From a distance Wave House almost looked accidental.
It’s a mirage of weathered timber, wonky balconies and misshapen wood that appears to be collected from the shoreline, and floor-to-ceiling glass all tucked into secluded scrubland.
Its views, and the stories encased in its walls, though: priceless.
For decades it was a part of South West lore, a place where musicians would make the pilgrimage though Injidup’s windy roads to record in the beachside temple. Fatboy Slim, Beastie Boys and The Waifs all reportedly stayed and played.
Then there was the cavernous amphitheatre in the back, a destination for everyone from late-night ravers to happy couples and their wedding guests.
Kevin Parker recorded Tame Impala’s debut album Innerspeaker there in 2010, an experience he describes as chaos in the wilderness. So inspired by the magic of the place, he decided that one day it would be his.
His first album would go on to launch him as one of the most distinctive and influential artists of his generation. In 2020, he purchased Wave House.
“For me there’s always been this juxtaposition between serenity and chaos (at Wave House). Just going down to the amphitheatre, you can feel the energy down there. It’s a really magical thing,” Parker tells STM.
After years of sandy feet, all-night recording sessions and week-long benders, the home well and truly needed some love. Parker was told that it wouldn’t survive another winter — some parts of the home weren’t even secured to the ground.
These days, it’s quieter. And cleaner. Parker says it’s been rejuvenated, but the structure and the vibe remains.
It’s not unlike the musician himself, someone who is constantly rebuilding through sound and chasing something new with every album. And yet, his foundation never shifts.
For all the worldwide fame, awards, celebrity mates and homes in LA and WA, at his core he’s still the fella from Freo making music in a dingy share house.
It’s 10pm in Mexico when Parker chats with STM about his new album, Deadbeat — recorded in the port-side city of his 20s and his Injidup digs — surprised by how clear the line sounds. “Torture,” he remembers of the patchy calls he used to do with American journalists in his small bedroom.
The connection, like the music on his new 12-track album, is sharper now. More confident. The self-confessed perfectionist will never completely loosen the reins, but he’s rebuilt again and he’s curious to see what people think. He’s already dropped Loser (with a music video starring musician and Stranger Things actor Joe Keery) and Dracula.
Described as a collection of wickedly potent club-psych explorations — a vehicle for some of his most direct, ear-wormy songwriting to date — the new album feels both new and nostalgic. It blends pop, techno and industrial electronic sounds, the latter of which feels most out of Parker’s comfort zone. But he thinks back to a David Bowie (he thinks) quote when he tries something new.
“Music sounds the best when it sounds like someone’s out of their depth,” the Perth-raised musician says. “When it sounds like they are just out of their depth of what they can do. If you’re making music and you’re already a master at it, there is no tension to it. There’s no wonder and discovery to it.”
There are catchy tracks like Piece Of Heaven that lend themselves to a coastal drive, windows down. Or as Parker says, has stadium pop energy: “I usually sort of bury my songs in reverb and then make them too distorted to be played in a stadium.”
Then there are “filthy” beats like Obsolete or Ethereal Connection that revellers will be dancing to at 3am.
“That might be the best word (filthy) that I’ve heard, the most complimentary word so far,” Parker laughs.
It’s different from his previous four albums. For Deadbeat, Parker had a strong vision, rather than “throwing paint at walls and seeing what sticks” as he had before.
“I wanted it to be raw and simple and stripped back, but also sort of hard-hitting and kind of raw and distorted,” Parker says of his fifth album.
There is also no hiding lyrically this time either. While Parker has often concealed his vulnerabilities under melody and metaphor, he wanted them out in the open.
“The song No Reply, it talks about my insecurities dating and meeting girls in my early 20s,” he says. “There are a few themes that I hesitate to put into songs but once I do I feel good about it because it’s like therapy.
“Music is like therapy.”
The past also plays a big part in the album and his life.
“Nostalgia is always a powerful music trigger for me,” he says.
“It’s a powerful thing anyway, I could be walking down the street in Perth and just the smell of the trees takes me back to being a child. There are no trees in America that do that to me.”
Now, life is much more structured and controlled, yet there is still a flicker of the long-haired lad whose sole focus in life was music.
“There is a part of me that yearns for the chaos, of you know, being a complete deadbeat in the sort of more cartoon-ish sense,” he says.
