For those who pay extreme attention to RUSSH’s music coverage may remember that Pulp were my Primavera highlight a few years ago and that many nerdy videos exist of me singing along to the entire set (for blackmail purposes). So with that in mind, when we arrived to the Sydney Opera House on Friday night, expectations were unapologetically high.
Pulp have been touring their latest record, More, but it had been over a decade since the band last visited Australia, making the anticipation of the audience even more apparent. The great chroniclers of British ordinary anxiety, awkward romance and joy riding returned with genuine enthusiasm and impressive commitment to their new music, rather than dispassionately and lacklusterly delivering just the hits. Fronted, as ever, by the singularly sexy and elastic presence of Jarvis Cocker, the Sheffield group demonstrated their particular cocktail of wit, theatre and emotional precision that continues to resonate and retain relevance.
Opening duties fell to Australian songwriter Tex Crick, whose set arrived like a gentle overture to the theatricality that would follow. Crick’s soft-focus pop, equal parts cosmic and tender, unfolded across the harbour air with a quiet and timeless power, his voice hovering above his Wulrlitzer.
It was verging on disturbingly humid and sticky when Pulp took to the stage, but they distracted their audience by opening with Sorted for E's & Wizz with a supporting cast of inflatable bendy men mirroring the iconic moves of Cocker as he demonstrated humorous self awareness. Their opener was quickly followed up by Disco 2000 which was a surprise so early on in the set but not an unwelcome one, with the audience adding their own backing vocals. Cocker, ever the mischievous host, paused between songs to check the humidity levels and rummage through his suit pockets, producing grapes and sweets which he began tossing into the audience. “Are you ready to see something amazing?” he teased before launching one skyward and catching it neatly in his mouth. An almost microcosmic example of Pulp’s cultural identity: their odes to the ordinary, taking the girl next door and immortalising her into the world of art.
The set moved fluidly between eras, weaving cult favourites with newer material from their recent album More. Spike Island introduced the newer chapter of the band’s catalogue, its propulsive rhythm slotting easily beside classics from His 'n' Hers and Different Class. I felt like I was being personally rewarded when they played Lipgloss and when the voyeuristic surge of I Spy began.
At the climactic point in the set, with the opening chromatic climbs of This Is Hardcore a chandelier descended slowly from above the stage, casting a decadent glow across the band, another perfect paradox, of luxury descending a seedy and erotic sentiment. Elsewhere, moments of tenderness cut through the spectacle. For Something Changed, performed acoustically, Cocker delivered a typically wry instruction: “only sing along if you can sing in tune.” The crowd obliged carefully, softening into the fragile romance of the song. Bandmate Emma Smith stepped forward on violin and guitar for another delicate moment drawn from the band’s mid-90s catalogue, while Cocker strummed a twelve-string guitar, a reminder that beneath Pulp’s satire lies an enduring affection for melody and emotional precision.
Mid-set also offered a more reflective pause as the band performed The Day After the Revolution (written for the charity compilation Help) recorded to raise funds for the humanitarian organisation War Child. Even in a night built around dancing, nostalgia and the new, Pulp’s social conscience quietly threaded through the performance. As the set progressed further, even though my interview request was denied, they catered to my song requests with Acrylic Afternoons and Do You Remember the First Time? Naturally, the crowd sweating although not deterred by the heat, was waiting for the moment keyboardist Candida Doyle was going to start the instantly recognisable sounds of Common People.
Common People is given another layer of meaning when played across the Opera House Forecourt, highlighting Cocker’s rise, an impressive feat to retain humility and remain grounded with such self awareness. Perhaps Cocker was leaning against the cultural institution of the Opera House, working with the tension to play a song that rebels against pretension, class tourism and bad art-school decisions. Watching Pulp in 2026 is not like witnessing a reunion, more like stepping inside a living archive of British pop culture, curated by a beautiful and well versed librarian. Their songs remain vivid portraits of then and now, first times and last times, always with the intense romantic yearning of an artist navigating the mundane of everyday life.
