FEATURE:
Do You Remember the First Time?
Pulp’s His 'n' Hers at Thirty
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ONE of the most important…
albums of the 1990s turns thirty on 18th April. Pulp’s His 'n' Hers was a breakthrough for the Sheffield band. Their fourth studio album, it followed 1992’s mediocre Separations, His 'n' Hers was an instant classic. Pulp would follow this incredible work with Different Class a year later. It was a real period for them. Produced by Ed Buller, many publications have listed Pulp’s His 'n' Hers as one of the best albums of all time. You can get the twenty-five anniversary edition of the album here. To celebrate the upcoming thirtieth anniversary, I want to bring some features in. That give us background and context. Why and how His 'n' Hers is such an important album. I will end with a couple of reviews. I will start with NME’s piece about His 'n' Hers on its twenty-fifth anniversary. It is fascinating to learn why His 'n' Hers is so enduring and important:
“Pulp had been kicking around for sixteen-years by the time their fourth album His ‘n’ Hers arrived in the April of 1994. Sixteen years – the earliest of them under the quite terrible moniker of Arabicus Pulp (a merging of the title of a 1972 Michael Caine thriller and a brand of coffee Jarvis Cocker had found in the Financial Times commodity index) – that encompassed a debut gig at Rotherham Arts Centre, a little bit of John Peel Show-exposure that most thought would be the summit of the band’s achievements, as well as a period where the singer, Jarvis, would perform live in a wheelchair, after falling out of a window trying to impress a girl.
So much misery has seeped into British soil since the peak of Britpop, that much of the music which once felt so shiny and hopeful then, jars in 2019. The 18-30 fuelled hedonism of Blur’s Girls And Boys feels obscene in an era of zero-hour contracts and the crippling neurosis of social media.
Oasis once sang that you might as well get on the white line, which doesn’t scan in an austerity hit country that can’t afford to pay its rent, let alone buy drugs. And let’s be honest, the whole thing feels uncomfortably unrepresentative of the multicultural landmass that is modern Britain. When Suede’s Brett Anderson adorned the cover of Select Magazine in 1993, pouting infront of the Union Jack, it felt like a challenge for British musicians to raise their game and create a scene to be proud of. Now, it feels a bit like a flyer for a particularly fey pro-Brexit rally.
Released just weeks after the death of Nirvana’s Kurt Cobain, and thereby positioned at the arrowhead of seismic pop cultural upheaval, His ‘n’ Hers is the exception, in that it’s a record that largely reflects the state of Britain even now.
As a record created by a band hailing from Sheffield, the heart of The Industrial North, this might be because the landscape the band are describing – one in which kids steal cars for kicks, where broken people break each other further, where everyone is just trying to find some glimmer of light in the darkness – isn’t indistinguishable from the state of your atypical northern metropolis all these years on. These are geographical areas still untouched and unloved.
It’s because, within an era where we’re recontextualizing our understanding of masculinity, Jarvis’ early nineties musings on love, sex and romance sound ahead of their time; Pink Glove, for example, is a pop song very much about sex, sang by a man who obviously really enjoys sex, and yet it’s concerned primarily with a woman’s enjoyment of it. There’s an awful lot of songs about sex on His ‘n’ Hers. Do You Remember The First Time? Babies. Lipgloss. Most of them sordid. And yet unlike the incoming machismo that would ultimately drive all the freaks and dreamers from indie, all of them sound like they’ve come from the mind of a man who actually likes women.
His ‘n’ Hers has endured because it’s a record that sounded out of time even when it arrived. Made by people who looked like their outfits had been acquired at an Oxfam closing down sale, produced by Ed Buller – who the same year, would bring his ethereal touch to Suede’s excellent Dog Man Star – it’s a record that manages to sound completely in thrall to the great pop of the past – Roxy, Bowie, Human League, Scott Walker, Serge Gainsbourg – while also quite unlike anything that had been heard until that point and nothing like anything that’s followed since”.
