Tag Archives: Britpop

Pulp – His ‘N’ Hers – Classic Music Review

A breakthrough album fifteen years in the making . . . the culmination of a long road that wound and unwound several times, snaking off in a myriad of directions . . . a journey of starts and stops that led at least one member to believe “that I’d misspent my youth in a crap retro band when I could have had a proper job.”

Fortunately for posterity, Russell Senior and the other members of Pulp hung in there long enough for the breaks to finally fall their way. The Pulp before His ‘N’ Hers showed flashes of brilliance but also a stubborn inconsistency that cooled major label interest. Two years prior to the album’s release, Pulp finally revealed indications of a signature sound and style in the form of a couple of well-received singles that caught the attention of Island Records, giving the band the opportunity to reach a wider audience—an opportunity multiplied to the nth degree by their good fortune to have stumbled onto the emerging Britpop scene.

The primary weakness of His ‘N’ Hers (as noted in my review of Different Class) is technical—the mix isn’t clean enough to properly separate Jarvis Cocker’s voice and give it the clarity it deserves. A good set of headphones pretty much resolves that problem, allowing the listener to thoroughly enjoy Cocker’s witty tales and keen insight into socio-cultural dynamics. The compositions on His ‘N’ Hers feel more disciplined and intentional than their earlier work, and though the album still retains some of the synth pop/dance sound that marked Separations, there is greater integration of keyboards, guitar and bass to balance things out and give the music more muscle.

“Joyriders” is a composition combining two distinct moods, one in the verses and one in the bridge. I’d characterize the verse mood as “drunkenly playful with underlying tension,” largely formed by Steve Mackey’s growling bass and Nick Banks’ loose drumming. Here Jarvis answers the age-old question, “What do teenage boys do when puberty’s flood of testosterone disables brain cell development?” “Stupid shit,” responds Mr. Cocker, albeit in more insightful language:

We can’t help it, we’re so thick we can’t think,
Can’t think of anything but shit, sleep and drink.
Oh, and we like women;
“Up the women” we say,
And if we get lucky,
We might even meet some one day.

Oh you, you in the Jesus sandals,
Wouldn’t you like to come
Over and watch some vandals smashing up someone’s home?

If I didn’t know that this song was written when the Internet was still in its infancy, I would have assumed that the song was about incels, those “involuntary celibates” who inhabit an ugly corner of cyberspace where discussion is “often characterized by resentment, misogyny, misanthropy, self-pity and self-loathing, racism, a sense of entitlement to sex, and the endorsement of violence against sexually active people (Wikipedia).” While we may laugh at the punch line, “And if we get lucky/We might even meet some one day,” boys like those depicted here and in the incel community embrace their toxic masculinity, representing a real danger to the social fabric.

That danger is expressed best in the music of the bridge, which follows an abrupt halt to the driving music of the verses. Though Pulp has slowed the tempo and adjusted the chord pattern, what’s most important from a compositional perspective is what they didn’t change—the general chord structure of opening with a C major chord while ending with the slightly-off B major chord, one long half-step away from resolution. The tension created by that out-of-place chord is tripled in the various recitations of the bridge, forming moments like those scenes in horror flicks when instead of running away from danger, the dumb ass heads straight for the closed door. Things get really creepy in the last go-round when Jarvis whispers the first two lines then lowers his voice on the truncated closing line (I love Candida Doyle’s eerie piano sequence here). The exhibitionist phrase “don’t you want to come and see?” is gone, placing all the focus on the tragedy:

Mister, we just want your car,
‘Cause we’re taking a girl to the reservoir.
Oh, all the papers say,
It’s a tragedy

We’re not sure what kind of tragedy occurred at one of the many reservoirs surrounding Sheffield, but rape and/or murder would be a safe bet. “Joyriders” may have seemed an odd choice for an opening number, but we live in a world where horror films featuring gruesome murders qualify as “camp” and unspeakable crimes sell newspapers and increase ratings. I hope that more than a few listeners were able to get past the sensationalistic aspects of the song and really take in the more serious underlying message.

Jarvis Cocker offered us two interpretational paths to “Lipgloss,” the first single released from the album. The cheekier comment (“‘Lipgloss’ was specifically about social skills going rusty. That and the fear of large shopping malls like Meadowhall in Sheffield”) isn’t much help. The more sober and meaningful observation is found in Mark Sturdy’s Truth and Beauty: The Story of Pulp:

The title came from a story I heard about an anorexic girl who used to eat only lipgloss. And the rest of the song—about a girl who has her self-confidence bashed down by a bad relationship—is based on someone I know. I think it’s important to express those stories so that victims know they’re not the only ones suffering.

