Pulp's Jarvis Cocker at the Sydney Opera House, Photographs by Daniel Boud
If there’s one band from the Britpop era that has been pretty much guaranteed artistic immortality, it’s Pulp.
That might sound like heresy to those who picked the Gallagher brothers as their avenging angels in the much-discussed Britpop wars. But listening to a song like “Champagne Supernova” in the year of our lord 2026 can feel a little like tuning into a time capsule born from sunnier, more optimistic times. By contrast, Jarvis Cocker and his gang of smirking, revolutionary upstarts will never go out of style for one key reason: time and time again, they sang about the world going to shit. And if modern history has taught us anything, it’s that the world does adore going to shit.
If anything, Pulp’s music feels more relevant now than it ever did. That’s a music criticism cliche, but in this case, it’s the truth. The rallying chorus of “Mis-Shapes” could be copied directly from the internal monologue of a burned out, embattled gen-Zer. “What’s the point in being rich / if you can’t think what to do with it? ‘Cause you’re so bleeding thick,” Cocker snarls on that song. Turns out he didn’t even know the half of it: our ruling class have spent the last three decades accumulating wealth and bleeding brain cells.
So, when Pulp emerged on the Opera House Forecourt for the Sydney leg of their much anticipated revival tour, it wasn’t in the form of a legacy band. Cocker spent the gig spasmodically dancing on the very cutting edge, whirling through a setlist of songs that could have been written yesterday. He achieved the unthinkable: summing up the spirit of the times while dressed like a substitute English teacher in blazer, jeans and spectacles.
Time has only consolidated his charms as a frontperson, too. Hopping around the stage, Cocker distributed lollies into the audience. At one point, he threw a grape up into the air, and caught it in his mouth. A staccato fire of dry, Steven Wright-esque jokes landed every time. Towards the end, he thanked the audience for making the gig feel so special. “Without you here, we’d just be, like, rehearsing,” he said.
Such wry levity contributed to the gig’s genuinely euphoric feeling. Midway through, half the band cleared out, leaving only the Pulp long-haulers onstage to perform a stripped down version of “Something Changed.” With old photos of the band projected on the screen behind them, it could have felt like nostalgic box-ticking – the kind of mawkish sentimentality that threatens to colour too many revival shows. Instead, it felt like noting the past only to strengthen bonds to the present. It might have been an acknowledgement of where Pulp started, but it was simultaneously a reminder of where they are now: still vital, subversive, and alive.
Additional proof of such longevity? Usually, a ‘90s band trotting out new material is a cue to nip to the loo. Instead, “Spike Island,” one of the most extraordinary songs from their 2025 record More, got the crowd as energised as the thrumming chords of “Babies.” “Common People” was a highlight from the back half of the set – how could it not be? – but so was “Got to Have Love,” a disco-inflected banger that calls for the audience to reaffirm their commitment to other human beings, while also referring to the listener as a “ponce.”
Make no mistake: the sun won’t ever set on the empire of Pulp. After all, bucket hats go in and out of vogue, but unceasing horrors never do.
Pulp performed at the Sydney Opera House Forecourt, on stolen Gadigal land, on Friday 6 March.
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