting as ever.
Maybe Deadbeat isn’t what some fans wanted from Tame Impala. But that’s exactly why it matters. It’s a snapshot of an artist growing older, getting messier, and refusing to stand still. Parker might joke about being a “deadbeat,” but with this album, he proves he’s anything but absent—he’s more present, creative, and uncompromising than ever.
