Near the end of my Zoom interview with Jarvis Cocker, the inexhaustibly creative Pulp frontman excitedly reached for something just beyond the screen's frame. He was sitting in the house he's been sharing with his longtime partner and recent bride, Kim Sion, and his well-appointed office had some talismans nearby, apparently. Cocker waved an envelope toward the camera, one marked with some Buddhist script. That made sense — we'd been talking about Leonard Cohen, one of Cocker's heroes, who'd been a Zen monk during the latter part of his life. I thought Cocker might pull out some kind of prayer card, but what he soon showed me was a blank check.

Cohen spontaneously gave Cocker that gift (not genuinely cashable, of course) as they talked about the strange and sometimes stressful life of the professional creative. "I was so nervous to interview him," Cocker told me. "But I had to do it. I do believe that you should meet people that you admire; it's silly to be scared of it. Cohen was a very elegant guy, but he was also a very human person, and that's an important thing to realize. Everybody can create, that's the thing. It's all about trying to express what it is to be alive as a human being. Everyone's got a different take on that. You've just got to try and tell your story."

Pulp has been the primary vehicle through which Cocker has followed Cohen's life advice throughout a career that's also included radio broadcasting, television hosting, memoir writing, solo music ventures and immersive theater excursions over many decades. The band's sound shows off these influences within a bubbly stew of glam, French chanson, post-punk chaos and Top 40 romanticism. Pulp released four albums before 1995's Different Class made it a key spoke in the wheel of Britpop next to Oasis' bratty brothers and Blur's trend-spotting polymaths, and Cocker was the one among Britpop's stars who connected rock's past most clearly to its present, his wry charisma evoking both The Kinks' Ray Davies and Kurt Cobain. As he's aged, Cocker has touched on other archetypes, going through a rave stage, a Serge Gainsbourg fixation and, recently, a Dylan dive. His latest music takes a chance by remaining centered in himself.

Early on, Cocker developed an approach to songwriting that blended the outsider's view punk offered with the freeing flamboyance of pop and classic rock. In a career that's spanned more than four decades, Pulp has become a shadow Coldplay for the thrift-store set by crafting anthems for people too shy or awkward or self-conscious to raise their lighters in the air. Cocker's acerbic eye for detail matches his earnest belief that the grand gesture can have an effect, at least on a personal level. In this, he's very much like Cohen, a compulsive confessor embracing anti-heroism as a hierarchy-toppling stance.

When I spoke with Cocker, he was in the middle of a busy interview schedule promoting More, Pulp's first album in 24 years, which came out this week. The band welcomed the evidence of its continued popularity after playing two series of reunion concerts, one in the early 2010s and the second starting in 2022; it also lost an old friend when bassist Steve Mackey, who'd opted out of that second tour, died in 2023. With that loss and his mother's recent death still fresh in his mind, Cocker couldn't help but invoke the old sage Cohen on More. He's been cultivating his own style of mindfulness. "When you're young you might want to project a certain image," he said, recalling a time when he uncovered and read something he'd written as a young man that "just didn't ring true." More, he says, is "about the same kinds of things I've always written about, but I probably approach it in a different way." Wisdom of the elders? He'll take it.

This interview has been edited for length and clarity.

Ann Powers: Pulp has been your creative mainstay since you were a teenager, and yet for More you tried something different in the studio. You've said that for the first time you brought in more fully-formed lyrics. In the past you often basically winged it. You're being more careful now.

Jarvis Cocker: It's only taken me 61 years to get to that stage.

You weren't alone when you were doing it the old way. Years ago, I interviewed Greg Dulli from The Afghan Whigs — I was obsessed with their album Gentlemen, and was probably reading way too much into the lyrics. I asked him how he wrote them, figuring he must have really labored over them. He said, "No, I went into the studio at 3 a.m. and just sang whatever came to mind."

Well, that's a good way of getting words. People often have to reach a place where they almost fool themselves that they're not doing it so it seems like you're digging it out of yourself, but you're just allowing it to kind of pass through you — you just open your mouth and it comes out. Some people can do that amazingly. I'm not amazing at doing that. That's why I'm excited about the fact that this record was recorded quickly, in three weeks. Not because we saved a lot of money, but because it meant that whatever came out was ready to come out, you know?