The funny thing about “Lipgloss” is that the music supports the cheekier comment with its almost carnival-like synth-heavy instrumentation creating a devil-may-care, whirling effect. By contrast, the lyrics support Cocker’s more sober and empathetic translation:

And you feel such a fool,
For laughing at bad jokes,
And putting up with all of his friends,
And kissing in public.
What are they gonna say when they run into you again?
That your stomach looks bigger and your hair is a mess,
And your eyes are just holes in your face.
And it rains every day,
And when it doesn’t,
The sun makes you feel worse anyway.

He changed his mind last Monday,
Now you’ve gotta leave by Sunday, yeah.

(Chorus) You’ve lost your lipgloss honey, oh yeah.
Now nothing you do can turn him on,
Something’s wrong
You had it once and now its gone.

Mark Sturdy saw the contrast differently: “. . . the thrilling, accusatory attack of the verses leads to a chorus that’s a bit over-poppy.” I don’t find the verses “thrilling” in the least—this girl is going through the trauma that always follows a woman’s attempt to base her self-worth on her ability to please a man. The fragility of her ego is highlighted by the not uncommon belief among women that beauty products are essential to attracting men and achieving social acceptance. Her story isn’t thrilling—when these façades collapse, it’s fucking embarrassing and painful. To my ears, the jarring conflict between music and lyrics reflects the jarring conflict between the real self and the fake self we present to the world in our pathetic search for validation from others.

“Acrylic Afternoons” is one of those peek-behind-the-curtains songs that would become a Jarvis Cocker specialty. Here he eschews the role of revenge-seeking voyeur he would play so well in “I Spy,” instead becoming an active participant in the naughty goings-on of the neighborhood:

Can I stay here,
Lying under the table together with you now?
Can I hold you?
Forever in acrylic afternoons
I want to hold you tight
Whilst children play outside
And wait for their mothers to finish with lovers
And call them inside for their tea.

It’s obvious he cherishes his role as lover as well as the delicious secrecy attached to an adulterous afternoon fuck, every sensation seared in his memory—and those impressions are quite poetic:

On a pink quilted eiderdown,
I want to pull your knickers down.
Net curtains blow slightly in the breeze.
Lemonade light filtering through the trees.
It’s so soft and it’s warm.
Just another cup of tea please (one lump thanks).

My only frustration with the song is I wanted more detail as to how he got her out of the green jumper and then from the settee to the floor and under the table. I’m envisioning some kind of “tumble to the ground” moment as in “I Think We’re Alone Now,” but I would have preferred the graphic specifics. Speaking of old songs from the 60’s, a comparison of “Acrylic Afternoons” to the Goffin-King creation “Pleasant Valley Sunday” is illuminating. Mickey Dolenz competently rattled off a stream of superficial suburban stereotypes (how’s that for alliteration?), but for all we know, mom was in the master bedroom banging her teenage son’s best friend while dad was busy slathering on the barbecue sauce. The people who live in Pleasant Valley are caricatures; the lovers in “Acrylic Afternoons” are delightfully wicked human beings forced into secrecy because of social and religious conventions. Evil they may be, but I like them a whole lot better.

Reprising his role as defender-savior of women in shitty relationships, Jarvis urges an unnamed woman to dump her controlling boyfriend in “Have You Seen Her Lately?” While I appreciate the sentiments, this song never really comes together musically or lyrically—the supporting music is too grand in the disco sense of the word and the lyrics lack the incisive wit of “Lipgloss.” To my ears, the arrangement resembles an update of a 60’s Walker Brothers number, so perhaps Jarvis’ admiration of Scott Walker got the best of him here.

Though the guitar duet featured in “Babies” is played by Cocker and Russell Senior, the chords originated with drummer Nick Banks, who was messing around with a guitar during a rehearsal break and strummed a chord combination he identified as “one of them is G, no idea what the other one is” (a Dmaj7, for the record). The combination caught Jarvis Cocker’s ear and “Literally 20 minutes after I’d played those first two chords, we had the entire song, basically.” As would later happen with “Common People” there was some initial squeamishness about “poppiness,” but fortunately for posterity, everyone got over it and a Pulp classic was born. Released as a single in 1992 and virtually ignored, “Babies” reappeared on His ‘N’ Hers and as an EP single that made the UK Top 20.

The arpeggiated chord combination and Russell Senior’s main guitar riff are irresistibly catchy, especially when Nick and Mark Webber kick in with the eminently danceable beat. If you can’t break into a smile during the instrumental intro to “Babies,” you’re either dead or an artistic snob of the highest order (pretty much the same thing). POPPY DOES NOT ALWAYS EQUATE TO LACKING SUBSTANCE. In this case, the lyrics are anything but poppy, for just like the legendary Cole Porter, Jarvis Cocker had the ability to imbue his stories-in-song with both wit and insight.

