Many of Pulp‘s current fans were children when the band released their masterworks – and now, those same people have grown to reflect the characters on This is Hardcore: middle-aged, drifting in a world they barely understand, pockmarked by multiple genocides and muppet leaders, undersexed while porn broadcasts 24/7. There was no TikTok in St. Martin’s College, and no one buys your paintings! And Pulp, too, have grappled with age. The great Steve Mackey passed away in 2023, the band toured extensively before and after, but couldn’t drop an album, and Jarvis Cocker’s son is now of age he doesn’t just look like his dad, but also has his own band, all while Jarvis looks like his own grandpa.
Full disclosure: Pulp mean a lot to me, as I – too – was once young and wild and witnessed them in their heyday. I even once turned around at an airport at 6am, suitcase in hand, magenta suit and sky blue shades on, and rushed back to stammer “Excuse me…” and shake Jarvis’ hand out of gratitude – something I would do for only few bards. Part of this is due to Pulp’s inherent quality to mix camp with the genuine mythology of everyday life: they turned the kitchen sink dramas of British suburbia into legends. Through Jarvis Cocker’s gaze, the perversions and tragedies of teens or smarmy retirees transformed into epics, all while the music oscillated between Scott Walker, Roxy Music and the tunes of a third grade wedding band. It’s utterly brilliant, genius stuff, a collective experience that frames our own experiences into tearjerkers.
Strangely, Pulp held on to that canon without interrupting it for the longest time, possibly because, of the great Britpop bands, they are only the third to re-group and record, after Suede and Blur. Those two have always been more progressive in their desire to evolve and switch up, while Pulp seemed keen to expand the scope into more expansive, cinematic outings. And where do you go when your final album was produced by Scott Walker? What territory could be new, or important, when you made your ultimate record and it – criminally – didn’t sell much? Would they turn into self-parody? Become their own characters? In a way, it’s relatable why Pulp would take the longest to commit to new music, wasn’t it? Pulp were always ironic, always acidic, always sentimental and earnest. Why force it if the spark isn’t there?
More – what else could their comeback album be titled? – had a lot to carry on its shoulders, but cleverly evades potential failure: it’s an orchestral, sensitive, melancholic record about coming to terms with ageing, maturing, coming down. Instead of transforming into disco vampires, the group expresses that the most important lesson in life is that ageing isn’t the end of things. There’s a clever parallel to Pulp Love Life, in that its closer, “Sunrise”, is here contrasted by a closer called “A Sunset”, where Cocker ruminates: “Oh, I’d like to teach the world to sing / But the world has lost its voice / And I’d like to buy the world some time / Some time and some choice”. The apocalypse is “just a sunset”, and Cocker, smilingly, pitches that the overwhelming sadness is a great means to make money. Once you put one and one together, and realise he’s pitching More as a quick way to make some bucks, it’s all the better!
Yes, this is Pulp’s Avalon; a mature affair of highest quality, and with some infectious hits, too. “Spike Island” takes the piss out of rock’n’roll myth-making, titled after the site of a legendary Stone Roses show, which Cocker assured just recently “didn’t sound very good, it was windy and the vibe wasn’t there”. “Got to Have Love” meanwhile is a throwback to the days of “She’s a Lady”, all nervous rhythm, while Cocker interrogates his own inability to embrace emotions, or admit his own weaknesses.
But interestingly, the rest of More is a fairly muted affair. There’s the longing, Scott Walker reminiscent “Tina”, where the protagonist attributes emotional gravitas to the phantom of multiple women, all subsumed under one name, and the unfulfilled potential of true romance within their embodiments: classic Pulp! Equally, “Farmer’s Market” reconnects two young dreamers on the car park of a farmers market, many years later, as sensual strings burst and frame the central question: “Ain’t it time we started living?”
“Grown Ups” is probably the track most had anticipated Pulp to release: on this dry indie pop song, reminiscent of Cutting Crew’s “Died In Your Arms Tonight”, Cocker debates the necessity of growing up, and whether those who refuse are themselves delusional: “And I am not ageing, no, I am just ripening / And life’s too short to drink bad wine and that’s frightening / And it’s nearly sunset and we haven’t had lunch yet / And I’m sorry for asking, but are we having fun yet?” It’s sharp and witty, even if the song’s full body suggests Cocker can’t jump as jauntily about the stage as he used to.
Surprisingly timeless in contrast seem “Partial Eclipse” and “Slow Jam”, which discuss the inability of love – in the case of the former, it’s heartbreak, in the latter, it comes as the death of love within a lengthy relationship. Both songs are almost skeletal, before they build into orchestral juggernauts, with “Partial Eclipse” drifting into a closing ambient section. Cocker cleverly observes that there is a parallel in our inability to be happy, which transcends age and safety.
The song that cements More as a success, the climax and centrepiece, comes with “The Hymn of the North”, a track originally composed for the 2019 play Light Falls. Sentimental and autumnal, it bids farewell (to a friend / child / lover?) and insists, pleads, to stay in touch! It’s this moment when everything clicks, right before the record enters its closing credits.
More is very much what most will have expected: Pulp sitting back and crafting an expertly compelling album on ageing, adapting their signature topics and quirks to the perspective of autumnal age. It’s clever and funny and at times a little sharp-edged, while strings carry the majority of the weight. It’s a rewarding and fun listen – but it also magnifies the inescapable fact that Pulp, just like their audience, have matured.
Yet, honestly, their more adolescent, perverse qualities – their obsession with disco and glam and dodgy sexual moments – are missed quite a bit. I couldn’t imagine Cocker taking the spot of the leering, peeping grandpa, but there are times where More feels like it needed another two or three tracks where the guitars burst forth, where the teens burst to the front and we delve into the dingy atmosphere of sex shop backroom confessions. In-between the lines, when Cocker admits writer’s block or the discomfort with gender stereotypes, it can be sensed that Pulp felt a little rusty while compiling new material. And, to be fair, they also lost a key member when their charismatic bassist passed away. It only makes sense that this was a difficult point to get to. But, now that the dust’s been blown off, the potential for more exists. This is good and well, so let’s see if the old coat’s coming on, once more, with feeling, next.
