The Automatik

It’s oh so fine getting out of your mind as long as you can find your way back in.

Pulp was one of my favorite bands for four entire years; I scarcely listened to anything else from 1996 to 1999. Then they took several years to work on the follow up to This is Hardcore and I got tired of waiting; they basically disappeared from my radar. Yet as the release date of We Love Life approached, I grew rabidly anxious. This Is Hardcore, while featuring such excellent tunes as “Help The Aged,” “Party Hard” and the title track, was rather an anomaly in the Pulp catalogue, even more than the stratospherically popular Different Class, so I was hoping for a return to old skool Pulp (like my favorite album of theirs, His ?n’ Hers).

And they have not let me down. The first time I heard the new tunes I went, “meh.” But on a second listen, it all clicked and I was smitten. The detached, nihilistic ennui of This Is Hardcore has been replaced by the stinging sarcasm and murky beauty that we’ve come to love and anticipate from Pulp. Indeed, the rich metaphors and startling irony that made me fall in love with Pulp in the first place are back in full effect. I’m going to dwell a lot on these lyrics here, but it shouldn’t be taken as a slight against the outstanding musicianship on the album. In fact, the words and music meld so perfectly together, it’s often difficult to differentiate them. I suppose you’ll have to listen for yourselves, though.

Weeds
Weeds provides the same sort of stirring commencement that “Mis-shapes” did to Different Class but it’s not as rabble-rousing, not that that’s a bad thing at all, mind you:

Thru’ cracks in the pavement: there, weeds will grow – the places you don’t go.

Still outsiders, but no longer needing to prove anything:

We do not care to fight, my friends, we are the weeds.

It’s got wonderful guitar bits and a glorious chorus, and the wordplay of “we are weeds” and “weeee’d like to get you out of your mind” in the bridge is an impressive lyrical feat.

Weeds II (the origin of the species)
It’s the spooky mysteriousness of Pulp that really hooked me those many years ago and this song teems with the feeling. The murmured vocals, funky keyboards and seductive basslines…and those witty words, carrying on a little of the theme from the first song:

But weeds must be kept under strict control or they will destroy everything in their path. Growing wild, then harvested in their prime and passed around at dinner parties.

And then the malevolent hiss:

Care for some weed?

This is Pulp at their most Pulpy.

The Night That Minnie Timperly Died
Songs that tell stories have always captivated me and this one is no exception, since it tells the believable tale of a promising evening gone horribly wrong, almost like a post-script to Different Class‘s “Sorted for E’s and Wizz.” The contrast between the awful story and the joyful chorus is completely compelling, particularly the terrific harmonies (“But Minnie, oh, Minnie, if I could, I would give you the rest of my LIFE!”) and the excellently catchy guitar/keyboard riffs. I can think of no other band that can encapsulate a scene as vividly with just a few choice descriptions and accompanying music:

He only did what he did ?cos you looked like one of his kids.

Remarkably enough, little explicit detail is given, but it still chills you to realize what went on that night.

The Trees
Pulp has always excelled at accounts of lost loves and with “The Trees” they prove why with poignant flair, using some choice sampling of vigorous strings. Jarvis’s voice is deceptively sweet as he sings about, of all things, killing an animal:

I took an air-rifle, shot a magpie to the ground and it died without a sound.

Brilliant, black humor, that. If you love something, set it free. If it comes back, kill it.

I can catch sight of the swirl of autumn leaves and the lonely, silent trees. I can even feel the cold, crisp air. The picturesque scene is rendered quite clear with Jarvis’s soaring vocals and the gorgeous chorus and then it goes sadly awry with the downward spin of the keyboards, sounding the alarm that it’s all over. If a heart is broken in a forest and no one is around, does it still make a sound?

Wickerman
This song, like much of Pulp’s oeuvre, describes the tiny events of “other people’s ordinary lives,” using precise lyrics and instrumentation, and managing to make it not only gripping, but viscerally so. One of my favorite examples of this has always been “David’s Last Summer” from His ?n’ Hers. And now, with “Wickerman,” they’ve done it again. The ebb and flow of the first part of the song, including that spooky Morricone-like guitar bit, builds up to the climactic screen kiss:

…then, after what seemed like hours of thinking about it, I finally took your face in my hands and I kissed you for the first time and a feeling like electricity flowed thru my whole body.
And I immediately knew that I’d entered a completely different world.
And all the time, in the background, the sound of that ridiculously heartbreaking child’s ride outside.