I am flipping to a feature that was written in 2014. Marking twenty years of His 'n' Hers, Stereogum discussed how Pulp had this amazing three-album run that started with their 1994 masterpiece. Even though His 'n' Hers was a success in the U.K., it did not crack the U.S. During a time of Britpop – where Pulp were seen as a Britpop band. Perhaps albums like His 'n' Hers were too unfamiliar and out of step with the U.S. scene in 1994:
“If we take the band’s taste in their own back catalog seriously, this week marks 20 years since Pulp first mattered. His ‘N’ Hers was the first Pulp album to chart in the band’s native UK (#9), as well as their first to produce charting singles: “Razzmatazz,” “Lipgloss,” and “Do You Remember The First Time?” It was successful as a reinvention, too, essentially washing away the collective memory of the long-running experimental synthesizer group and replacing it with the image of the most studious, most prurient band doing this new thing called Britpop. Whether it was fair or not, Pulp were associated with a scene that made Cocker seem downright professorial at 30, and this was before he even had his now-trademark beard and glasses. It, Freaks and Separations aren’t without their charming moments, but His ‘N’ Hers changed the conversation. Pulp weren’t necessarily angling for the top of the charts now, but they’d put together how to get there.
The seeds for Pulp’s second act were planted prior to His ‘N’ Hers, but just barely. In his great 2011 retrospective on the band, The Quietus editor Luke Turner identified “My Legendary Girlfriend” as the “moment where the brilliance of Pulp as a pop band — seedy, intense, original, yet with a catchiness and wry everyman approach that could make them chart-toppers — first became really clear.” The track first appeared on a 1990 12″, then a 1992 7″, then finally as the obvious standout on Separations, and Candida Doyle’s insistent synth showed Pulp’s keenness for playing fast and loose with the chasm between dance music and rock. The song wasn’t a hit, but you can see its importance on His ‘N’ Hers tracks like “She’s A Lady” and “Acrylic Afternoons.” Pulp’s early recordings are marred by a lack of confidence and youthful inexperience that “My Legendary Girlfriend” obliterated. And then every song on His ‘N’ Hers obliterated it.
His ‘N’ Hers also saw Pulp become Pulp in the most crucial way of all: Jarvis Cocker came into his own as a lyricist. There were inklings of his libidinous erudition before, including on “My Legendary Girlfriend,” but his work on tracks like “Babies,” “Pink Glove,” and “Razzmatazz” placed him firmly in an acerbic class of his own. Sometimes he dressed his prurience in innocence (“We listened to your sister/ When she came home from school/ She was two years older/ And she had boys in her room”) and other times pushed the limits of good taste with an analogy (“He doesn’t care what it looks like/ Just as long as it’s pink and it’s tight” almost certainly isn’t about a glove). Whatever his approach, he was successful in shining a harsh and honest light on human sexuality that still remains uncommon in pop. He didn’t just sing about sex, either, even when he was singing about sex. He filtered it through musings on the British class system, gender politics, crime, familial dysfunction, and addiction. His ‘N’ Hers was Cocker’s breakthrough. It’s no coincidence that the book that collects his finest lyrics is called Mother Brother Lover — it was on His ‘N’ Hers that he started using those easy rhymes less for ease of melody and more to paint complicated relationships within a pop context. To this day, he’s peerless.
For better or worse, it’s impossible to talk about Pulp in 1994 without talking about Britpop in 1994. The two most enduring albums lumped in with the movement that weren’t by Pulp — Blur’s Parklife and Oasis’ Definitely Maybe — came out that same year. Britpop’s shift from NME-approved buzzword to actual genre tag was well underway, and if you trusted the music weeklies, Britain’s soul was at stake in the Oasis-Blur rivalry. Despite having been a band since 1978, the success of His ‘N’ Hers felt just out-of-nowhere enough to make Pulp seem like a part of this new wave sweeping Britannia. Their Sheffield origin made them outsiders to a London-driven scene, as did their intellectual bent, but all catchy guitar music coming out of Britain in 1994 was being called Britpop, so the tag stuck. What’s remarkable about listening to His ‘N’ Hers, Definitely Maybe, and Parklife one after the other 20 years later isn’t just how great they all are, but how little they resemble one another. It’s liberating to hear them free of the context of their alleged movement. If anything, it makes it seem even more incredible just how much amazing guitar pop was coming out of Britain at the same time. Pretending Britpop was a cohesive, tight-knit scene was a convenient way of explaining its quality, but it’s more impressive without being shoehorned into an easy context”.
