Album review: Tame Impala 'Currents'

Image: Tame Impala

Three albums in to a lysergic journey, Kevin Parker has expanded the parameters of Tame Impala, resurfacing from the droney psychedelic underworld that brought Innerspeaker and Lonerism, opting for a newly devised method of escapism involving rippling disco bass lines to merge a new form of sonic tab licking.  

It's by far their most accessible album to date, drawn from the grasp of stoners hot boxing their bedrooms to a wider audience, and the formula is ultimately mesmerising. After all, it was an album inspired by Parker drugged up in a Sedan listening to the Bee Gees, and that juncture is relayed throughout the album. 

Inhabiting previously unexplored territory for the band, Currents revels in synth paved portals cutting back from the guitar directed aesthetic on previous albums. Opener 'Let It Happen' embodies the transition, a submerged cut of washed grooves occasionally interrupted by a muffled bass line, persistent key solo and Parker's drowning vocal. 

Setting the tone for the remainder of the album, the track takes on multiple textures as it dwindles first setting in with a harrowing organ, accompanying claps and later a scuzzy guitar riff to bring us back to previous territories explored.

What's apparent is that this record is rooted to the real world emotionally as much as it's landscaped beyond reality. 'Yes I'm Changing' evokes candid lyrics intuitively inspired by Parker's break up with girlfriend Melody Prochet, no guitars in sight, just a hazey glaze of synthesised nothingness. But that's enough of that sorcery for us, it'd be fucking preposterous to lose the guitars completely, we're not dealing with Depeche Mode here. 

Ever heard of that guy Ronson, the current king of funk who probably trailed Parker out of the studio after the 'Daffodils' link up and inflicted a seventies bass line on 'The Less I know The Better'? It's by far a stand out track on the album, the fledging disco riff eclipses the sadness and jealously enveloped within the lyrics; it's a paradoxical sunshine cocktail stirred by tears and grief.   

'Cause I'm A Man' ousts Ronson and slips the record back into a warped reality, a sprawling almost pop-like chorus that extends the love story further. This time Parker's excusing his actions for being a man, "Cause I'm a Man, Woman", proving that despite his conspicuous ability to produce great albums etched into a parallel cosmos, he's built with the same rear-guard regularly encountered by a pissed off female.

What we have here is an album built on transition, grief and pain often conveyed through ethereal and immersive melodies harmoniously trying to seep through a new light. It feels like an album that Kevin Parker wanted to get out of the way just as much as he wanted to communicate something new; it's a journey into the subconscious of a heartbroken man, most probably under the influence of acid whilst listening to the Bee Gees.

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