I'm reminded of the famous conversation between Bob Dylan and Leonard Cohen when Cohen said he took seven years to write "Suzanne" and Dylan said he took like five minutes to write "Positively 4th Street." You're somewhere in between, I guess.

You know, I spoke to Leonard Cohen around the time when the Old Ideas record came out and, and I made a bit of a mistake of attempting to ask him a little bit about his process of writing. And he very patiently said, "We must not discuss the sacred mechanics. Otherwise neither of us will write a song again." I thought that was a great phrase, "sacred mechanics." A lot of people, myself included, are a bit superstitious about discussing how they write songs. You know when it's flowing correctly, but when you try and turn your mind back and think, "Where did it come from?," you can't usually pinpoint it.

I semi-famously kind of wrote most of the words Different Class in one very drunken evening round at my sister's house, just because we demoed the songs instrumentally, and now I had to finish the words off. Then I tried it on This is Hardcore — just got dead drunk — and didn't write anything.

One thing about this record is it comes after you've done other kinds of writing. You published a great memoir. You've worked on some theatrical pieces, like with Chilly Gonzales; the Jarv Is project is so different. Did those other experiments, those other very successful methods of writing and storytelling, come into this process?

One of the main things that got this record going was I had written a piece of music for a theatre piece called Light Falls by a playwright called Simon Stephens. I think he spent a year up north and he'd written this play that was set in the North of England, and he said, I need a piece of music for it, and I know the title. It's got to be called "The Hymn of the North." And I thought, "Whoa, that's a big title, I might never be able to set foot in the North again after trying to write a song like that."

That song is a little bit of drama in itself. You know, it shifts.

He sent me the script, so some of the material in the lyrics comes from that. Some of it is inspired by me thinking about my own son, who was 16 at the time. I was thinking, "He's going to leave school this year — what is he going to do?"

I love that song. And as a mother of a college-aged kid myself, I hadn't really thought about that, but it's a perfect song from a parent to a kid: that beautiful thing where you kind of shift from the idea of "I only hope" to "You're my only hope."

Thank you. Well, I thought about him leaving home, then I started thinking about how I was with my mother. My mother passed away just at the start of last year. [At the time, me] and my mother were close, but I could sometimes go for two months without speaking to her. And I thought, "Well, if my son did that to me, I'd feel really bad. I'd think he's fallen out with me." So I tried to be more attentive to my mother after that.

You know, family ties are weird things. When children are small, it's hard because they're always trying to do really dangerous things whenever you turn your back. But it's a very defined relationship. You've just got to stop them from killing themselves and give them some food and give them guidance and stuff like that. But then when they're older, you say, you're going to go live your life.

It is so complicated, that push-pull between protection and freeing and respecting them as an adult and being frustrated as a parent and remembering when you were a kid. This album was actually made at a time in your life when you had really gone through a lot as far as your deepest intimate relationships. Your mother passed away. You had separated from your wife and then gotten back together. These are these fundamental, core relationships. Did this feel, I don't know, like more primal or something, given all that was going on in your life? 

Yeah. It was written in the aftermath of those things. I suppose you do discover that people are really kind of the most important thing in your life, really. When I first moved to London to study at Saint Martin's, I brought a lot of things from Sheffield with me, things that I thought were important to me, and then carried around to various squats. And when we got thrown out of the squat, we had to carry these big bags of rubbish to take them to the next place where we lived, and then eventually they ended up in this house when I finally had enough money to buy a house. Then as soon as I had the house, I moved to France and some other people lived there and it was just all gathering dust for 20 years. And I always thought, "Oh, I should deal with that stuff one day. You know, it seems that at one time I thought it was important and it's just in the dark gathering dust."

Now the time when I chose to do it is probably significant because, as you say, I did split up with my wife before we were married and I spent a year away from her. And pretty much in the first week of our separation, I decided to look at the stuff in the loft and take pictures of it, try and remember why it was there. And it was useful in a way, because the objects reminded me of things in my life. But I haven't dealt with it. I thought I'd rather hang out with people than with objects. You know, I realised it wasn't that important. You know what I mean?

What you're talking about with objects, it makes me think about Walter Benjamin, who wrote a beautiful book in which he used different objects to write about his childhood in Berlin. And I think of the details that you get in classic Pulp, your way of songwriting, the sense of what someone's sweater feels like or the sense that a room is too hot or something like that, seemed so important to me in the songs.