Before getting to some reviews, I am bringing in a 2023 feature. It suggests that His 'n' Hers was the birth of modern-day Pulp. Listening back to His 'n' Hers thirty years later, you can feel this sense of confidence and excitement. It was wonderful watching the album come out! How it made people aware of the true brilliance of Pulp and the genius of Jarvis Cocker:
“Thrust towards the limelight
His ’N’ Hers may have thrust Pulp towards the limelight, but, like many of the characters Jarvis sang about, they always seemed more comfortable as voyeurs – a recurring subject throughout Pulp’s career, but one never so perfectly explored as on “Babies.” Spying on a female friend’s sister having sex? Check. Turning it into a confused daydream in which “I want to give you children” presages the thought that “You might be my girlfriend”? Why not. Finding yourself caught in flagrante with the sister “because she looks like you”? Seems the only outcome…
Desperation; thwarted romantic ambitions; an anthemic tune that distracts from some of the grubbiness – this was Pulp’s rebirth in full effect. But there was biting satire here, too. “A promo video is simply an advert for a song” ran the title card in front of the “Babies” video. But for the full power of Jarvis’ sardonic observations, you have to turn to His ’N’ Hers’ opener, “Joyriders.”
Nothing joyful here. The song’s scuzzy guitar riff sets the tone for a bunch of vandals causing a ruckus in a small city center (“We don’t look for trouble/But if it comes we don’t run”). But while the bluster is undercut by the declaration, “We like women/“Up the women, we say/And if we get lucky/We might even meet some one day” – delivered with minimum flash for maximum droll humor – the buffoonery careens into a truly sinister ending. “Mister, we just want your car/’Cause we’re taking a girl to the reservoir/Oh, all the papers say/It’s a tragedy… but don’t you want to come and see?” No details are given, but such is Jarvis’ masterful storytelling, we have everything we need – or want – to know right here.
Where “the modern-day Pulp was born”
And so His ’N’ Hers’ opposing strands become clear: deep yearnings and adolescent fumbles pitted against pent-up frustrations that tip over into something altogether darker. “Have You Seen Her Lately?” mixes small-town gossip with a lifeline for lost souls; “Lipgloss” and the masterful “Pink Glove” look at what happens when the glamour’s gone and the rot has set in; and if “Do You Remember The First Time?” presents itself as a synth-pop anthem for indie dancefloors the world over, its mix of bravado and self-analytical desperation is pretty much impossible to find anywhere else in chart history.
This, Jarvis has said, is where “the modern-day Pulp was born.” For those who’d missed His ’N’ Hers’ release, on April 18, 1994, they couldn’t fail to take notice of the group’s triumphant Glastonbury headline slot the following year. But while that would make Jarvis and co household names overnight, His ’N’ Hers bears witness to the true Pulp: coming around uninvited, peeking through your blinds, and rummaging through your underwear… hiding in cupboards, just waiting to catch a glimpse”.
I am going to end with a couple of reviews. AllMusic are among those who have given His 'n' Hers a passionate review. If anyone has not heard this 1994 work of brilliance, you really need to seek it out. Although many fans will say Different Class is the best Pulp album ever, one cannot underestimate and overstate the importance of His 'n' Hers. I wonder whether the band will mark thirty years of their fourth studio album. It would be interesting to hear how they see it all these years later:
“Pulp had been kicking around since 1981, but for all intents and purposes, their 1994 major-label debut, His 'n' Hers is their de facto debut: the album that established their musical and lyrical obsessions and, in turn, the album where the world at large became acquainted with their glassy, tightly wound synth pop and lead singer Jarvis Cocker's impeccably barbed wit. This was a sound that was carefully thought out, pieced together from old glam and post-punk records, assembled in so it had the immediacy (and hooks) of pop balanced by an artful obsession with moody, dark textures. It was a sound that perfectly fit the subject at hand: it was filled with contradictions -- it was sensual yet intellectual, cheap yet sophisticated, retro yet modern -- with each seeming paradox giving the music weight instead of weighing it down. Given Pulp's predilection for crawling mood pieces -- such effective set pieces as the tense "Acrylic Afternoons," or the closing "David's Last Summer" -- and their studied detachment, it might easy to over-intellectualize the band, particularly in these early days before they reached stardom, but for all of the chilliness of the old analog keyboards and the conscious geek stance of Cocker, this isn't music that aims for the head: its target is the gut and groin, and His 'n' Hers has an immediacy that's apparent as soon as "Joyriders" kicks the album into gear with its crashing guitars. It establishes Pulp not just as a pop band that will rock; it establishes an air of menace that hangs over this album like a talisman.