According to Flavorwire, Jarvis told the audience at Radio City Music Hall “that the song was essentially autobiographical” (although only he knows exactly how much is true).” I can certainly see him as a teen sitting in the hallway with his wannabe girlfriend suppressing giggles as they surreptitiously listened to the girl’s elder sister banging one of apparently many boys she lured to her bedroom. I can also believe that the experience was just an unsatisfying teaser for him and that of course he “wanted more”:

I wanted to see as well as hear,
And so I hid inside her wardrobe.
And she came ’round four,
And she was with some kid called David,
From the garage up the road.
I listened outside I heard her.
Alright.

If that elder teenage sister was already fucking mechanics, I can guarantee you that she grew up and became an extremely successful dominatrix.

The chorus temporarily interrupts the tale to provide keen insight into the emotional stew of a pubescent teenager on libidinal overload. He simply doesn’t have the words to describe exactly what he’s feeling, so he resorts to a combination of extreme convention and oops-I-didn’t-really-mean-that:

Oh I want to take you home.
I want to give you children.
You might be my girlfriend, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah.

Uh, you got things a little backwards there, dude. You better pray that daddy doesn’t own a shotgun.

The stud of the future doesn’t share his closeted escapade with the girl he intends to fill with babies, but allegedly follows her as she pops into the home of another guy “when his mum and dad were gone.” He claims he heard them laughing, but I think this entire passage is something he made up to provide justification for his closing act of bonking the sister (definitely NOT autobiographical, as Cocker didn’t wet his whistle until he was 19):

We were on the bed when you came home,
I heard you stop outside the door.
I know you won’t believe it’s true,
I only went with her ’cause she looks like you, my God!

That is the ultimate lame excuse—but so very, very true to life. Cocker’s narration is positively brilliant, adjusting his phrasing to express the range of pubescent emotion: embarrassment, denial, misdirected passion and the pathetic guilt of an unpracticed liar. Russell Senior is marvelous on guitar, offering up a varied mix of counterpoints in both the uptempo and quiet passages, and Candida’s multi-pronged keyboard contributions add to the theatre of it all.

The brilliance of “Babies” is sadly missing from the way-too-long “She’s a Lady,” and its resemblance to Gloria Gaynor’s “I Will Survive” doesn’t qualify as a tribute. I can definitely do without “Happy Endings,” a sort of torch song about a failed affair that doesn’t live up to its promise because it never had a promise to begin with.

There seems to be a lot of confusion surrounding “Do You Remember the First Time?” largely due to the promotional strategy used to hawk the single. Let’s be clear: the song has little to do with Jarvis Cocker losing his virginity—it’s about a man expressing his frustration that his lover chooses to maintain a sexual relationship with another man. It’s possible that the woman in question was also his initial experience in the sack, but the lyrics are somewhat ambiguous on that score. To promote the song, Cocker came up with the idea of shooting a video filled with various British luminaries recalling their first-time fuck experiences, so a lot of people assumed that the song also dealt with that rite of passage.

Like most first-time bangs, the video is painfully anti-climactic and I can’t believe that anyone who managed to get through all twenty-six minutes of it rushed out and bought the single. The dullness of the film is understandable: the first time is usually a very awkward experience largely because we don’t know what the fuck we’re doing, and recalling our incompetence isn’t a very pleasant trip down memory lane. I wrote about my first time in my four-part tale of my sexual development (since removed from the blog):

I had my first fuck the summer I turned fourteen. I decided on a guy I knew from school and invited him over to the house one summer day when my parents were at work. He lasted about a minute and a half and I never came close to orgasm. Still, the brief moment of other-worldliness piqued my interest enough to continue my pursuit of erotic pleasure.

The song itself is a showcase for the indirect and snarky communication that accompanies many a secretive affair, where the fundamental dishonesty of the act detracts from its enjoyment. Disappointed that his squeeze has to go home to papa, the narrator takes a few swipes at his rival while indirectly marketing his allegedly superior sexual prowess: “I know you’re gonna let him bore your pants off again” and (the real zinger) “Still you bought a toy that can reach the places he never goes.” There really isn’t much more to the tale than that, though controversy swirled over the line “No, I don’t care if you screw him/Just as long as you save a piece for me.” What’s sad is that the negative reaction to that line in some quarters had more to do with puritanic beliefs that such matters should not be aired in public rather than the more serious implication that the narrator views his lover as nothing more than a piece of ass. Musically, “Do You Remember the First Time?” features marvelously long builds to the repetitions of the chorus and a spirited vocal from Cocker, so I fully understand why it’s earned its status as the opener for Pulp reunion concerts.

