Illustration by Ben Sutherland
“Don’t think the things around you don’t matter, because they do.” – Jarvis Cocker
I’m pretty sure that everyone with the ability to talk to other people has been asked at least once: ‘If you could have a drink with any celebrity, who would it be?’. Personally, my answer has always been James May, or the late-great Adam West, both of whom I think would be both interesting and hilarious. But then I read Good Pop, Bad Pop, the new book from singer-songwriter and Pulp frontman, Jarvis Cocker, and, well, he is 100% my new dream drinking partner.
Immediately, Good Pop, Bad Pop stood out to me as a fascinating book due to its, let’s say distinctive, subject matter. It isn’t strictly an autobiography, or a history of Pulp, although it certainly has aspects of these. As Cocker remarks in the inside cover: “This is not a life story. It is a loft story”. Yes, Good Pop, Bad Pop is a book in which a musician is simply going through his loft, clearing out the mass of bits and bobs that have been stored there over the years, and talking about the things he finds in the jumble. Granted, it doesn’t sound like this would make for a particularly engaging read. Yet, I absolutely loved this book.
First and foremost, it needs to be appreciated how talented Cocker is at putting words together. There’s a brilliantly poetic and metaphorical character to the way he writes, which is unsurprising from a man whose songs have bestowed upon us such lyrical gems as, “if fashion is your trade, then when you’re naked I guess you must be unemployed”. Given that this book is written more in the style of a conversation than a monologue, this is a very necessary talent, especially considering that the topic of conversation can often be pretty lacklustre. What I’m trying to say here: Cocker spent a chapter talking about a bar of Imperial Leather soap and I was still entertained.
Good Pop, Bad Pop is essentially a British history museum in book form. As Cocker pulls different relics from his loft, he jumps chaotically from topic to topic, occasionally interrupting himself mid-anecdote with a completely unrelated tangent. I found this endearing rather than annoying, as it really plays into the conversational tone of the book. Furthermore, seeing what Cocker decides to keep and what he decides to ‘cob’ – a Sheffield word for ‘throw away’ – tells the reader a lot about Cocker himself, the story of Pulp, and life in Sheffield from the 60s to 80s (which apparently wasn’t particularly pleasant under Thatcher).
And while this book is definitely about all those things, it is a book about the creative process most of all. My favourite item, and the item discussed in the most depth, is an old exercise book that was used to plot the trajectory of Pulp. Through this manifesto, Cocker paints an incredibly detailed picture of how the aspects of his life come together to inform his creative decisions. While he keeps the exact inspirations for certain songs to himself, as he says to share them would ruin the magic of creating, Cockershares how he generally thinks the process works. If I were to sum up my two main take-aways of this secret recipe, it would be looking for the little things around you for inspiration, and stealing from other creators.
Many of us may have heard the Pablo Picasso quote, “good artists borrow, great artists steal”. This seems to be a sentiment Cocker shares, but I prefer the way he puts it:
“You can try your darndest to replicate something but you’ll never get it exactly right. & the ways in which it’s ‘wrong’ – i.e. the ways in which it differs from the original – that’s YOU. For better or for worse.”
This, I think, is the best advice I’ve ever heard for learning to find your own creative voice, and it’s advice that I think many people already follow without really thinking about it. I know for a fact that I do. Even when studying GCSE English, the way I wrote was an imitation of styles that I’d enjoyed before, and my own style has emerged from imperfect replications. If you want to create something, anything at all, I truly believe reading Good Pop, Bad Pop will help. And speaking of imitating others…
I’m now going to pull a Cocker and go on a quick tangent. I couldn’t find a way to segue into this naturally (unless calling attention to this has accidentally made it natural in some meta way) but I would be amiss if I didn’t mention it: the book looks absolutely fantastic. Honestly, it’s designed to perfection, with funky page layouts,the occasional vibrant coloured page to break up the usual white, and some beautiful photography. It’s a dream come true for people like me, who have recently graduated and therefore forgotten how to read without pretty pictures to act as respite.
For fans of Pulp or Cocker himself, this book is an absolute no-brainer. Find it, get your hands on it, read it, then read it again, then go back to look through the pictures. It’s harder for me to say whether I would recommend it to non-Pulp/Cocker fans, mostly because I myself am a fan and therefore biased. I also don’t know whether any non-fans would actually bother to read this article (selection bias and all that), but if any of them are in fact here: hello, hope you’re enjoying this, and here is my gut feeling for you. If you’re interested in the music, culture, and life of former Britain, the creative process generally, or just enjoy a very large amount of dry wit, then I think you would really enjoy this book as well. According to the man himself, a central tenet of Pulp was to take “other people’s cast-offs to make something new”, and that ethos bleeds into the book and makes it really special. Cocker has gone full alchemist, and somehow manages to transmute an attic full of random trinkets into something funny, insightful, and really quite profound no matter who you are.
I think many of us like to believe that people are defined by the big moments in life – handing off a tape demo of your music to radio presenter John Peel, or falling 20ft out of a window for instance. But, Cocker reminds us that it’s the little things that matter as well, that really make us, us – be it an old carrier bag, a retro bar of soap, or a prized tattoo book won from a gumball machine. So, maybe hold onto those little things for a while? Who knows, maybe in twenty years time I’ll think of the unopened packet of Love Hearts in my room as a treasured antique.
Or maybe I’ll just cob them when I’m clearing out the loft. Only time will tell.