If you’d said back in 1995 that in 2025, Pulp would be playing to over 20,000 people in a futuristic arena named after an ethical supermarket, well… it would’ve sounded absurdly on-brand. And so here we are. Saturday night in Manchester, all suede, string sections and sweat, proving that the line between the ridiculous and the sublime has always been where Pulp feel most at home.

The screen flickers to life, casting bold silhouettes. Jarvis among them, hiding in plain sight, stands motionless at the top of the stairs like a cult leader carved from shadow. The crowd hasn’t quite clocked him yet. But as the irresistible bassline groove of Spike Island kicks in, he steps forward, unfurling into motion, and the arena erupts.

It’s the perfect place to begin. As the band’s first new single in over two decades, it opens More, their freshly released album, with sharpness and sway. It grooves more than it punches, slinks more than it shouts. It doesn’t trade in nostalgia or try to relive the past. It declares: we’re still weird, still watching, and still not quite like anyone else.

That ethos runs through all the new material. The new tracks aren’t polite intermissions between hits. Rather they make up the majority of the setlist, and so they should. More shows no sign of diminished returns. It stands proudly alongside Different Class and This Is Hardcore, full of sly lyrics, gorgeous arrangements, and that same Jarvisian blend of intimacy and unease.

Grown Ups feels like an anthem for Millennials stumbling through adulthood, just as so many Pulp songs once were for teenagers in the 90s. The crowd couldn’t agree more, howling along with every word of “it’s so, so hard…”. Slow Jam is the comedown. Less ironic, more meditative. It unfolds slowly, built on languid piano and open space. There’s a late-night stillness to it, like mourning something vague and half-remembered. If Grown Ups rolls its eyes at ageing, Slow Jam simply closes them. Together, they show a band writing from the inside out.

Hearing it live, it hits even harder that Got to Have Love was a 90s demo finally getting its moment in the spotlight. And what a moment. The fact that a band could keep a song like this tucked in their inside jacket pocket for over 20 years, is mind-blowing. It ticks every Pulp-esque box you could ever want. The sweet and delicate A Sunset closes the main set not with bombast, but with aching hush. A brave move, and it works.

The classics, meanwhile, land like meteorites. Sorted for E’s & Wizz bleeds straight into Disco 2000 and the floor barely touches anyone’s feet. This Is Hardcore remains a showstopper, creeping in with noir brass and slithering strings. Jarvis prowls through its sordid grandeur like a man confessing with a smirk. Babies still thrills with its awkward glee. Do You Remember the First Time? skips like it just got asked out again.

At the centre of it all is Jarvis. Lanky and droll as ever, emerging with that sideways charm that turns a vast room into a shared joke. Part lounge lizard, part cultural commentator, he moves like a substitute teacher channelling the spirit of Scott Walker at a village hall disco. Out of place, and entirely at home. He animates the songs, channels a worldview, and turns banter into myth. There are few frontmen who can make a 20,000-cap venue feel like a supper club with mood lighting and existential dread.

“The first time we played Manchester, it was at the Boardwalk,” he muses, peering into the shadows. “Is it still here?” A beat. “Anyway, this is the first time we’ve ever played this venue, Manchester.” Then, with a smirk: “Are you feeling cooperative?” Classic Jarvis. Dry, absurd, perfectly timed. The crowd howls back.

He notes the date. The summer solstice. A fleeting nod to celestial balance that, in his hands, sounds less like stage patter and more like a personal note to the universe. It’s those tiny cosmic observations that remind you Jarvis sees the world from a tilted angle. It’s not just performance, it’s how he ticks.

Jarvis introduces them with the arch charm of someone re-reading an old diary. Half proud, half horrified by how much it still lands. “You remember this one?” he grins. “Course you do.”

Then, a classic Pulp moment. A digital cheer-o-meter appears to settle a fan vote. Pink Glove wins by decibels. “Right then,” says Jarvis. “Everyone pretend you’ve got a pink glove on, and give it a wave.” Thousands of invisible gloves rise. It’s silly, surreal, daft.

And then, Common People. That opening riff doesn’t begin. It detonates. Twenty thousand people become one. Jarvis barely sings. He doesn’t need to. It’s not just an anthem. It’s disco-wrapped defiance. Class rage that still burns beneath the sparkle. That fury is still there. That voice still cracks at just the right word.

Over two hours, Pulp don’t just play a set. They hold up a mirror, smudge it with fingerprints, and dance in the reflection. The new songs hold their own. The old ones burn brighter than ever. The band, tight, understated, and telepathically locked in, move around Jarvis like well-oiled theatre.

And when it’s all said and done, when A Sunset sighs into the rafters and the house lights hover like the end of a dream, there’s no grand farewell. No fluff. Just a bow, a grin, a look that says: that was strange, wasn’t it?

That was strange. That was beautiful.
That was Pulp.
And we still want More.