As joyous as certain elements of the music are -- and there isn't just joy but transcendence here, on the fuzz guitars that power the chorus of "Lipgloss," or the dramatic release at the climax of "Babies" -- this isn't light, fizzy music, no matter how the album glistens on its waves of cold synths and echoed guitars, no matter how much sex drives the music here. Cocker doesn't tell tales of conquests: he tells tales of sexual obsession and betrayal, where the seemingly nostalgic question "Do You Remember the First Time?" is answered with the reply, "I can't remember a worst time." On earlier Pulp albums he explored similar stories of alienation, but on His 'n' Hers everything clicks: his lyrics are scalpel sharp, whether he's essaying pathos, passion, or wit, and his band -- driven by the rock-solid drummer Nick Banks and bassist Steve Mackey, along with the arty stylings of keyboardist Candida Doyle and violinist/guitarist Russell Senior -- gives this muscle and blood beneath its stylish exterior. The years etching out Joy Division-inspired goth twaddle in the mid-'80s pay off on the tense, dramatic epics that punctuate the glammy pop of the singles "Lipgloss," "Babies," and "Do You Remember the First Time?" And those years of struggle pay off in other ways too, particularly in Cocker's carefully rendered observations of life on the fringes of Sheffield, where desperation, sex, and crime are always just a kiss away, and Pulp vividly evokes this world with a startling lack of romanticism but an appropriate amount of drama and a surplus of flair. It's that sense of style coupled with their gut-level immediacy that gives His 'n' Hers its lasting power: this was Pulp's shot at the big time and they followed through with a record that so perfectly captured what they were and what they wanted to be, it retains its immediacy years later”.
I am ending with a review from the BBC. Without doubt one of the 1990s’ biggest and best albums, there will be so much love for His ‘n’ Hers on 18th April. Even if it is thirty years old, it has not dated or lost any of its brilliance. It still sounds like nobody else by Pulp! This distinct, original and fascinating album from the Sheffield band:
“Released in 1994, His ‘n’ Hers was Pulp’s breakthrough album some 16 years into their existence. It finally gave them a taste of success as well as introducing Jarvis Cocker to the general public, just as Britpop – Parklife was released the week after, and Oasis were readying their second single – came along as a then-refreshing shot-in the-arm.
From the opening Joyriders – “Oh you, you in the Jesus sandals, wouldn’t you like to come and see some vandals?” – it was clear the move to a major label had sharpened their sound and focus into a very appealing Alan Bennett / Roxy Music hybrid.
His ‘n’ Hers presented insights into the sort of behaviour that might land one on a register of some kind today: being inept with women, hiding in wardrobes watching your sister having sex, failing to turn your husband on, illicit affairs while the old man’s away. Such observations, such cheeky voyeurism, over cheering art-pop set Pulp aside, into a field of one, attracting a vast army of the misfits they’d eventually celebrate.
Singles included the trebly Lipgloss and the we’ve-all-done-it furtive fumblings of Do You Remember the First Time, beside a new mix of the majestic Babies.
But these weren’t the only highlights. There’s also the northern Gaynor disco sheen of She’s a Lady; the detailing of the tease and eventual boredom of fetish with Pink Glove; the throbbing narration of David’s Last Summer; and the bosom-shifting gossip detail of Have You Seen Her Lately?
Best of all, it was all served with an air-punching atmosphere of triumph, an almost celebratory feel. It seemed so far away from the mildly unsavoury fare that peers like Suede were offering.
Apparently it missed out on the 1994 Mercury (Music) Prize, to M People’s Elegant Slumming, by one vote. That didn’t matter in the grander scheme, as Pulp would soon go supernova – Common People and Different Class were just a year away. But His ‘n’ Hers remains a glorious notice of where the Pulp story really begins. A classic, basically”.
It is amazing to think that His ‘n’ Hers was so close to winning the Mercury Prize. No matter. In the scheme of things, it has endured longer and made more of an impression than M People’s Elegant Slumming. As we head towards the thirtieth anniversary of Pulp’s breakthrough, it deserves to be heard and experienced…
BY a whole new generation of fans.