That kind of detail is really important because, in a weird way, by being very particular about something, people believe it more, because it's something that you could only pick up if you'd actually lived through the thing you're describing. I didn't know that when I started. For me, the reason I put details in songs was when I moved to London, I started to write more explicitly about Sheffield. And part of that was really just because I felt I was in danger of forgetting where I'd come from. I'd moved to a new city that's very different, so I wanted to kind of fix [Sheffield] in my mind. I thought that if I put the names of streets that I used to be on [in the songs], that would help to keep those memories.

The intense identification that your fans have with you comes from that specificity of your writing. Do you feel that kind of connection from the other side? 

You know, I tend to talk on stage because everything to do with songs and performance, for me, is about trying to communicate with people. And I tend to talk to the audience on a kind of, like, one-to-one basis. I did start to wonder, when you mentioned my book — when I was writing that, you know, I discovered this thing that I'd been shortsighted, probably, from birth but no one had noticed. So I only got kind of diagnosed when I went to school and I couldn't see the blackboard. The whole world must have seemed like some kind of fuzzy blob to me, without being able to see any detail whatsoever. So I wonder whether that's where my way of addressing an audience has come from, that I used to think that everything out there is just one murky thing. And I just address them and hope that they can hear me, but I can't see them.

Maybe that's your attachment to detail, too, your desperate desire for detail.

Well, yeah. Before I had glasses, the only things I would be able to see would be things very near to me, things like on the floor or, or things directly in front of me. So I could probably only see detail, I couldn't see the bigger picture.

When you say that about needing to be close, that makes me think about the way you sing. You love the grand gesture, obviously, but also there's intimacy. I feel like in a Pulp song you are very close and then suddenly we're in a huge space. Have you thought about that dynamic of closeness? Intimacy versus a kind of grand gesture?

I thought about that a bit last night. There were these listening parties to say thank you to people who'd worked on the record, and the only downside to that for me was I had to listen to the record, which I don't like doing. I'm fine with performing songs, but with listening to things I've made, I don't like to do it with other people. So anyway, I listened to the songs and … there is a close and far away thing. There's also the kind of building to a kind of frenetic climax kind of thing as well. I mean, "Common People" is probably the best example of that — it increases in speed and intensity over all the length of its six minutes. It's probably partly to do with a kind of frustration of wanting to get something across, but also to get across an excitement, you know.

Pop music was something that I listened to from the day that I was born. I liked the excitement that pop music that I heard on the radio would produce in me. And, you know, that's what made me want to write songs, to see if I could make myself feel that with things I wrote myself. And that was a good thing about hearing the record last night, because at certain points I did get a slight tingle, so then I thought, "OK, that was enough for me."

I never have really been bothered about perfection. You know, we're not Steely Dan — even though I do really like Steely Dan's records. But we're not obsessed with that level of attention to detail. It's more about: Does the feeling that you're trying to express get across in this song?

So what was the biggest tingle you felt last night?

I like the end of "Farmers Market." I like when that goes to that very long kind of spoken part. I like when it goes loud in "Slow Jam."

"Farmers Market" feels like such a personal song. And I mean, all of your songs have this tension between saying something very personal and direct, and then the storyteller comes out and says, "Oh, I'm going to build a gilded frame around this. I'm going to structure it. I'm going to make it into a story." What I love about "Farmers Market" is the story is there, but the feeling is really vivid and forward.

One word that comes up a lot on the record is "feelings." And I think that probably is to do with the time that I was apart from my wife and trying to work out why that happened. I think that's the thing, you know: Sometimes you follow ideas and sometimes you follow your feelings. Feelings are a more difficult thing to quantify because they're not really spoken, you know, you just get a feeling about whether something is good or bad or you like it or you don't — it's kind of hard to express it in words. So during that time I was apart from my wife, that was one of the things I'd written and really, not to sound too soppy or whatever, we got back together and we got married and that really is the result of me deciding to try and follow my feelings rather than have some idea about what life means and how it should turn out.

How you describe seeing her in that song — it's in the base of your spine more than it is in your noggin, as they say.

Yeah. That's it.

I mean, it might be where I am in life, but I definitely see a through line about a long-term relationship — and not like in the song "Tina." That relationship is one-sided, but it's very long-term.

Well, "Tina" is based on an actual [person] … I mean, I can't really say I ever knew her because I never really spoke to her. But I had a kind of slight obsession with her.

