Jarvis Cocker Discusses Pulp’s New Album and Legacy

Jarvis Cocker has a lot to say. Known as the witty, sharp-tongued frontman of the iconic Britpop band Pulp, Cocker’s gift for clever language and cultural insight extends far beyond his lyrics. He’s often sought out for conversations that showcase his intellect, humor, and the same vividly observant style that made his songwriting stand out in the 1990s.

Last month, Cocker sat down with his longtime bandmates at London’s Barbican Center to discuss their new album — their first in nearly 25 years. Surrounded by Candida Doyle (keyboardist), Mark Webber (guitarist), and Nick Banks (drummer), he reflected on everything from the emotional fuel behind pop music (“suppressed emotions,” he offered) to the surprising logistical challenges of being in a band. “You can’t get insured!” he exclaimed. “Being a musician is ridiculously expensive.”

He also expressed unease about how modern music consumption has changed, particularly with the rise of streaming. “People can go their whole lives now without hearing a single song more than once,” he said, visibly disturbed. “It all becomes background noise — like some kind of scented candle ambiance.”

But Pulp’s music has never been about ambience. The band’s name alone suggests something raw and emotional — their songs are often urgent, biting, and socially aware. One of their most enduring hits, “Common People” (1995), is a dance-floor staple that doubles as a commentary on class divisions. Reflecting on what gave Pulp’s songs their power, Cocker said they often carried a frantic energy — as though grappling with a difficult idea or wrestling through a thought process in real time. “Almost hysterical, sometimes,” he said.

That sense of intensity defined the band’s ’90s prime. But their new album, More, set for release on June 6, strikes a more contemplative tone. With slower pacing and more room for introspection, the music is gentler, though no less thoughtful. When Cocker played the album at Rough Trade’s offices, someone commented it sounded “age appropriate.” Cocker, now 61, took it as a compliment.

As they chatted around the Barbican’s long meeting table — in the same cultural venue where they’d played many times before — the band’s dynamic was easy and affectionate. They teased Cocker good-naturedly, especially when he recalled his ill-fated move to Paris during the band’s early 2000s break. In a story that had them howling with laughter, he described how he strapped his beloved acoustic Gibson guitar to the roof of his car, only to have it tumble off and be crushed under a passing lorry. “Absolutely destroyed,” he said. The group burst into laughter. “It was my first time using a roof rack,” Cocker added, to which Webber replied, sputtering with laughter, “That is so typical.”

But three decades of working together has created a relaxed camaraderie. “We’re more tolerant of each other now,” said Banks, 59. Doyle described the recent recording sessions as “harmonious,” a word that probably wouldn’t have applied to their earlier years. To decide which songs would make the album, they ranked each demo with a point system. The moody, atmospheric “My Sex” scored the highest. Whether the album finds commercial success or not doesn’t seem to trouble them. “There’s not much pressure anymore,” said Webber, 54.

“What even counts as success these days?” Cocker wondered aloud. “Candida?” he asked.

She answered plainly: “If I enjoy it, then it’s a success.” Her bandmates chuckled in agreement.

Cocker’s fixation on becoming a pop star began in his teenage years. He formed the first version of Pulp in 1978 in Sheffield, England. The early years were marked by constant lineup changes and a lack of recognition. But after studying art in London, and with a stable group finally assembled, Pulp broke through — landing squarely in the Britpop spotlight alongside Oasis and Blur. Unlike their peers, Pulp injected biting humor and class consciousness into their songs, becoming the genre’s sharpest commentators.

LCD Soundsystem frontman James Murphy, a close friend of Cocker, believes Pulp’s magic lies in balancing sincerity and satire. “Their songs have depth, but they’re also witty and absurd,” he said in an interview. “It’s that mixture of earnestness and cheek that makes them unique.”

On stage, Cocker has always been a captivating performer — tall, gangly, full of dramatic gestures and impromptu movements. When Pulp headlined Glastonbury in 1995, he told the crowd, “If a lanky geek like me can do this, you can too.” It was a rallying cry that resonated.

