“When family life was in the shithouse, the reason why all I could think about was becoming a famous rockstar is because I thought people would actually respect me, people would love me.”

Well, people get attached to one version.

That is true. That’s a very good point. If Da Vinci kept changing the Mona Lisa, everybody would’ve been like, ‘Dude, just stop!’

Before Currents came out, you called it ‘completely unlistenable’. That obviously wasn’t true, but it reminded me of my own creative process. There’ll be eureka moments where I feel like I’ve nailed it… Then when I come back to it later, it feels like the biggest piece of crap ever made. I call it a process of self-betrayal. Do you get that?

If that’s what it’s called, then that’s what I get. It’s chronic. You get the soaring highs of having that eureka moment, as you say, from working on a song that you think is the best thing you’ve ever done. It’s going to change your life, it’s going to change everyone’s life! ‘How could anyone not think this is life-changing?’ Then it comes out and it’s the exact opposite: ‘How could anyone think this is good?’ I’m starting to accept that’s just how it goes. Maybe there is a cure but now I try to tell myself, ‘I’m going to hate this song when it comes out but maybe in two years’ time I’ll love it again.’ I love Currents now; I get why people like it. But I didn’t at the start.

Let’s say you have a song that comes easily and, at the time, you don’t think it’s a standout moment. Yet you gradually see it become something that everyone loves. Could that lead you, even unconsciously, into second-guessing creative decisions?

I think that would just open the doors to making shit you don’t like... and that no one else will like either. But that was the case with ‘Elephant’. I put it on [Lonerism] as a kind of joke, as filler, because the rest of the album was so wishy-washy emotionally and I just wanted to have a psych-rock stomper. It almost didn’t make it on the album. But the label was like, ‘No, no, this is definitely the single’; everyone who listened to it was like, ‘Dude, it’s a single.’ I just said, ‘Okay, if you say so.’ Even now I’m like, ‘Oh, that song is so meat-headed’. But, actually, you know what? I’m just starting to come around to it.

When you made Lonerism, the process was also agonising… but you discovered a sense of confidence and freedom in making it, too. Why do you think that was?

I think because I hadn’t sung about those kind of [personal] things before. I hadn’t felt confident enough. That really wasn’t on my colour palette until then. The lyrics were more abstract. Then I started using the elements of psych rock as a vehicle for me to sing about insecurities. I’d always known that psychedelic music was kind of explorative and introspective, but not in that way. So when I started singing about how it felt to grow into being the loner personality that I was, about feeling this alienation with other people, that felt really good. [laughs] It felt great.

It’s this idea that you have to chop a little bit of yourself off and share it with the world, which can feel like a sacrifice.

That’s it, a hundred per cent.

Are you more comfortable with that now? Or is there still a reticence?

It’s still tough, because by the sheer definition... chopping a bit of yourself off is chopping a bit of yourself off. But no pain, no gain, I guess.

Recently you revisited that spot in Paris where you took the photograph which would become the cover of Lonerism. Did you feel a chill going back there?

Absolutely. That’s why I went. I didn’t go there just to take a picture for Instagram. I wanted to experience that feeling of, ‘Hey, I’m back in the same spot.’ I’m not superstitious or someone who believes in spirits but I could almost see the ghost of myself all those years ago, standing there with that camera and wearing that fuckin’ duffel coat I had. I wanted to feel that feeling of nostalgia, that moment when you get this kind of glimpse of everywhere you’ve been since then.

Way back at the start, when a record label called you to confirm their interest, did the timing feel significant? What do you remember about that day?

I remember hanging out at the university library. I had [astronomy] exams at the time, and there was one that I really didn’t want to do. Glen, the guy from Modular [Recordings], had got in contact through MySpace and said, ‘Hey, I’m really into your stuff.’ We’d been messaging back and forth; they were deciding whether they were going to go ahead, but nothing was confirmed. I’d totally mentally checked out from uni long before that, anyway. But on that particular day, I was expecting a call from them. It just so happened that the exam I was dreading was about to start. I kept looking at my watch, looking at my phone, thinking, ‘Okay, which one’s going to happen first?’ I think he called with 20 minutes to go and I just said, ‘Yeah, sweet. Sounds good.’ I put my books in my bag like, ‘Fuck this!’ and never went back.

What mistakes have turned out to be a good thing for you?

Probably being stubborn and unwilling to do things any way that’s not mine. That’s always been my stumbling block: I’ve got my way of doing it and any other way is just poison, which is obviously not true. You should always be as open-minded as possible. But on the other hand, all of my albums would sound completely different if I had taken people’s advice. Lonerism sounds the way it does because I was completely unwilling to learn how to properly record something.

Maybe it’s a bad moral to the story, but I think Lonerism sounds so unique because I didn’t listen to anyone. Even the fact that Tame Impala is completely a one-man operation is another product of me being uncompromisingly singular… I have so much respect for people who can work on something and embrace lots of other inputs but, for me… [he trails off] This is getting deep! You’ve tapped into some deep shit here. I don’t know what it is, it’s not like it’s arrogance; it’s not like, ‘Oh, I can do it better.’ It’s just like... this is not me unless it’s all me, 100 per cent my expression.

That’s the way it’s always been. I’m constantly wanting to learn new things, to expand my way of doing things… I love playing instruments, writing songs, mixing, producing, playing with sounds – all of it. I wouldn’t want to give one of those tasks to someone else because then I’d miss out on doing it. At the same time, I do often have a longing to share the job I’m doing with someone. It would be nice. But I guess I’m just not good enough at knowing how to do that.