Critical popcorn

1998. And there was a perception that the previous perfection of Britpop and all its beer and bravado was beginning to dampen, like a soggy bucket hat left to fester on the ground of a Camden backstreet. Whether this was due to a succession of years of partying from the key players, almost led by the overblown cocaine chaos of 1997’s Be Here Now, let alone Blur’s reinvention, or even the tremendous triptych of OK Computer, Urban Hymns and Dig Your Own Hole taking the deserved plaudits, there was certainly a shift in the style.

While Pulp’s This Is Hardcore wasn’t released until March 1998, it felt like the right time. In that season, we also got Mansun’s expansive and impossible-to-play-live Six, plus eventually UNKLE’s Psyence Fiction, who took the likes of Thom Yorke and Richard Ashcroft under their trip hop alt rock wing, to create something murky yet remarkable that also fitted ’98 a little better. You see, I always liked This Is Hardcore. I was 18 years old. The Britpop bubble had, of course, taken me in with its joy and blown my young mind. The NME had been the go-to print newspaper I’d pick up on the way to school since ‘95, there was hope ahead and it smelled like the morning pages of a freshly printed NME between my inky-palms on the school bus.

But as an 18-year-old, the NME didn’t seem quite as relevant and This Is Hardcore marked a distinct transition, one out of school and into full-time work. Armed with money and confusion over the future, this album suited the mood better, with Depeche Mode’s 86-98 also layering my evenings, and like I’d done with Different Class and His ‘n’ Hers, Jarvis Cocker’s somehow even darker stories of sex, aging, pornography, and everything connected, just worked. Maybe my once-hopeful psyche was faltering, and it was being inspired by the feeling of another cry for help, that of Pulp and this often-misunderstood masterpiece.

If you’re new to the 33-and-a-Third books, and you love music, then let me give you a little background before diving into the glorious nature of Jane Savidge’s analysis of this unique record. To summarise: this series of music books takes liner notes and fan-doting to another level, but in the finest kind of way. Like the conversations you have in the pub, or in your bedroom or front room with the finest of friends, and lovers. With Pulp’s This Is Hardcore [33 1/3], Savidge is a particularly exceptional soul to share her stories because it was her PR company, Savage & Best, who were quite literally at the centre of the Britpop era, as they not only represented Pulp, but the behemoth assemblage of Suede, The Verve, Longpigs, and Elastica – to name an assortment of astonishing.

If you’ll temporarily excuse the inescapable visual snapshot, this book goes deep inside This Is Hardcore with an exquisite blend of insider stories and facts, and while (as mentioned, I know) I’ve always loved the album, her book instils a whole new consideration of what went down at the time. Here, she brings together interviews, intuition and the truth of Jarvis’ personal downfall, while he tried to not only keep his conscience and mental wellbeing together, but also continue to want to tell a musical story. It’s certainly not miserable though, as there’s always that dark and funny comic edge we’d expect from the band filtering through Savidge’s words.

The dominant core of TIH was Jarvis Cocker’s disillusionment with the life he’d found himself within, and this album was his catharsis but not in a classic sense of redemption, as it’s clear from some reviews that even the music writers of the time didn’t completely ‘get’ it. Sure, they enjoyed it, and his unique venetian-blind views, but did they think it was ironic, or profound? Did they grasp the lyrical limbs of a personal breakdown, as we followed Jarvis’ pursuit of finding his way back to the light, dragging himself out of an era that may have gone very differently to what he even expected. Sure, fame was the result of success and, especially, Different Class, but wasn’t it this supposed to be more rewarding, more visceral, more progressive? We all know the answer to that (if you’ve lived a little).

Much like it’s discussed here in Jane Savidge’s book, TIH wasn’t necessarily intended to be ironic, and the songs weren’t always for my brain. This album was dipping into the dried out hollows left on the sofa after a parents party, they were picking up the cigarette butts scrubbed out on the wall outside our council flat door, it reminded us of the black hearse you just saw drive by the rain-soaked kitchen window, and all of this is happening while you listened to the neighbours from the balcony, as they reveal their secret, extraordinary lives. At that age, I was susceptible to stories, and this album continued that joy of being a lyrical fiend (not reading those Pulp lyrics while the songs were playing, as requested), and the stories felt vivid and voyeuristic, and I valued those elements.

This book isn’t just about the essence of Pulp though, she also looks at the album and era with a modern eye – and understandable issues with Peter Saville and John Currin’s artwork, not only on release but still today, but all these elements were purposefully created. As well as witnessing the culture and historical context, Savidge has picked out astute Cocker quotes that could easily be from articles today, as he discusses mental health, the hellishness of lad culture, his understanding of women (after having a closer relationship with his Mother after his Dad left when he was a kid) and the very nature of ‘fame’ itself – much like Bowie had in his years before (and during) as well.

There’s little doubt this is a courageous collection of songs, as the band threw off the cloak of popularity and dived into the deep end of aftermath and downfall – and didn’t pretend it wasn’t a thing that’s a huge part of the industry, no matter how successful you think you are. The interview snippets from all give a clear indication of how intimate this record was, even if some stories are stretched and reinvented from their original sources – and I mean this is any sense of creativity. And while Pulp was certainly a collaborative musical effort, it was those lyrics that spun the web and caught everyone’s attention.  

This Is Hardcore by Jane Savidge has given me a immensely welcome and surprisingly refreshing look into this album that’s somehow 26 years old. While it certainly helped bulk up the weight that took Britpop down, it was an incoming downfall, and this album offered brutal honesty – in all its beautiful, uncomfortable, and filthy ways. It was a reflection and allegory for what we’d all been a part of and witnessed, whatever age you were, and although something had collectively died – in a cultural sense – this album gave it that stamp of undeniability and also an essence of absolute welcome fresh reality, which is covered in every aspect of a brilliant read.

Pulp’s This Is Hardcore (33 1/3) by Jane Savidge is released on 7 March, order here: https://amzn.to/3IiVsAA*

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