I was 17 when I heard the countdown start, it started slowly, and I thought it was my heart. It's all coming back now! Pulp are all about the way we were, about yesteryear, about things unforgotten, unforgiven and unfulfiled. "Being an anachronism of any kind..." They're history, they're sex education, they're your life! You want more? 10... 9... 8... 7...
We find ourselves hemmed into a barn called East Slope Bar, somewhere in the middle of this small town they call Sussex University Campus, at least four different groups of studes are talking about James Joyce, the queue for the bar is five deep (that's three people and two of just hormones), and the poster describes Pulp as 'Glamourous Indie-Camp'. Yeah! This evening can't fail. 6... 5... 4...
The band file onto the tiny stage, some bar steward shouting "Shut the fire exit so we can get the smoke going!", Jarvis Cocker as ever resplendent in the world's ugliest suit, Duran Duran top and Tony Bastable haircut. Candida pokes the mighty Stylophone atop her comedy Rick Wakeman keyboard tower, Russell begins to jerk off his violin and 'She's A Lady' ejaculates into shameless, sincere, stompastic life. Pulp have come to play some music for us. 3... 2... 1...
Nothing.
Halfway through new bruiser 'Pink Glove' the lights go off, the music dies, the Stylophone no longer makes those salacious squirting noises, Nick's drums grind to an embarrassed halt. Ooops. The studes ought, at this point, to strip off and riot naked - they don't, of course, but some of them kind of 'Boo!' and stand around and recommence the Joyce conversations. Call the cops!
How '70s of Pulp to have a power cut, I know, but let's not marginalise them the way Denim demand to be. Once restarted, huge, sweltering synth blockbusters like 'Mark Of The Devil', 'OU' and 'Countdown' make of mockery of the mockers.
'Glass' (so-called because Pulp think it sounds like Philip) gets worked up about sisterly rivalry, 'Styloroc' paints a picture of perverted Suburbia, and as for 'Babies' . . . phew. Their new and very, very best single, is gawkward, seedy, memory bliss - "The NME says it's good!" calls one member of the crowd, "What more can you ask for?" deadpans Jarvis - and everyone's twisting again like they didn't do last summer. Unforgettable.
Time is running out for Pulp. Any minute now, they'll be your sister's favourite band, and your sister's friend's, and that bloke called Dave from the garage up the road. Have their babies now.
"Yeah yeah-yeah yeah yeah yeeah," as their best line goes.