So it's a true story?

Yeah. Someone that I almost spoke to at a party about 40 years ago, and then I would kind of encounter in very weird places. What does that mean? I used to think if you keep bumping into somebody, maybe you're supposed to be with them or something. Again, probably due to me being a bit of a shy person, so rather than just saying, OK, I'll go and talk to that person, just building a mythology about them without ever actually finding out what they're like. And it's not a very healthy way to live your life, so that that song is an attempt to kind of get rid of that.

I love the line, "Your lipstick on my coffee cup." That's, like, such a perfect encapsulation of, I think the term for it is limerence. It's a crush, right? But it's a very long-standing crush.

I think that's the thing. What we just described is a borderline psychotic condition, I suppose. But if you can write a song about it, for me anyway, that seems to negate that. It's like you've managed to turn it into some kind of raw material.

"My Sex" is a fascinating song. You were talking to Rob Sheffield about how that song was partly influenced by the fact you grew up around a lot of women. It's a surprising song in that the way or the phrases you're throwing out, you say, "My sex is neither him nor her." We're in a moment where trans and nonbinary people are really under fire. So I wondered if you thought about that as well as whatever that line means personally to you.

As you say, it's based upon when I was approaching puberty and I obviously wanted to find out about sex and the only place I could find out about it was by eavesdropping on my mother and her friends. They'd all split up with their husbands, so they were in other relationships and they would talk about them and I would be hid behind the door, kind of trying to pick up some tips. When I did try and have a relationship, I was always kind of looking at what I was trying to do, but from a woman's perspective.

There's another line in [that song] that says, "I haven't got an agenda. I haven't even got a gender." I just thought that line up, and I thought, "That's a good line, how could I put that in a song?" I think that on the more serious note, you mention trans and all that kind of thing. But I think that desire is something that, to me, hasn't got an agenda. It's more just, like, a human feeling. I don't know exactly how it feels for a woman to desire someone, but to me, it seems that we're talking about the same thing: Something that provokes a reaction in you. And that's what I was trying to get, I suppose.

In a way it's like an antidote or a rejoinder to a lot of classic rock and roll, in which sex is given an agenda, you know, or desire is given an agenda. In a song like "(I Can't Get No) Satisfaction," just to take the most glaringly obvious example, it's so directed, and it's all tied up in selling something. So I love this idea that that's not what you're going for.

It is interesting you say that, because you know, that's the very root of my songwriting, really. When I formed the band and when I realized I was going to have to write the words, part of my impetus was the fact that I thought that the way that love and relationships had been presented in the pop songs I'd heard growing up wasn't accurate, or it didn't seem to be what I was feeling myself when I was trying to do it myself. So I was really kind of a bit disappointed, you know, and I felt that I could write or I should try and write about what I thought it really was like. I've always loved pop songs and I like the way they work, like the drama of the pop song, the way it makes you feel. But I always wanted to try and put a different content in the lyrics, to put something that is slightly inappropriate in the lyrics.

Were you disappointed in the music or in your experiences of attempting to form relationships or have sex?

It was all like, "I love you, it's going to last forever, da da da." And then relationships aren't like that. Oh, they weren't for me, anyway. I mean, maybe I just wasn't doing it right, but I just wanted to try and express more about the kind of feelings of not being sure about how to do things and how it could go wrong. A lot of that kind of macho approach to writing about sex and love is all that kind of, "Yeah, I'm a loverman, I'll do it all night" kind of thing. And — I'm digging myself a hole here — it didn't ring true to me.

Why has it been important for you to maintain Pulp over the years? Of course, you've made solo albums, Jarv Is is a band. 

Well, because the history of Pulp is something interesting. I have a bit of an obsession with putting a show on. And the fact that more people will come and see Pulp means that I can put on a bigger show. Working with people like Nick [Banks, the band's drummer] and Candida [Doyle, keyboards] and Mark [Webber, guitar] — who I've worked with for years and years and years — even though we are close friends, we don't hang around socially with each other that much. But when you have played with people for a long time, you have a different kind of relationship that's based on sound. It's not about talking to each other. It's communicated through what you're playing, and that's quite an unusual kind of thing. Through very basic things like the fact that Nick plays about 10 times louder than any other drummer that I've ever come across in my life, so everybody has to make a noise to be heard over the top. Instantly the music has a certain energy to it because everybody's having to try just to make themselves heard.

