Pulp live at Finsbury Park by Sarah Louise Bennett
Pulp played Finsbury Park on July 1st.
This is what they do for an encore.
Shortly before their set begins, the big screens give a potted history of the main attraction with old home-movie footage of a pre-fame Jarvis Cocker and Pulp. Then, the screens inform us: You Are About To See The 527th Concert By Pulp.
Not that it was required, but it’s a reminder that the small details and self-awareness set Pulp apart in the 1990s, alongside their generation-defining anthems.
Three hours earlier, the lithe Baxter Dury (one of many who can claim Jarvis as an influence) slinks and slides around the huge stage, the grooves and synths of his canon bolstered by the storming bass of the live system. After one song, his shirt becomes a bandana so he can fully focus on his tantric moves. A beguiling performer, Dury is at pains to stress how happy he is to be performing in his hometown and, despite his perma-snarl, it’s easily believed.
Following as main support, the power and popularity of Wet Leg’s debut album remains potent over a year on. The more gregarious of the two, Rhian Teasdale traverses the tightrope between rock star and mere mortal with magnificent sunglasses and clad in an Arsenal shirt, an effortless attempt to win over the crowd.
Songs such as Chaise Longue and Wet Dream still pack a punch, but the coquettish playfulness of Teasdale and Hester Chambers is still their most endearing trait. There’s lots of swinging around in turn to play notable chords or skipping around one each other, their friendship still readily apparent despite their whirlwind success.
Yet, with all due respect to the support acts, there’s only one show in town tonight. One of Pulp’s many hallmarks has always been their showmanship and sense of grandiosity, and when the velvet curtain which dresses the stage (therefore maintaining the illusion by not showing the crew going about their work) lifts to show an impressive stage consisting of lighted steps and a vast musical set up (string section on the left, band largely on the right) the audience is taken somewhere way beyond 1995.
The band launch into I Spy before Jarvis rises from a platform at the back to cast his unmistakable silhouette against a moon backdrop. The track may have come from their biggest album (Different Class) but it’s not one of their most immediate, yet the performance of Cocker and the surprising heft of his bandmates leave the crowd enraptured before Disco 2000 gets everyone moving.
Streamers are launched and proceed to get caught amidst the speaker stacks, screens, and trees and stay there for the rest of the show. Much like Cocker trying to catch a grape in his mouth (and failing twice), it’s all very Pulp.
Jarvis then addresses London Pride (taking place across the capital throughout the day) and dedicates Mis-Shapes to the LGBTQ+ fans in the crowd before paying tribute to their former bassist, the late Steve Mackey who passed away earlier in the year: “I tend to talk about him before this song,” he announces, “because this song’s called Something Changed. It’s about how somebody can enter your life and really change it all.” It sweeps, it soars and by rights, there shouldn’t be a dry eye in the house.
Once the time to mourn is respectfully observed, Pulp rattle through Pink Glove and an intense Weeds/Weeds II (The Origin Of The Species) which, in turn, segues into a menacing F.E.E.L.I.N.G.C.A.L.L.E.D.L.O.V.E.. All tracks which display the darker side of their oeuvre, frivolity is restored as, when announcing that it’s time to rave, the string section blow whistles and put on bucket hats before Sorted For E’s & Whiz.
Elsewhere, following the End Of The Line Remix of the song, This Is Hardcore sees Jarvis slouching in a brown leather chair beneath a chandelier before descending the lit-up staircase seedily to accompany their magnum opus while he later reminds us of guitar skills, playing the riff of arms-aloft anthem Babies.
A word too for the rest of the main band. Mark Webber unleashes his inner-guitar god on the ecstatic Sunrise, Candida Doyle remains the foundation on which the band is built on keys, while Nick Banks pounds his drums perhaps harder than before.
Yet Cocker remains the conductor; his leaps may cover less distance than before, but his familiar flailing and strutting arms are as captivating as ever. Joshing with the crowd, he asks, ‘Have we forgotten something?’, before a rip-roaring Common People. And what exactly did they do for an encore? A rare treat in the form of Razzmatazz, since you asked.
“My name is Jarvis,” the singer says just before the end of a life-affirming show. “I was born to perform. I exist to do this.” No arguments here.