I’m not exactly sure what motivated the inclusion of “Pink Glove” on the album, as it virtually repeats the scenario found in “Do You Remember the First Time?” (male competition for pussy) and suffers from muddied production. Even the best set of headphones on the planet won’t help you understand Jarvis Cocker’s muffled and muddled lyrics on “Someone Like the Moon,” and as a song exploring the phenomenon of loneliness, it ain’t exactly “Eleanor Rigby.”

The album proper ends with the largely spoken-word track “David’s Last Summer.” I’m not sure if this David is the same David who slipped it to the elder sister in “Babies,” but if it is, he became a crashing bore in the interlude. Consider this passage:

The room smells faintly of suntan lotion
In the evening sunlight and when you take off your clothes,
You’re still wearing a small pale skin bikini.

And then consider the fact that rather than allowing himself the pleasure of working up a good stiff one and putting it to immediate use, David decides to take the girl swimming. David! Do you know what cold water does to a dick? What the hell is the matter with you? Perhaps David should be forgiven because the iconic Seinfeld episode “The Hamptons” (more popularly known as the “shrinkage episode”) did not air until a month after His ‘N’ Hers hit the shelves.

Fortunately, for me, I bought the album in the Ew-natted Stayts of ‘Merka, so my album closes with the previously-released single “Razzmatazz.” Having been dumped by a girl who wanted to live a more glamorous and showy life, Cocker revels in the schadenfreude occasioned by the girl’s rapid post-relationship decline (Translation: Milk Tray = Box of Cadbury chocolates):

You started getting fatter three weeks after I left you
Now you’re going with some kid who looks like some bad comedian
Are you gonna go out, are you sitting at home eating boxes of Milk Tray?
Watch TV on your own, aren’t you the one with your razzmatazz and your nights on the town?

What makes this terribly bitter song work is Cocker’s full embrace of his bitterness, capturing a moment of sweet revenge that nearly everyone on the planet has experienced at one time or another. Though we may regret those feelings later and hope that we can forget about the experience and move on, we can’t deny that those feelings were real at the time. Cocker was right when he commented on the lyrics (“I don’t think they’re seedy. They’re just true to life”); one of his most endearing qualities is his willingness to talk about the human failings that no one wants to admit.

The music makes for a much stronger closer than “David’s Last Summer,” with its strong forward movement, upbeat tempo and a power-packed rhythm section. Needless to say, Jarvis throws caution to the wind and gives us a bravura performance combing snark and justifiable exasperation.

Though far from perfect, His ‘N” Hers contains more than enough strong material to justify its nomination for the Mercury Prize, though both His ‘N’ Hers and Parklife lost out to the popular dance album Elegant Slumming by the M People. There’s certainly no shame attached to losing to an album featuring Heather Small’s vocals, and Pulp would crush the competition a couple of years later when Different Class took home the gold. I’ve always considered His ‘N’ Hers the album that made Different Class possible, the moment when Pulp worked out most of the kinks and Jarvis Cocker began to receive well-deserved validation for his uniquely honest approach on the subjects of sex, status and adolescence. Validation builds confidence, and on Different Class, Pulp would use that confidence to take their music to another level entirely.

Pulp – This Is Hardcore – Classic Music Review (Britpop Series)

While you could make the case that both Blur’s shift to a distinctively American sound on Blur and the much-anticipated but ultimately horrid Oasis production Be Here Now should earn serious consideration as “the album that killed Britpop,” I have to go with Pulp’s This Is Hardcore as the coup de grâce.

To be fair, Britpop had pretty much run its course anyway. If you define the Beatlemania era as the period between “Please Please Me” and the last concert at Candlestick Park (The Beatles had already moved on, but the fans hadn’t), you’re talking about a little more than three-and-a-half years. Assuming Britpop covered the period between the first Suede album and the second Supergrass album, the phenomenon endured for about four years (and no, I don’t consider The Verve a Britpop band). Britpop had lasted longer than the psychedelic era and the original British punk movement, so it really was time for a change.

My selection of This Is Hardcore for this symbolic honor-of-sorts is based on a combination of factors. While Britpop was full of trenchant social criticism and black humor, it rarely crossed the line into dark and depressing. This Is Hardcore was described by its lyricist as “Songs about panic attacks, pornography, fear of death and getting old.” The music feels more like a film noir soundtrack, and Jarvis Cocker’s self-portrayal echoes the seedy loser archetype of noir films, someone like the hapless, hopeless Walter Neff in Double Indemnity.