But by 2002, Pulp had burned out. “There wasn’t a big fallout,” Webber explained. “We just ran out of steam.” They disbanded without knowing if they’d ever play together again.

In the years that followed, each member pursued other paths. Doyle, who has lived with rheumatoid arthritis since her teens, became a counselor and health advocate. Webber curated and wrote about indie films. Banks returned to Sheffield to run his family’s pottery business. Their ’90s success gave them enough financial breathing room to explore life beyond music. Cocker, meanwhile, launched a new project, Jarv Is…, worked in broadcasting for the BBC, and even became editor-at-large at Faber and Faber. (He joked that listing “broadcaster” on his insurance forms helped lower his premiums.)

Eventually, reunion tours brought them back together. The first, in 2011, aimed to give the band — and its fans — a more satisfying farewell. Cocker admitted he also wanted to confront the youthful belief that fame would solve all his problems. “It didn’t,” he said. “Now I just want to do it right.” Though he admits even that might be impossible.

Their upcoming album, More, is dedicated to bassist Steve Mackey, who passed away in 2023. Much of the material started life during soundchecks, with Cocker introducing new ideas on the fly. The tone of the album reflects a shift — it replaces the intense energy of earlier work with midlife reflections, poetic musings, and even a string section and choir.

“I’ve always been preoccupied with aging,” Cocker wrote in the album notes. At 33, he wrote “Help the Aged.” Now, at 61, he sees growing up as a real achievement. The song “Grown Ups” offers a humorous yet sobering line: “Life’s too short to drink bad wine. And that’s frightening.”

While once a style icon in tailored suits and stacked boots, Cocker now favors a more relaxed look: brown corduroy, mismatched plaid, tousled hair — he blended right into the 1970s tones of the Barbican. Reflecting on creativity, he shared, “I once read that the best way to make something original is to try and copy something exactly.” He was on his way to host a talk with a sculptor in a 19th-century chapel — another example of his life as a thoughtful, bookish cultural figure offstage.

But on stage, he transforms. Murphy recalled seeing him perform on the 2012 Coachella cruise: “He’s so magnetic — constantly moving, like a living cartoon. You can’t look away.”

Cocker insists he doesn’t choreograph any of it. In fact, he hardly remembers his performances. “That’s what I love about music,” he said. “It goes straight past the intellect.”

More came together in just three weeks — astonishingly quick for a band known for long studio marathons. Their 2001 album We Love Life took nearly a year; This Is Hardcore (1998) took even longer. This time, they recorded live in a single room, with producer James Ford (who has worked with Arctic Monkeys and Depeche Mode). Ford’s approach was focused on capturing raw energy over perfect sound. “I like to catch a moment,” he said. “It’s about feeling, not polish.”

Murphy said he admires that Pulp never tried to conform. “Their music’s always had a little wonkiness to it,” he said. “That’s what makes it human.” He’s thrilled to be sharing a stage with them this fall at the Hollywood Bowl — a dream he’s long held.

Ford and Murphy also praised Cocker’s lyrical style — simple on the surface but deeply resonant. “There’s something cosmic in how direct he is,” Ford noted. (Cocker’s lyric collection Mother, Brother, Lover was published in 2011, though he was adamant they weren’t poems.)

One last change in More: the songwriting process. In the past, Cocker often began with melodies and placeholder lyrics, adding real words late in the game. This time, he entered the studio with lyrics already prepared. Growth, perhaps? On the opening track, “Spike Island,” he boldly declares: “I was born / To perform… I exist / To do this / Shouting and pointing.”

Is he being sincere or ironic? Like much of Pulp’s work, the answer is layered. The song title references a legendary (and chaotic) 1990 concert by the Stone Roses — a touchstone for Britpop. With the genre enjoying a revival, and even Oasis rumbling about reunion tours, Pulp’s return feels timely — but also timeless.