Sink or Swim

In February of 2012, Fire Records reissued the 1983-1992 output of Pulp, again. They included some bonus tracks. However, this is the only song (if not recording) to be added on that was previously unreleased. “Sink or Swim” is an outtake from It. Like the songs from that album, it’s dominated by soft crooning from Jarvis. Unlike those other songs, there’s a prominent synth part, making it something of a bridge between the sound of the band’s first Peel Session in 1981, and the sound of the band they would become in the ‘90s.

Although “Sink or Swim” is a pretty mellow affair, it shares key elements with more immediately gripping Pulp songs. In a 1994 interview, Jarvis summarized the song’s theme as “standing on the threshold of life.” Maybe in a quiet way, this is Jarvis’ vow to avoid an easy conventional life, diving instead into uncertainty for the sake of art, and his dreams. Like, say, “Countdown” or “Monday Morning,” it deals with the struggle and fear that comes with trying to live a worthwhile life.

That Boy's Evil

Some of Pulp’s greatest songs are b-sides: “Blue Glow,” “Seconds,” “The Professional.” Then there’s this. Easily the most disposable of the This is Hardcore offcuts – if not of Pulp’s entire b-side oeuvre – “That Boy’s Evil” is basically a very low-rent Fatboy Slim impression, with a big beat supplemented by (probably sampled) ‘60s-style guitars, as a unidentified woman’s voice intones the title phrase every bar or so. There’s also a rather pointless interlude filled with snippets of conversation. It’s probably no coincidence that the band did not include this song on the deluxe edition of Hardcore. But at least it has some energy, and some novelty, so it’s not the absolute worst Pulp b-side. No, we’ll get to that soon.

Coy Mistress

If I’m not mistaken, this is Pulp’s shortest song, at 1:27. It’s also one of their strangest. Backed by churchly organ, occasional xylophone bursts, and crashing explosion sounds, Russell Senior recites a slight rewrite of some verses from Andrew Marvell’s poem “To His Coy Mistress.” Recorded in 1984, the song only appeared on two mid-‘80s compilation cassettes. “Coy Mistress” is one of the band artier, more obtuse explorations of the time period, although it’s curiously devoid of the miserablism that characterizes so much of the rest of their output during this era.

His 'n' Hers

I can’t quite believe it’s taken me this long to get around to writing about this song. “His ‘n’ Hers” is the last track on The Sisters EP, which I tend to consider Pulp’s crowning achievement, actually.

Has anyone combined salaciousness with raw human need as well as Jarvis does here? The song is a bump-and-grind epic that also expresses all sorts of unvarnished terrors, most prominently the fear of a boring, staid existence that feels like a death sentence. Like many Pulp songs of this era, this kind of existence is expressed as life in the suburbs. But is this line equally a swipe at Morrissey? I’m frightened of James Dean posters.

The band is on top-form here: Russell’s spaghetti western guitar; Candida’s organs and synths, alternately bubbling and sea-sick; the unerring drama of the Mackey/Banks rhythm section. At the conclusion, the song rises to an almost unbearable crescendo that then ends abruptly. Awesome.

This TV performance is an absolute classic, with an amazing Jarvis monologue. On Pulp’s reunion tour of 2011-2012, the song has so far only been performed once, at the very first show of the tour, in Toulouse, France. Here’s a clip.

Back in LA

The second and final b-side from the Caff single of “My Legendary Girlfriend” was recorded in late 1984. So it’s Pulp in their cacophonous and vaguely gothy phase. “Back in LA” is a handy combination of The Fall and Joy Division, two bands the group pulled a lot of their sound from during this period. The song also seems to be almost completely nonsensical. You can tell no one from this band had ever set foot in L.A. at this point. And yet, maybe because it’s little over two minutes, there’s something appealing and even catchy about the enthused racket they concocted here.

Sickly Grin

There were two b-sides to the 1992 Caff single version of “My Legendary Girlfriend.” Both of them were outtakes from Pulp’s past, each recorded by completely different lineups that didn’t bear much resemblance to the one that made “MLG.” The first b-side, “Sickly Grin,” was the earlier song, recorded during the 1982 sessions for the band’s first album, It. Despite the fact that the band lineup from It never appeared on another Pulp song, “Sickly Grin,” unlike the rest of that album, bears some resemblance to Pulp’s most famous sound. The song opens with a catchy, driving bass line and features rudimentary, bright keyboards. The vocal melody snakes unpredictably, while still remaining appealing. It’s almost enough to distract from the fact that Jarvis’ lyric is a bit inelegant and clunky. He’s addressing his need to show his emotions truthfully, rather than indulge in “false jollity.” He’s trying to sound intelligent and perceptive, but he doesn’t yet have the command over language to make it work.

My Legendary Girlfriend

This is what you get when Sheffield misfits curious about acid house music attempt to imitate Barry White. And yet, this is also much, much more than that.

I’ve probably been moving the goalposts throughout this blog but, really, this is the first (quint)essential Pulp song. Somehow, by combining throbbing dance beats, cinematic synths, funky wah-wah guitar and a Jarvis monologue/vocal for the ages, the band found their modus operandi, created the first epic, and even finally attained a small bit of mainstream attention, when the NME gave the song its Single of the Week award. Even the song title is perfect, evocative and yet tantalizingly open-ended.

That’s what makes this song so compelling – its unknowingness. Why, for example, does Jarvis alternate between referring to the Girlfriend in second and third person? And yet, through the lyric’s strange mix of desire, seediness and poetry, it achieves a real meaning beyond the literal, a compelling sense of intrigue against the backdrop, as always, of Jarvis’ hometown.

Pulp released two versions of the song. Of course, there’s the original, single, also found on Separations (And here’s the low-low budget video.) But the band also released a limited-edition single with a soundcheck version of the song on Caff Records, a tiny label run by friend-of-Pulp Bob Stanley, also a member of St. Etienne. This version gives a good idea of how the band performed the song live. There are no programmed beats, just hard-charging drums, bashes at the Farfisa and here-goes-nothing guitar. Jarvis’ vocal is similarly unhinged, with plenty of asides and non-sequiters; at one point, he even lets out a Flavor Flav-like “Boyeee!” Needless to say, the Caff single is very rare now.