In the summer of 1995, an exceptional heat wave swept the country. The Usual Suspects delighted cinema-goers, and the British press engineered the so-called “battle of Britpop”.
Music fans were urged to choose between the simultaneous single releases from “rough no-nonsense northerners” Oasis and “university-educated, hipster southerners” Blur. Beyond the media circus surrounding these (to my mind) underwhelming songs, however, a third major force in Britpop was emerging in the form of Sheffield’s Pulp.
Formed way back in 1978 by spindly, thrift-store clad frontman Jarvis Cocker, Pulp had hitherto been mouldering on the fringes of the mainstream, releasing under-appreciated records on a succession of indie labels. But that was soon to change, and in dramatic fashion.
If there was a single turning point in Pulp’s history, it came in June 1995, courtesy of Stone Roses guitarist John Squire’s broken collarbone. Stone Roses had been booked to headline Glastonbury that year, but following the injury, Pulp grasped the invitation to replace them. Despite having only ten days to prepare, they went on to pull off one of the most memorable Glastonbury sets of all time.
Pulp were already riding high on the success of recent single Common People, which reached number two in the British charts. The Glastonbury success, along with next single Sorted for E’s and Wizz, also reaching the number two, completed Pulp’s transition from indie underdogs to commercial big-hitters. Nobody was surprised, then, when, in the first week of release, Different Class, their fifth studio album, went straight to the top of the UK album charts.
Providing much needed relief from the boisterous machismo that was emanating from Britpop’s bro-tastic bands like Blur, Supergrass and Oasis, Different Class offered something utterly idiosyncratic and yet eminently accessible.
Above the catchy melodies and danceable rhythms was Cocker’s vocal, which ranged from the conspiratorial whisper of I Spy to the desperate high wail of Bar Italia. And his lyrics blurred the lines between gritty kitchen sink drama and flights of dreamy adolescent fancy.
In her book Revolution Rock (2011), writer Amy Britton observes that sex is probably the most frequently recurring lyrical theme of the album. But Cocker’s depiction of sex was miles away from the romantic gloss that music often gives this subject.
Indeed, in the world of Different Class, romance is swept to the side by infidelity, marital woe, boredom, frustration and seedy desperation. But then Cocker throws us a left turn with Something Changed, an ode to the spontaneity of love and romance so achingly beautiful, poignant and optimistic that many have chosen it as the song they walk down the aisle to at their weddings.
All the tracks have stood the test of time, but Common People still stands out. A masterclass of social commentary set to an infectiously catchy melody, the song tells the story of a female student from a wealthy background who decides to engage in “class tourism”. She uses Cocker as her guide to experience the novelty of living as a “common” person.
As the song’s tempo and intensity increase over the course of the song, Cocker’s vocal delivery also changes. It builds from amused incredulity in the first verse to a crescendo of anger and outrage in the last. By the time he tells his fellow student that she “will never understand / how it feels to live your life / with no meaning or control”, he’s raging against a system which has disempowered him for so long.
It’s a stunning, unforgettable piece of work which, like at Glastonbury 30 years ago, still elicits the most rapturous reaction from the audience.
Perhaps because of its intrinsically British lyrics, Different Class didn’t resonate the same way overseas. Despite going platinum four times in the UK, it barely troubled the charts in the US, Japan and much of Europe. And, if other countries weren’t sure how to take the lyrics, they certainly didn’t know what to make of Cocker, who, in his homeland had become the most unlikely sex symbol since Dudley Moore.
In 2019, Rolling Stone gave one of the clearest examples of the international bemusement at both Different Class and Cocker via their 100 Best Albums of the ‘90s list. Ranking the album at a lowly 85th place, the bizarre review dismisses the music as “fruity chamber rock” and describes Cocker as a “Brit-pop strumpet with a heart of glass” who “minced” and “shook what Mama gave him”.
Whatever the rest of the world may think, to my mind Different Class is one of the greatest artistic statements ever to emerge from these shores, articulated by an eccentric national treasure and wrapped in the ear-pleasing sheen of a band at the very top of their game. A different class it truly is.
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Glenn Fosbraey does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.
This article was originally published on The Conversation. Read the original article.
