Pulp confound all expectations on More

Releasing new music after such a long period of hiatus poses risks, especially as the Sheffield group enjoyed such a superb run of records up until their split in 2002. At worst, it can result in a painful, nostalgia-mining exercise and a laborious retread of former glories. In the lead up to Pulp’s eighth LP – and their first in 24 years – you’d be forgiven for holding reservations. Some things are better off left alone; they don’t always need to be excavated. However, the unearthing of lead single “Spike Island” – a self-aware slice of pulsating disco – suggested Jarvis Cocker and co. could temporarily halt the current rotten cultural loop of lazy regurgitation and vapid reboots.

In virtually every sense, More is a thoroughly post-postmodern record – less interested in redefining what it means to be Pulp in 2025 and focused instead on what matters most: the songs. From the very outset, they exceed expectations, such is the quality and compositional depth of the material here. Some may be disappointed that opener “Spike Island”, for all its propulsive might, is barely representative of the record, which in fact is home to some of their grandest arrangements, brimming with urgent drama. It’s interesting that “Hymn Of The North” was cited by Cocker as the catalyst for this new project, as it proves to be a career highlight. An astounding, multi-pronged epic, its potent, technicolour beauty would be enough reason alone for anyone to grab themselves a copy of More.

As he did on Blur's The Ballad Of Darren, producer James Ford manages to capture the vital, beating essence of the band with remarkable precision. “Tina” is a prime example, blending dynamic theatricality and orchestral movements with the immediacy of its suitably colossal chorus. Closer “A Sunset” – written in collaboration with fellow Yorkshireman Richard Hawley – is subtler but remains as quietly joyous a moment as anything in the Sheffield quartet’s back catalogue. It’s supported by yet more immaculate instrumentation, as lovely and serene as waves gently lapping the shore. Meanwhile, Cocker’s lyrics impart both disillusionment (“The first rule of economics: Unhappy people will spend more”) and hope, alongside his typical lashings of wry humour (see the ironic reference to “I’d Like To Teach The World To Sing”).

“Farmer’s Market” and “Background Noise” are similarly affecting and, curiously, feel like inversions of each other. The former weaves a tangential narrative of wistful romanticism, while the latter offers a vulnerable, nuanced assessment of love and relationships in the most human way possible. Yet, there is room for more sprightly material, as demonstrated by the huge riffs found on “Grown Ups” and the vigorous, full-blooded romp of “Got To Have Love”. “My Sex” on the other hand, is utterly outrageous, and sees Cocker embark on a sensual, cosmic exploration of his own gender amidst an electrifying cocktail of surging jazz and silken strings.

Let’s be honest, comebacks are usually rather drab affairs. The creators tend to lack the impetus and ingenuity that once defined them, leaving listeners with a cold, empty feeling inside. This makes Pulp’s perfectly judged return all the more impressive, serving up material capable of competing easily with the band’s very best work. So let us celebrate More for what it is: a surprisingly thoughtful and often breathtaking coda to the Sheffield legends’ wonderful career.