Pulp, “More.”

“Won’t it be strange when we’re all fully grown?”

That line, once a cheeky hypothetical from “Disco 2000,” hangs over More, the first album by Pulp in 24 years, like a gentle dare. The answer, it turns out, is yes—it’s strange, moving, frequently hilarious and surprisingly tender.

Aging gracefully isn’t exactly Britpop’s calling card, but More isn’t concerned with reliving past glories. It’s not nostalgic. It’s not ironic. It’s not trying to be Different Class 2.0. What it is, though, is unmistakably Pulp: cinematic, melodic, confessional, horny and smarter than it has any right to be. It’s a wry smile with a quiet tremble.

Jarvis Cocker, now 60, sounds less like the voice of a generation and more like the voice of what comes after—when the parties end, the myths fade and the feelings you used to mock show up at your door. More lets those moments in. The album wrestles with aging, vulnerability and creativity with a confidence that never curdles into arrogance. More explores the messiness that lingers even as “we’re fully grown.”

Nowhere is that clearer than on “Farmer’s Market,” a song Pulp previewed on its reunion tour in L.A. last year. It starts with the familiar Pulp trick of skewering nightlife and self-delusion—“stalking the labyrinth of my own myth”—before swerving into open-hearted sincerity. A love-at-first-sight moment in Los Angeles brings all the cleverness to a halt: “Are these groceries really that important?/ More important than getting your number? Or finding out who you actually are?” Jarvis asks, before crumbling into a plea: “Ain’t it time we started living?” It’s devastating. It’s beautiful. It’s the sound of someone dropping the mask, not for shock but for survival.

“Grown Ups” is the album’s centerpiece, and probably its best song. Over a “Fixing a Hole”-style groove, Cocker narrates the weird theater of becoming a grown-up—sexual roleplay in the suburbs, migration from “Camden to Hackney/ And you stress about wrinkles instead of acne.” It builds into a surreal spoken-word bridge about interplanetary travel and losing your memory en route to the next planet, where “people seem to be having a good time.” It’s classic Pulp: absurd, profound and just this side of heartbreaking.

Elsewhere, “Spike Island” references the legendary Stone Roses gig to explore the compulsion to perform. Cocker sings of being born to shout and point from the stage, but it reads less like bravado and more like a man naming the thing that keeps him alive. The propulsive arrangement makes it the likeliest festival staple on the record. “Tina” offers a sleazy, Bond-worthy groove that bridges His ‘n’ Hers and This Is Hardcore with rhythmic stabs and vintage flair, while “Got to Have Love” brings emotional closure to a lyrical thread Cocker’s been unraveling since “F.E.E.L.I.N.G.C.A.L.L.E.D.L.O.V.E.” This time, there’s no confusion. Love isn’t scary. It’s essential.

The back half of the album trades momentum for introspection, which might frustrate some listeners at first—but like so many Pulp deep cuts, these are the ones most likely to ambush you weeks later. They feel less like tracks to shuffle and more like chapters you sit with.

Produced by James Ford (Arctic Monkeys, The Last Dinner Party), the album sounds rich and assured, with string sections and live players adding warmth and depth. And while longtime members Mark Webber, Nick Banks and Candida Doyle provide the backbone, this is very much Cocker’s reckoning—with himself, with his past and with the present he wasn’t sure he’d get to make sense of.

Is More a worthy addition to the Pulp canon? Absolutely. It doesn’t rewrite the band’s history. It doesn’t need to. It lives alongside it; a seasoned, beautifully flawed older sibling to that near-perfect trilogy from the ‘90s. It’s a reminder that growing up isn’t about having your shit together. It’s about learning to say the thing you were always too clever to say.

And if you need help with that, More gives you instructions: “Say it, you ponce /You’ve got to have love.”

Follow Skott Bennett at skottbennett.bsky.social.