I never thought I’d compare Jarvis Cocker to Fred MacMurray, but the shoe fits.

As he did in Different Class, Cocker wrote about what he knew: his own life. The difference is that he wasn’t a Britpop superstar when he crafted the lyrics to Different Class, and the experience he writes about in This Is Hardcore is of a man traumatized by fame, addicted to coke and desperately trying to find a piece of solid ground somewhere in the universe. If The Cure hadn’t already used the title, Pulp could have titled the album Disintegration and no one would have thought it inappropriate.

It didn’t help matters that Russell Senior had left the band, taking his first-class musicianship and artistic discipline with him. While This Is Hardcore has its moments, the album is marked by some very poor arrangements, some really bad ideas and occasionally sloppy execution that makes one miss the tightness of the band on His & Hers and Different Class. Senior’s absence is most strongly felt when Pulp attempts to compensate for his violin by increasing the use of electric guitar. Not only does the shift compromise Pulp’s signature sound, but the guitar tones on the album are frequently annoying.

The performance issues extend to Jarvis Cocker’s meandering vocal performances. Sometimes he finds the right tone, but every now and then he sounds like he’s suffering from a very bad cold (or maybe too much snow up the nose), and on a couple of occasions you’d think David Bowie had popped into the studio to do a guest turn at the mike. Oddly enough, the instability of his voice adds to the general pathos of the album, so in a curious way it successfully reinforces the disintegrative mood.

The lyrics also fall well short of the standards established by Different Class. There isn’t much in the way of wit on This Is Hardcore, nor are there many memorable lines. As for those who might excuse the lyricist on the basis that Cocker’s dark mood hampered his facility with the English language, I would point out that the best lines in Shakespeare come from the tragedies—especially Macbeth, the darkest of the lot. Somewhere in the midst of his wild ride through stardom, Jarvis Cocker lost his negative capability—the perspective of detachment Keats accurately identified as an essential factor in the creation of high-quality poetry. When Cocker wrote about his life experience on Different Class, he wrote with self-deprecating detachment. On This Is Hardcore, it becomes obvious fairly quickly that he is still too immersed in the experience and trappings of sudden fame to make any sense of it, often crossing the line into self-confessional melodrama that would have been more appropriately shared with his therapist.

This Is Hardcore doesn’t entirely lack value. If you listen to it through a film noir lens, the experience becomes more engaging and (for the most part) tolerable. A more informative angle is to view the album as a documentary detailing the impact of fame on the artist and the art. Through that perspective (and by considering the narratives of most of the other Britpop bands), we realize that Britpop died out for the same reasons that caused nearly every rock era to meet its demise: the unreality of celebrity, the disconnection from everyday life and the people who live that life, and the hopeless attempt to cope with the surrounding madness by turning to drugs.

I will give Pulp credit for making a clear statement of intent with the opening passage of “The Fear,” an ominous, funereal segment that represents a clean break from the energetic presentation of Different Class. Jarvis takes the stage as the character of man-falling-apart, alternating between short bursts of self-awareness and an apology to fans hoping for Different Class II:

This is our “Music from A Bachelor’s Den”
The sound of loneliness turned up to ten
A horror soundtrack from a stagnant waterbed
And it sounds just like this.

This is the sound of someone losing the plot
Making out that they’re okay when they’re not
You’re gonna like it but not a lot

The exposure of pretense (“making out that they’re okay when they’re not) is the most powerful message, an enduring indictment of the stigma attached to mental health and addiction problems—a stigma that makes it difficult to address those problems with any reasonable possibility of success. I cringe at the first two lines, though, which send a signal to the listener to expect a whole lot of self-pity to come into play.

Up to this point, Pulp is appropriately working in a minor key (A minor), a reliable means of communicating unpleasant emotions. After introducing the chorus with pure lyrical filler (“and the chorus goes like this”), they manage to ruin both mood and continuity by shifting to a major key, as if to say, “Hooray! We’re scared, lonely and temporarily celibate!” They make it even worse by adding a trio of female background vocalists singing their hearts out as if the heavens have burst open and the angelic hosts are proclaiming their asses off in the blinding light and ecstatic joy of The Resurrection. Let me correct Mr. Cocker here: THIS is the sound of someone losing the plot. I lose all interest at this point, easily tuning out the embarrassingly uninteresting lyrics, waking up only to feel quite annoyed at the superfluous introduction of weird electronic noises that must have seemed okay to the band but they’re not.

