In all the craziness of these past six months, I’ve only managed to watch Pulp and The Magnetic Fields in concert. The former was filled with all manner of manic energy and pogo-jumping while the latter was rapt, respectful contemplation in the church of Stephin Merritt. I mean, he did try to be all casual about it, but the only response to those quiet songs is to sit and listen, really. Even if he was wearing a baseball bat and trying to be irreverent. How else can one respond to The Book Of Love? All the lovers were silent. All the lover-less were also silent, remembering what they lost.
As for Pulp , Jarvis Cocker was a shambolic sight, reminding me of some wayward British professor taking a break from his easy chair to lecture with amusement at his audience. I remembered how gloriously beautiful Steve Mackey is. But best of all, I could finally vent all my anger and frustration at the deadening weight of financial obligation with no rescue in sight by shouting along to the chorus of Common People. Oh, to be born a trust-fund baby in my next life.