“I look back to my share house days and they were some of the most inspired times of my life. All we cared about was making music and smoking weed . . .
“They were more chaotic times, but they were simpler times.”
A lot has changed since those days. Parker has become a father-to-two, Peach and Rose, with wife Sophie Lawrence Parker. Daughter Peach appears on the new album’s artwork.
Fatherhood has taught him joy through simplicity — his daughter’s laughter or hearing his kids copy something they’ve done or said.
“It kind of just melts your heart,” he says.
Parker has headlined Coachella and Glastonbury, won a Grammy and been nominated for four more, and picked up 12 ARIA Awards. Parker has also written and produced with global acts Mark Ronson, Lady Gaga, The Weeknd, Rihanna and Dua Lipa.
The collaborations give him the chance to exercise a different side of his creativity.
“At the end of the day, me being a producer, I just want to be useful. Being a producer and working on people’s stuff is kind of like having a job, but like a really fun job. Being an artist doesn’t feel like having a job, it feels like tension and I’m chasing this creative dream,” he says.
Lipa’s Radical Optimist album he worked on (reportedly recorded at Wave House) was a career highlight.
“Working with Dua every day was a total trip. I was pinching myself and we were making great s... too,” he reflects.
Despite being surrounded by massive fame — and being wildly successful himself — Parker still appears … normal. There is confidence in his craft, and pride for what he has achieved, yet the ego that could well have swollen over time is missing in action.
“I think I might just not be wired that way,” he says of succumbing to fame.
“I’ll tell you one thing, there’s nowhere in the world I get stopped on the street less than Fremantle. No one gives a f..., in the best possible way. I get stopped on the street in LA 100 times more than anywhere in Perth, which is kind of why I love being there.”
“I sound like I’m kind of on a soapbox here, but I get nothing from feeling that way about myself. Maybe it’s because I’m Australian, and we have that sort of mentality drilled into us culturally, in contrast to America where everyone encourages each other to reach the stars.
“If I started walking around being that person, I would feel like a phoney. It feels more realistic to me to hold onto the people that I have around me who don’t love me because I’m famous.”
And it’s these people that he trusts to listen to his albums for the first time — full of nerves and eyes glued to their every facial expression.
“I’m so nervous to play it to people because up until that point, I’m the only one in the world that’s heard it,” he says.
“And it could bring everyone who hears it to tears, or it could completely bore them. A song could bring about world peace or it could be a flop, and I have no idea where in between it’s going to land. Before anyone hears it, the potential is limitless.”
As for how he’s feeling ahead of the album release, he’s endlessly curious as to what people will think of it, flopping between wanting to know and burying his head in the sand.
“All the music that I’ve released has always been different to what I’ve done before, not by design, but because my tastes have evolved, so it always surprises me how shocked people are that my music has changed,” he says.
In an internet age of hot takes and parasocial relationships, Parker’s biggest fans decipher his every move and flood Reddit and comment sections with their every thought — from his sound, the fonts he uses, even his hair. They prefer it longer, if you’re wondering.
But it’s not all critical. Under a YouTube video of an interview with Apple’s Zane Lowe, the comments read like love letters.
“This man has brought a light into my life unlike anything else,” one reads. “He’s such an exceptional musician. I’m so happy to exist while he’s making music,” gushed another. “This guy is his own music genre.”
The comments neatly sum up the enigma that is Parker — the boy from Freo, partial to a pair of thongs and bush doof, yet connected to a celebrity world most could only dream of.
He has access to all the musical resources imaginable, but prefers to lock himself in his own spaces in WA to record. He rubs shoulders with Hollywood stars, yet his longest-running passion remains the same: the Fremantle Dockers, of which he’s the No.1 ticketholder.
“I’m definitely spreading the word (of AFL),” he laughs. “The problem is that a lot of Freo games are on at 3.30 or 4am in the morning so it’s less easy to convince my fellow Los Angelites to come around to my house and watch it.”
On game days though you can bet he’s up as the city and his kids sleep, silently screaming at the screen.
“I’m doing all the actions that I do when I’m at a game but I’m in front of my laptop, hooked up to my TV, making no noise,” he laughs.
“I have all the adrenaline and my heart is racing and all the joy and all the heartbreak of being at a game but it’s completely silent.”