In the midst of Pulp’s first US tour in ten years… Some of us are feeling a little left out.
1. They don’t remember the first time.
Brit-pop was amazing. Fact. It was pubs, trainers, puking and pills. It was not Ketel One cocktails, blogging about your trainers, wheatgrass shots and Adderall. Its ok, times have changed, we now know that track suit tops make you look fat and beer makes you actually fat and a combination of the two is a one way ticket to a musical melt down the size of Robbie Williams’ pre comeback gut. Having all but ignored Pulp through most of the nineties and forgotten about
them in the noughties, Jarvis and his boys are enjoying a revival right now in the States. Here’s the problem: once again America have shown up late to the party. My grandad said it in 1941 and I’ll say it again… ‘About fucking time, Johnny come latelys.’
2. They call them ‘The Pulp’.
Potato – potarto, tomato – tomarto, trunk – boot, bum – butt, caving – spelunking (yeh, weird!) we may be two nations separated by a common language but names are not open to interpretation and failure to comply with what we consider to be a matter of basic politeness will result in your looking stoopid.
3. Whilst Helping the aged, they might end up relieving us of one of our national treasures.
The only thing to really benefit from all this second wave madness is Jarvis’ pension fund. Now
that the poor bugger has been unceremoniously ripped from his rock and roll retirement by a bunchof daisy duke wearing, bubble gum chewing hipsters, who’s going to present the nations art docos? Who’s going to interview our legends on BBC 6 Music? And who’s going to make sure we want to nip off to Paris on the Eurostar? Because we do Jarvis, we do – Paris won’t be Paris without you- you’ll probably buy a mansion in Malibu and you won’t call us anymore.
4. What about The Blur?
So they had Oasis, albeit slightly late in the game, once they’d started writing songs about how big their bar tabs were (see champagne supernova) and their business class air travel (see All around the World) but what about Blur? In a recent poll (conducted by me) one in three Americans knew Damon Albarn as that monkey fella from the Gorillaz, the other two Americans I asked didn’t have a clue who he was. I don’t want to open up a can of worms, but I think we’d all agree that Blur, Oasis and Pulp formed the big three as far as Brit Pop goes. In the same way that one cannot claim to be an expert on Southern French reds unless one has at least tasted a Chateux-Neuf du Pape; one cannot be qualified to contemplate the Northern Socialist lyricism in The Last Day of theMiner’s Strike unless one can juxtapose them with the Southern subtleties of Charmless Man, can one?
5. They don’t know the real reason why Pulp rule.
Let me take you on a journey to The Brit Awards 1996, a time when a Brit was worth having… Sadly Pulp went home empty handed, beaten by Oasis in the Best British Group category. Ironically though, it was Noel Gallagher who dothed his cap at the end of the night, referring to Jarvis Cocker as a ‘star’ who should be awarded an ‘MBE’:
It was during America’s favourite pedophile’s performance of his big (s)hit Earth Song which
unnecessarily involved frolicking with infants and pretending to be The Messiah, that cocky Cocker
took a dislike to this prophetic display of Personal Jesusing and decided to show the moonwalking
pillock a moon of his own. Later that night Cocker was arrested but had cemented himself a place in our nations hearts 4EVS.
And now to reason number 6, this is where all the rotten vitriol in the rest of this article has stemmed from…
6. The S. S. bloody Coachella.
‘A musical voyage aboard the Celebrity Silhouette’ setting sail to the Bahamas and Jamaica in mid December, brought to you (or them) by the people that brought you (or them) Coachella, a festival for beautiful, over sexed Los Angelino’s in Indio, California. The Celebrity Silhouette comes complete with onboard restaurants, Solarium pools, 24 hour room service and a headline performance from the one and only Pulp. Tempted? Yes, me too.
Here’s the drawback… tickets start at $700 for a windowless cabin in steerage with fire stoking
responsibilities and a less than desirable position on the lifeboat priority list. They end at somewhere in the region of P.O.A which usually means about $30 million for a Royal Suite so spectacular that they can’t even begin to describe how amazing it is on the website, so they don’t. I’ll sure bet its nice though. Oh boy, jealousy is an ugly emotion. This kind of experience is not for common people like me.
Tickets $700, flights to Florida $600, Es and whizz $200, waiting until they play in the Uk next