Last weekend, tucked away in a low-lit venue in Soho, a select crowd gathered for a first listen to Pulp’s new album, More. It wasn’t flashy. No big stage, no theatrics. Just a roomful of people leaning in, ready to hear what Jarvis Cocker and co. had to say after all these years.
From the moment the speakers kicked in, it was clear: this wasn’t some nostalgia grab. More sounds like Pulp, yes—but not as they were. This is older, sharper, more grounded. The wit’s still there. So is the charm. But now there’s a weight behind it, a sense of reflection that comes from living a bit, losing a bit, watching things shift around you.
The opener, “Spike Island,” sets the tone with a swaggering disco pulse—tight, infectious, unmistakably Pulp. It got the room moving. And then came “Tina,” with its falsetto chorus and twisted storytelling. It’s funny and sad in equal measure. “Grown Ups” hit harder—longer, moodier, soaked in adult regrets: moving house, wrinkled skin, missed chances.
Then came the ballads. “Farmer’s Market” floated in like a late-summer breeze—warm, a little wistful. “Slow Jam” was quieter, but it didn’t need volume to leave a mark. The string arrangements here are lush without being overdone. They give the songs a sense of space, of softness.
“My Sex” brought the sleaze (of course it did), but now with a kind of grim awareness: “My sex is running out of time,” Jarvis sings, not with panic, but with a shrug. “Partial Eclipse” was one of the night’s most powerful moments, building from a skeletal beginning into something much bigger, like memory filling in with color as it returns.
And then there were the closers. “Hymn of the North” was haunting—northern imagery, longing, an eerie piano line that opened up into something grand. Finally, “A Sunset” faded in, gentle and understated, ending the album with a dry laugh about economics and unhappiness. That last line lingered.
So what’s More? It’s mature, yes, but not boring. Reflective, but not slow. It still dances, still jokes, still wants. And Jarvis still knows how to hold a room, even if it’s just through speakers in a dark Soho basement.
A full review is coming soon, where we’ll dig into the lyrics, the production, the whole shape of the album. But for now, after one listen, this much is clear: More is the sound of a band aging with purpose. Still sharp. Still strange. Still Pulp.