Jarvis then goes full nasal and seriously off-key in the male-as-masochist-in-a-dying-relationship tune, “Dishes.” Though he doesn’t exactly compare himself to Jesus, he uses the fact that “I have the same initials” as a basis for the Christ-related metaphor of the miraculous transformation of turning water into wine. It’s a torturous connection at best, and the mention of the crucifixion in the last verse is a serious stretch:

And I’m, I’m not worried that I will never touch the stars
‘Cause stars belong up in heaven
And the earth is where we are
Oh, yeah
And aren’t you happy just to be alive?
Anything’s possible
You’ve got no cross to bear tonight

It’s really difficult to believe that the man who wrote “Common People” could have come up with such empty lines, but there’s the evidence, right there, in plain view.

The rough start continues with “Party Hard,” where Jarvis does a second-rate disco-era Bowie imitation accompanied by intensely grating guitar tones. He makes a bad vocal even worse by applying a vodocoder to his voice to the randomly-appearing line, “Baby, you’re driving me crazy,” which also describes the way I feel when listening to this piece of crap. The only couplet that hints at a possible method behind the madness is “I was having a whale of a time until your uncle Psychosis arrived/Why do we have to half-kill ourselves just to prove we’re alive,” the poetic equivalent of using a sledgehammer to drive home the obvious.

Things do get better on the next track, but in the interests of balancing my evaluation, I’ll share a divergent opinion. Here’s Russell Senior’s recollection of what led to his departure:

For years, we spent a lot of time in Transit vans. But suddenly it was all gold discs, condos, famous mates and people whose reality comes from cocaine, telling you you’re great, night after night. I felt a revulsion for it. We were doing songs about common people and it was, “Jarvis, Prada’s on the phone, they’ve got your outfit.”

The last concert I did with Pulp was a corporate gig for a lager company in Barcelona. We were put up in a fantastic hotel, there were supermodels hanging around, but we were playing for bored executives. I felt myself backing away.

There were other things, such as awards ceremonies where somebody’s coke dealer has nicked your limo and you have to walk home because the record company are looking after Jarvis. We had become his backing band. Previously, the music always came collectively, from creative clashes, but I think Jarvis believed his own press and suddenly he was coming in with his own tunes. I didn’t think “Help the Aged” was worthy of following “Common People,” so I sabotaged it by playing blues guitar in the studio.

The Guardian, “The Ones that Got Away,” June 1, 2009

I agree that “Help the Aged” falls short of the standard set by “Common People,” but that song was the ultimate impossible act to follow. One of Jarvis Cocker’s most admirable qualities is the willingness to write songs about taboo topics, and in our youth-obsessed culture, getting old is one of the worst crimes a person can commit. Though sometimes the lyrics drift into Public Service Announcement territory, the empathy he expresses on behalf of these often-forgotten people is admirable:

Help the aged
‘Cause one day you’ll be older too
You might need someone who can pull you through
And if you look very hard
Behind those lines upon their face
You may see where you are headed
And it’s such a lonely place

I also whole-heartedly endorse the lines, “It’s time you took an older lover, baby/Teach you stuff, although he’s looking rough.” The couple who trained me in BDSM were twice my age (in their late 40’s at the time), and one of my favorite fucks is a guy in his 60’s.

Now that is a Public Service Announcement!

This is the one song on the album that demands I heap praise on Mark Webber’s guitar work, which alternates between sweet-and-lovely on the quiet verses and kicking ass on the Pixie-esque choruses. Though I wish they’d completely dispensed with the sore thumb bridge with Jarvis’ superfluous stutter, I consider “Help the Aged” one of the stronger arrangements on the album.

The title track is an even stronger musical composition, though credit for that goes to Peter Thomas, whose 1966 composition “Bolero on the Moon Rocks” was used as the central theme. Thomas is still with us at the age of 93, and while the bulk of his work involved sci-fi and horror soundtracks for television and film, this piece has a late-noir feel that would have been a good fit for 60’s noir films like Shoot the Piano Player or The Naked Kiss (most apt in this context, as the film is about a traumatized prostitute). Borrowing this remarkable piece of music could be considered a Pulp masterstroke; on the flip side, it shows that the band was running out of ideas and inspiration (or, as noted by Mr. Senior above, the band was no longer a collaborative enterprise).

The mood of the piece is smoky, reeking of debauched sexuality. As it turns out, Jarvis Cocker was watching a lot of porn in hotel rooms during Pulp’s commercial peak—oh, the glamorous life of a pop star!