Behind the words, the electric violins and gently plucked guitar build and caress you with a bittersweet melody, and the song becomes almost hallucinatory, a haze of nostalgia coloring the events. “I went there with you once?except you were somebody else ,” Jarvis mumbles, making us wonder if it’s a dream or a memory. Even the narrator wonders if the story about the person drowning in the river was something that was made up. And maybe we’ll never know.

I Love Life
Brilliant puns abound here, in a song that goes from quiet contemplation to passionate conviction with tremendous results. “I love my life, it’s the only reason I’m alive.” The bliss and heartache of existence is conveyed perfectly with the guitar and then the words:

Take my arms and fill them full of life.
Don’t think twice. Does it ease the pain of being alive?

When Jarvis starts wailing in all his throat-cracking fervor, I am overcome, every time. The heady cacophony of the feedback and the come-down of the whispered vocals at the end are among the finest moments on this, and possibly any other, Pulp album. (Breathe in, breathe out.)

The Birds in Your Garden
The trill of chirping introduces you to the song and the guitar chimes in, only to be followed by vaguely dark and off-key notes, the kind of sounds that make the song that much more affecting. Only Pulp could create a song where NOT having sex is a crime against nature (“You know it’s now or never”). Absolutely exquisite, with more double entendres:

My father never told me about the birds and the bees.
And I guess I never realised that I would ever meet birds as beautiful as these.

The softly sung/spoken line at the end is just lovely it makes me want to cry:

Yeah, the birds in your garden, they taught me the words to this song.

Bob Lind (the only way is down)
The theme of the love/hate relationship with your life and your love life (or lack thereof) continues in this deceptively perky tune with some rather dour lyrics:

This is your future. This is the sentence you must serve ’til you admit that you’re a fuck-up like the rest of us.

Life without the possibility of parole. What a concept.

Once again, masking heartbreak (unsuccessfully) under wry humor, Jarvis sings:

Can I give you all the love I have? It’s not much but I’ll try and raise a loan.

That’s the self-deprecating Pulp we adore!

Bad Cover Version
The maudlin flamboyance of songs like “Happy Endings” from His ?n’ Hers is on dazzling display here, with wedding bell chimes and church choir-like background vocals from The Swingle Sisters.

The word’s on the street: you’ve found someone new.
If he looks nothing like me I’m so happy for you.
I heard an old girlfriend has turned to the church – she’s trying to replace me, but it’ll never work.

His name isn’t Jesus, but he has the same initials. Oh, the joy of neurosis! When self-hatred veers to self-aggrandizement in a matter of seconds. The overblown dramatics make us laugh even though the pain of the subject matter is more than apparent. And again, at the end, we are chuckling at the references to “the later Tom and Jerry, when they two of them could talk,” “the Stones since the 80s,” and “Planet of the Apes on TV.”

Roadkill
With a title like this, you might expect this to be a gut-wrenching rocker. But no, it’s the most tender and touching piece on the whole album. Marvelous, delicate guitar and keyboards provide the perfect complement to the fragile vocals and imagery:

The sun reflecting off the water on your face and the way you drove your car.
All these things I can’t forget tho’ I don’t see you anymore.

A snapshot of the perfect past, longing for what is no more, a broken hearted lover with only memories to comfort him.

Sunrise
A fittingly incredible closing to a fantastic album, “Sunrise,” like the real event, dawdles for a while until it erupts into a stunning conclusion. Even the beauty of New Order’s song of the same name has been totally eclipsed by this majestic tune.

How Pulp has changed since Different Class! While describing the same subject matter (partying hard til the sun comes up) as “Bar Italia,” “Sunrise” is light years away from that song’s jittery, alcoholic epiphanies:

You can’t go home and go to bed, because it hasn’t worn off yet and now it’s morning.

Contrast that with:

But you’ve been awake all night, so why should you crash out at dawn?

And you shouldn’t, not because you’re fading fast and you don’t want your wild evening to come to a close, but because the splendid start to the next day should be the beautiful prize at the end of a long night.

There isn’t much time for words here, however, as the song is quickly overpowered by an magnificently angelic chorus of voices, incredibly thrilling, evocative guitar, and possibly the best, most pounding drumbeats on any Pulp song ever. Quite honestly, I’m getting chills just hearing it in my mind. And all I can do is just shake my head and wait in slack-jawed awe until I play the album again.

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