Pulp have always been pop’s smartest misfits: too clever to be cool, too strange to sit still. So it figures that ‘
More’, their first album in 24 years, doesn’t just return to the scene politely. It struts back in like it never left, throws its coat on the nearest chair, and launches into a knowing monologue about lost youth, Tesco Finest wine, and the horror of Sunday afternoons. It is, in short, exactly what a Pulp album should be.
From the opener ‘
Spike Island’, all slinky bass and spoken-sung smirks, Jarvis Cocker sounds like a man revelling in his own theatricality. ‘
Tina’ swings between baroque balladry and tabloid surrealism, while ‘
Grown Ups’ takes a torch to middle-aged malaise with a big wink and a chorus that begs to be screamed by people wearing orthopaedic trainers.
The key, as ever, is Jarvis. His lyrics remain a masterclass in bathos, innuendo, and poignancy wrapped in wit. On ‘
Got To Have Love’ he drops lines like “without love, you’re just jerking off inside someone else” with the same raised-eyebrow charm that made him an icon in the first place. ‘
My Sex’ is sleazy, spectral, and strangely touching – ageing lust rendered as something tragic, comic, and oddly sweet.