‘This Is Hardcore’ is a bit about fame, actually… I ended up watching a lot of porn – hah! – on tour. If you get back to the hotel and you’ve got nothing to do, you put the adult channel on and have a look… It’s the way that people get used up in it. You’d see the same people in films, and they’d seem to be quite alive, and then you’d see a film from a year later and there’s something gone in their eyes. You can see it, that they’ve done it all and there’s nowhere else to go. There seemed to be something really poignant about that to me. (Q magazine 2012 interview)

Nice spin, but there’s scarcely a whiff of poignancy in the lyrics. There is an emphasis on the mechanical, impersonal production of porn (“then that goes in there/then that goes in there/then that goes in there/and then it’s over”), but really very little about what is “gone in their eyes.” Truth be told, Cocker sounds like your typically lonely lecher who watches these badly-acted, phony sex shows and fantasizes about someday directing a porn film himself:

You are hardcore, you make me hard
You name the drama and I’ll play the part
It seems I saw you in some teenage wet dream
I like your get-up, if you know what I mean . . .

I’ve seen all the pictures, I’ve studied them forever
I want to make a movie, so let’s star in it together
Don’t make a move till I say “action”
Oh, here comes the hardcore life

Bottom line: wake me up when the instrumental-only soundtrack version comes out—I’d buy it in a heartbeat. As for the rest, it’s obvious that Jarvis Cocker learned nothing while watching adult entertainment, so I hope he at least got his rocks off.

The “we’re all in this video together” theme continues, with “TV Movie,” a lost-love song with lyrics summarized quite nicely within the song itself: “All I know is I can’t even think/I can’t even think of anything clever to say.” I’ll second that motion! The arrangement is quite odd, featuring an acoustic guitar with unpleasant electronic residue on both channels for intro and first verse, followed by a leisurely build that never quite reaches a climax. Once the song vanishes into no one’s memory (except for the guy on Stereogum who thought it was the best thing Pulp ever did), we get “A Little Soul,” where Jarvis Cocker calls up the father who abandoned him in childhood and has him deliver a dramatic monologue to his now-adult son. This song has been singled out for praise by some reviewers; what I hear are clichés (you look like me, don’t grow up like me) and a son’s understandable resentment about abandonment that unfortunately negates any effort to understand the father’s motivations or circumstances. As Cocker was way too close to the subject matter to provide anything in the way of insight (such as filling us in on what he learned from the experience of abandonment), the song falls short in terms of emotional impact (unless you were abandoned by a parent in your childhood and can fill in the gaps). The pleasantly dull music is an exceptionally poor fit for what should have been a more thoughtfully constructed composition.

One could say that the moral of the story in “A Little Soul” is actually played out in the following song, “I’m a Man.” While it’s not the most original title, the song does capture Cocker’s thorough disgust with the cultural definition of maleness:

Laid here
With your advertising sliding past my eyes
Like cartoons from other people’s lives
I start to wonder
What it takes to be a man

Well, I learned to drink
And I learned to smoke
And I learned to tell
A dirty joke
Oh, if that’s all there is then there’s no point for me

All very well and understood, but as in so many songs on This Is Hardcore, Cocker doesn’t dig any deeper, listing these most superficial characteristics as if he were filling out the grocery list. The question he poses—“So please can we ask why we’re still alive?”—is a throwaway, broad-brush question that ignores the truth that despite cultural programming, many men pay little or no attention to the all-powerful he-man image propagated by myth and modern advertising. I have few problems with the music, and from a structural perspective, “I’m a Man” is a solid piece of work. But what the hell is that noise that appears initially in the first chorus—is that a badly-distorted guitar or an electric kazoo? Whatever it is, it makes the song feel like more of a joke than a credible statement on masculinity.

If you’ve got eight-and-a-half minutes to kill and want to experience what it’s like to truly piss away your time, have I got a song for you! “Seductive Barry” is as complete an embarrassment as one can imagine, with Cocker playing off singer/rapper Neneh Cherry’s stereotypically seductive vocalizations as he embraces the role of egomaniacal lecher. If this is supposed to be satire, it lacks the bite; if it’s supposed to be an attempt to set the sexual experience to music, it’s fucking pathetic. I hereby nominate “I will light your cigarette with a star that has fallen from the sky” for the most ridiculous line in history, and tell you that when I’m done listening to this song, I want to run away from Jarvis Cocker as speedily as possible and take a long shower to cleanse myself of his disgusting aroma. Worst. Pulp. Song. Ever.

