Tame Impala Is Spread Too Thin On Deadbeat

“No Reply” sits as a high point, if only because it is so sonically different from the rest of the record, arriving like somebody wrote a Broadcast song in a K-hole. The way Parker layers the cavernous breakbeats with his signature synth haze makes up for the Family Guy name-drop. Parker’s voice is strikingly low while he delivers run-on verses in a looping melody, mimicking the mental spin-out before a panic attack. He’s blunt and relatable as he picks himself apart—an apology for being avoidant, delivered with a weary acceptance that borders on surrender. That resignation settles deeper when the piano drifts back in, circling the melody like a final breath.

Deadbeat cycles through the varying, oft-conflicting iterations of Parker’s psyche, revealing new facets of his insecurities with each track: single “Dracula” holds the overcompensating bravado; “Not My World” grows from contemplative isolation; “Oblivion” revels in dembow-set pockets of relief. Parker is self-destructive, too, like on “Obsolete,” ending a relationship before he can be broken up with, trying to get ahead of the hurt (“‘Cause I’m already talkin’ like it’s done / Sayin’ things like ‘At least we had some fun’ / And things like ‘I guess we met too young’”). The obsessive anxieties Parker revisits feel out of sync with the polished confidence of the entire Deadbeat era. He’s more visible than ever, and while he still stammers through interviews, it’s hard to square those insecurities with the globe-trotting lifestyle, young family, brand deals, and festival-headliner status he’s embracing. It feels like he’s replaying outgrown emotions.

“Ethereal Connection” and “Not My World” nearly deliver on the record’s techno promise, the former leaning into crunchy, industrial, give-me-a-bump energy, and the latter blaring Purge-like electronics that feel like falling down a rabbit hole of insecurities. At almost eight minutes, “Ethereal Connection” serves as a turning point on the album’s back-half: its thumping beat jolts you awake after the subdued pop of “Piece of Heaven” and “Oblivion.” It’s one of the most sonically intriguing tracks, where Parker allows himself to get intricate with his construction without tethering himself to a pop hook. (Though the snarl noises in the opening build… what’s up with those?). The tracks make for bittersweet listens, because they’re among the few moments where Parker lets the music breathe, and they make you wish he hadn’t stuffed the rest of the record so tightly with such airless pop music.

Deadbeat is more boom-chicka than club thumper, as Parker is in his poptimism era more than ever before, unable to shake his compulsion to write a catchy melody—and the hooks are undeniable, many already memorable. But the production that accompanies them feels like formulaic references: “Obsolete,” while easy listening, feels built for Tate McRae’s lacquered melodies, with its Spanish guitar and Pussycat Doll riffs; “Oblivion” could be a Victoria Monét B-side, or the second-coming of Childish Gambino’s “Feels Like Summer”; “Piece of Heaven,” a low point both for the record and the Tame Impala catalogue altogether, opens with harped synths reminiscent of Enya’s “Orinoco Flow”—which reappear on the disorienting and hollow “See You On Monday (You’re Lost)”—before collapsing into a too-obvious, pre-programmed clap track that adds an unfortunate film of cheesiness to the arrangement. It’s one of Parker’s truest, simplest love songs, but to a debilitating fault—and a pointless listen when tracks like “Past Life” and “Yes I’m Changing” already exist.

In his recent sitdown with Zane Lowe, Parker addressed the chatter surrounding his sonic evolution: “If I didn’t care about the music anymore and I just wanted to make money, the way you’d know that is if I did the same thing again,” he said, emphasizing the predictability that would come with another Lonerism or Currents. And as much as Deadbeat doesn’t sound like either of those records, with its skewed flashes of dark industrial grit and unexpected gloss, its pop core makes it more like The Slow Rush than maybe Parker even realizes. I see glints of “Tomorrow’s Dust” in “Oblivion,” the looseness of “Borderline” in “Loser,” and the “Is It True” funkiness in “Afterthought.” But it’s less a deliberate callback than it is muscle memory kicking in. Parker is brimming with ideas, yet somehow he’s locked himself in a box. Deadbeat’s tracklist lacks cohesion in favor of listless repetition. The house and techno idea remain surface-level, as if Parker stopped himself before diving all the way over the experimental edge. Instead, he gets lost in the sugar of it all. If he really wanted to get weird, he could’ve gone full hyperpop and owned it.

We wouldn’t have the euphoric chaos of “Let It Happen” or the trip-hop masterclass that is “New Person, Same Old Mistakes” without Parker’s willingness to chase an idea, a synth tone, a melody, until it unraveled. The risk of Deadbeat is how few risks he actually takes. Of course, there’s an obvious bravery in refusing to stay stagnant, even when you know what works. Deadbeat is packed with catchy, likable songs, but it still feels phoned in—like Parker decided “good” was good enough, abandoning his usual pursuit of perfection. That tension stems from his new collaborative streak: he’s an endless vat of ideas, but is growing fuzzy about which ones are truly his. Parker may joke about being the “dumbest in the room,” yet he’s still the only one who can write a Tame Impala song—even if, here, it only feels like Tame Impala by name and voice, not execution. Parker is still searching, tinkering, and trying to outsmart his own formula. But the experiment finally feels like it’s running him instead of the other way around.