Pulp - More

When Pulp made their much feted live comeback in 2023 (with their This Is What We Do For An Encore tour), there was only the merest whisper that it might be the start of, well, ‘More’. Nearly 24 years since their last release - 2001’s ‘We Love Life’ - this new album arrives with something of a question encoded in its grooves: why now? The answer, it seems, is twofold. Firstly, why not? It’s what they know best; it’s where they thrive most (“I was born to perform / It’s a calling / I exist to do this / Shouting and pointing” Jarvis Cocker intones self-deprecatingly on anthemic lead single ‘Spike Island’). And, in the absence of the late Steve Mackey - the band’s original bassist, to whom the record is dedicated - there’s an implied secondary impetus, too: if not now, when?

It’s entirely apt, then, that at the heart of ‘More’ is mortality - its frightening inevitability, yes, but also its unparalleled power to invest even the most ordinary of occurrences with deep, fragile significance. Peppered throughout these 11 tracks are motifs of space and celestial bodies, throwing the smallness of the human experience into sharp relief, while meditations on age and the passage of time are their primary lyrical preoccupation. Take ‘Grown Ups’ - a riff-driven strut of a track that wryly observes how nobody ever truly feels like they’re old enough, mature enough, really ready for life. (“One last sunset / One final blaze of glory / And I know it’s all about the journey / Not the final destination / But what if you get travel sick / Before you’ve even left the station”). Similarly perceptive is ‘Background Noise’, which tenderly explores the deeply unsexy, unsettling prospect that love, too, can age in ways we might not expect, fading from initial spark to barely-glowing ember (“I don’t remember the first time / Or the last time” Jarvis sighs, paying homage to the 1994 ‘His N Hers’ cut).

That said, Jarvis’ penchant for lyrical raunch hasn’t abated in this long interim: part of Pulp’s unique appeal has always been their proclivity for life’s slightly seedy underbelly, and here it’s the cello groove of ‘Slow Jam’ and creeping swell of ‘Tina’ that deliver the goods: “Come on, let’s have a threesome baby / You, me, and my imagination”; “Screwing in a charity shop on top of black bin bags full of donations / The smell of digestive biscuits in the air”. (Not to mention the thematic outlier ‘My Sex’, in which Jarvis seems to allude to a more expansive gender identity).

But there are moments of real romantic sincerity too, with ‘Farmer’s Market’ and the disco-infused ‘Got To Have Love’ assuredly continuing Pulp’s line in alternative love songs with unexpectedly poignant aphorisms (the latter even picks up from where 1995’s ‘F.E.E.L.I.N.G.C.A.L.L.E.D.L.O.V.E.’ left off, with a referential, spelling-oriented bridge). And, as ever, such emotional resonance is delivered almost unsuspectingly, the band’s endearing, enduring earnestness disguised by clever word play, or lush strings, or a toe-tapping groove.

Those approaching ‘More’ looking for immediate bangers of the ‘Different Class’ ilk might be initially let down, but these are tracks which, more like the skittish angst of ‘His N Hers’ or the darker dye of ‘This Is Hardcore’, get under your skin in a far stealthier way. Unlike certain other Britpop-era outfits, Pulp aren’t taking this chance to merely dine out on nostalgia; instead, they’re returning as evolutions, not imitations, of their past selves - grateful for what they have, while they have it.