Jarvis Cocker’s strongest vocal on the album can be heard on “Sylvia,” an intriguing story of latent yearning for the unattainable beauty of a young man’s adolescence. The image of that long-lost Helen causes the narrator to insult a prospective partner (“You look just like Sylvia/Well, you look like her to me”), add injury to insult by launching into an extensive monologue about Sylvia’s likely whereabouts, and wrap things up by engaging the invisible Sylvia in a conversation (by this time, the prospective partner has probably left the table to call the police). What’s intriguing about what seems a narrative disaster is the hint that Sylvia was the victim of sexual abuse on the part of her father, an interpretation based on this sequence:

Her father’s living with some girl
Who’s a year younger than her

She’s living in the country now
Oh, she’s trying to get better
Her beauty was her only crime

The narrator then reveals that it isn’t only the lingering attraction that draws him to Sylvia but also the guilt that comes from the awareness that he too had questionable motives in his pursuit of the girl (though not of the predatory kind):

Who’s this man you’re talking to?
Can’t you see what he wants to do?
He thinks if he stands near enough then he will look as good as you
Oh, he don’t care about your problems
He just wants to show his friends
I guess I’m just the same as him
Oh, I just didn’t know it then

With genuine passion, Cocker sings the words he wishes he could say to Sylvia if she really were there, attempting to alleviate her misplaced sense of guilt and validate her self-worth:

I can’t help you but I know things are gonna get better
And please stop asking what it’s got to do with you
Oh, keep believing ’cause you know that you deserve better

The arrangement features strong build, good old-fashioned Pulp tightness and a very effective guitar solo in just the right tone (hooray!). While I think the lyrics could have been a bit more explicit, “Sylvia” is a definite plus, allowing Jarvis Cocker to explore one of those taboo topics where he is at his best.

“Glory Days” is probably the song that captures how I feel about most of This Is Hardcore: there are off-putting moments, occasionally brilliant lyrics, and promising possibilities that end with a thud. Cocker gives us Bowie AND the snow nose guy on the first verse, making me want to leap from my seat and rip the needle from the disc . . . but the line “and learn the meaning of existence in fortnightly installments” gets stuck in my head . . . so I press on to discover the best lyrics on the album:

Oh, my face is unappealing and my thoughts are unoriginal
I did experiments with substances
But all it did was make me ill
I used to do the I Ching
But then I had to feed the meter
Now I can’t see into the future
But at least I can use the heater
Oh, it doesn’t get much better than this
‘Cause this is how we live our glory days

And I could be a genius if I just put my mind to it
And I—I could do anything if only I could get round to it
Oh, we were brought up on the space race
Now they expect you to clean toilets
When you’ve seen how big the world is
How can you make do with this?
If you want me, I’ll be sleeping in
Sleeping in throughout these glory days

That is an excellent exposition of how the generation in power fills youthful heads with the unlimited possibilities that await them, then offers little in the way of help or real-world education to make any of those possibilities real. When your life is pure drudgery, what’s the fucking point? This is great stuff!

Unfortunately, the great stuff morphs into gibberish in the closing verse:

Yeah we’d love to hear your story
Just as long as it tells us where we are
That where we are is where we’re meant to be
Oh, come on, make it up yourself
You don’t need anybody else
And I promise I won’t sell these days to anybody else in the world but you
No-one but you (4)

Geez. I count at least three detours from the main narrative in seven lines. Foreplay without the orgasm really, really sucks.

And speaking of sucks—and we’re talking Yoko Ono-level sucks here—Pulp ends the program with “The Day After the Revolution,” fourteen minutes and fifty-eight seconds of sheer torture that leave me in a state of frothing madness. The song proper is a bloody mess, featuring noisy guitar, a frantic vocal and a barrage of disconnected lines mingling utter meaninglessness (“the revolution begins and ends with you”) with pathetic attempts at establishing artistic cred (“Bergman is over, irony is over”). Then, at the 4:52 mark, the band noise vanishes into background and we’re treated to a shimmery, synthesized organ sound for ten fucking minutes and six fucking seconds, interrupted only by Jarvis Cocker intoning the words, “Bye, bye” at the 9:56 mark. To pass the time, I started counting the overtones, grew bored with that after about a minute, and spent the rest of my time gnashing my teeth, wishing desperately to be transported to a more pleasant environment—something like Siberia in January or the Sahara in the summer.

Look. I don’t mind dark. It’s half the yin-yang of life, a valid approach to exploring the human experience. What I resent is dark done badly. And I firmly believe that Pulp simply had to follow Different Class with something that bore little resemblance. Had they tried to reproduce that experience, they would have essentially committed themselves to an artistically-limited formula. I support the attempt but bemoan the execution.

Pulp would return in 2001 with the far more coherent and satisfying album We Love Life, ending their run on a positive note. From a historical perspective, Pulp’s contributions definitely qualify as significant impactful, and I find it oddly fitting and curiously satisfying that the band that gave us the masterpiece of the era should be the band that symbolically laid that era to rest.

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