Their first record in more than two decades, More drops Pulp headfirst into 2025. They aren’t trying to sound young, but showcase their truth as they see it from an older, more refined point of view, much like John Lennon did on his 1980 comeback, Double Fantasy. However, much like the Lennon work, it’s hard not to feel a little shortchanged by the results. This was, after all, the group that brought such exhilarating anthems as “Disco 2000”, and infused the ballads with guttural emotion as they did on “A Little Soul”.
What Pulp haven’t lost is their innate Englishness: ballads recall grocery shops, summer festivals, and farmers’ markets. “Spike Island” reflects on a festival, but the majority of the tunes centre on the present. From this selection, “Partial Eclipse” proves to be the most successful: a tender, Roy Woodesque ballad exploring the beauty that surrounds Jarvis Cocker and company.
“Hymn of the North” bears a similar structure to “The Long and Winding Road”, repeating Phil Spector’s mistake in drenching the listener in orchestration. What starts as a humble tune evolves into something more pompous and grandiose-sounding. Then there’s the genuinely awful “My Sex”, an unfortunate exercise in rap bolstered by hammy depictions of coitus. Suddenly, Paul McCartney‘s cheekily smutty “Fuh You” sounds refined by comparison.
“Spike Island” has groove, but lacks punch, which was typically Steve Mackey’s contribution to the band. Bassist Andrew McKinney does what he can, but it’s hard to escape the feeling that the songs would sound a bit better fleshed out if Mackey were still alive. As if acknowledging his absence, Cocker reaches even further inside of himself to let out an impassioned howl during “Spike Island’s” chorus. Indeed, all four members of Pulp bring their A-game to the studio, but Mackey’s shadow is one they cannot entirely shirk off.
Out of the compositions, “Tina” might be the only one that could have sat on This Is Hardcore, combining a shopping list of Pulp trademarks: soaring chorus, strident violin, kitschy kitchen sink lyrics. “There is no alternative,” Cocker croons, “I’ve got to live.” Lit with images of carnal exercise in a charity shop, “Tina” boasts a knowing humour which is absent from much of the album.
Mark Weber litters “Grown Ups” with jaunty hooks and fills, an enjoyable albeit lightweight excursion into introspection. Cocker summons his inner Marvin Gaye on “Slow Jam”, a strangely affecting piano painting dotted with joie de vivre and percussive playfulness from drummer Nick Banks. “Slow Jam” shifts tempo, groove, and key, a musical sponge that rises and froths with the gusto and love put into it.
Given the standard delivered by “Partial Eclipse” and “Slow Jam”, it’s hard to write More off entirely, but measured against the band’s catalogue, it comes up short. It doesn’t hold the impishness of His ‘N’ Hers, or the lo-fi lyricism that made the Scott Walker-produced We Love Life a treat. Different Class has a glossier production sheen, and few of the vocals compare to those of This Is Hardcore in terms of density and depth. More can be summarised best by the concluding number “A Sunset”: a chiming folk track slanted by a blue-grass melody.
Deeply British in the way it summons an excitement over warm weather, “A Sunset” quickly runs out of steam, particularly when a barrage of instruments ricochet onto the listener. When the track ends, it fades with a question mark, a hesitant phrase; Cocker is every bit as confused as the listener as to whether or not he should stop. It’s hard to say whether Pulp’s More definitively ends or if it merely fades out. Like the album that preceded the number, “A Sunset” closes insouciantly rather than confidently—a shame.