I love this idea that a band is creating an ongoing conversation and the music itself is in conversation. And even when you might get interested in something else, you know, does that conversation feel like a home? Is there a certain security in it? How does it remain dynamic and not get boring?

Part of it is what it brings to you, and that's an interesting relationship with the past. When we were just trying to play the old songs and play them well, there was a very basic physical challenge in that as you get older, your voice gets lower and it gets harder to reach high notes. So you've got a choice: You can either change the key of the song and make it easy for yourself, or you could try and climb the Mount Everest of trying to get back up to those notes. And I had a feeling that trying to go back up and keep the songs in the original keys would be the way to do it. Because like we were saying before, Pulp songs are a lot about energy and trying to get something across because we're not really virtuoso musicians.

And once you get back and you're actually able to perform those songs in the original key and you feel that the song is working again, that is a very good feeling. It seems to open up. You kind of have some relationship with what you were like. That was actually quite exciting to find that you can reanimate those songs and bring them back together.

Pulp is one of those bands that has truly loyal fans who have followed you through your whole career and identify with you. I wonder what your relationship to your fans is now that you're in your 60s and there are some younger fans who might not have been alive the last time you put out an album.

When we were first doing interviews, people would say, "You're an indie band." And we'd say, "No, we're not an indie band, we're a pop band." And that was the main inspiration for listening to hit records of the '60s and '70s. Pop is a kind of young person's thing. It's a thing that you might listen to when you go roller skating or listen to when you're on a fairground ride and it's something that makes you a bit dizzy or a bit giddy and gets you excited. And I'm glad that if young people are still liking those songs, it means that we managed to kind of capture something about the magic of pop music and being young. So that's a nice feeling at the age of 61.

Yeah. I'm thinking about Leonard Cohen, again, in his later years, around the time you met him — he was performing so much, he'd had his financial calamity and had to go out on the road again. Was that a pop moment? He was playing to big crowds. Here he was in his 70s, you know. When you say "pop," I'm not sure if you mean Whitney Houston or Taylor Swift or …

No, I mean, it's a kind of mythical pop that probably only exists in my mind, I suppose. I've no idea what is in pop music at this time in the world, but the music that I remember from being a kid is what I call pop music, I guess.

On the song "A Sunset," you have this lyric in the first verse that's so Lenny: "I scan the menu options / I did not have a choice / I'd like to teach the world to sing / But I do not have a voice." I mean, I wonder if you were thinking about him when you wrote that, because it's so much like a line from Old Ideas.

To be honest, no, because Richard Hawley, he wrote the music to that [song], and when he sent me a demo with him playing on acoustic guitar, he said, "Don't worry about it sounding too much like 'I'd Like to Teach the World to Sing'," and as soon as he said that, it's lodged in my mind. And that's why I sing, "I'd like to teach the world to sing, but I do not have a voice."

The idea for that song came from working at Steve Albini's studio, Electrical Audio, in Chicago. He had a poster on the wall that said "Tickets to the Sunset." And that's a piece of work by a female artist called Rose Marshack, I think. Back in the early '90s or something she sold these tickets and she took people to a hill and they watched the sun set and said, "There you go." And I like the idea of making people appreciate something that's there every day but you forget about it because it's always there. It's a beautiful thing to look at a sunset.

Well, also "a sunset" invokes endings and, I mean, we were talking much earlier about, you know, your mother passing. Your former bandmate Steve Mackey also died rather suddenly. I'm at the same age, Jarvis — we're in this phase now where this is happening, and it's quite disconcerting. You had Andrew McKinney play bass on this record, and you'd worked with him before so it's not like you had to go out and find a stranger to play bass. But how, musically, did the absence of Steve on these new tracks change things? I know you were very close and he was your foil in a lot of ways.

Steve passing away was probably one of the spurs that made us want to do a record, as it makes you think of your own mortality and what you're capable of doing and how much time you might have left to do things. And so we probably thought, "Well, OK, if we're capable of doing the record, we should do it, because Steve can't do that anymore." You know, I asked Andrew, "Do you feel weird playing the bass in the band?" Because on the tour, you know, before we played "Something Changed," I would always talk to the audience about Steve and the fact that he wasn't around and dedicate that song to him. But he's fine with it. As you get older, people start to go, and that's life.

It's part of the grain of existence.

'Tis. It is, yeah.

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