Pulp’s resurgence brought with it “Common People,” a track often hailed as the quintessential British single of the 1990s. Jarvis Cocker himself acknowledged it as “a song that was in the right place at the right time.” However, to simply label it an anthem is a significant oversimplification. Contrary to one critic’s fleeting description as a “freak call-to-arms,” a title more fitting for Pulp’s own “Mis-Shapes,” “Common People Song” operates on a far more intricate level. While its driving rhythm and building intensity might suggest a unifying anthem, a closer examination reveals a song deeply entrenched in division. It’s a composition brimming with desperation, bitterness, vengeance, and even brutality. The very fans poised to sing along at a Pulp reunion concert are, in essence, excluded from the narrative – a song that speaks to such a narrow segment of the class system that its call to arms, if it exists, is directed solely at Jarvis himself, and even then, with considerable uncertainty.
Initially, the song takes the form of a character study reminiscent of The Kinks, a style also being explored by Damon Albarn around the same period – Albarn being a songwriter frequently accused of class tourism himself. But unlike archetypes, “Common People song” is clearly rooted in specific individuals. The line “She came from Greece” isn’t arbitrary. Rather than creating a generic representation of upper-class indulgence, Cocker based the character on a fellow student from St Martin’s College (though not actually a sculpture student) who expressed a desire to experience life in the less affluent Hackney “like the common people.” This figure embodies the “slumming hipster” archetype, a lineage stretching from Norman Mailer’s “white negro” to the trucker-cap-clad denizens of Williamsburg. There’s a hint of awkwardness and condescension in her persona, yet Jarvis’s initial reaction is one of amusement, conveyed through the playful keyboard melody and a sly wink in his vocal delivery. “I said I’ll… I’ll see what I can do.”
In these opening verses, the power dynamic is skewed. Jarvis appears to be in control, willing to indulge her fascination with a taste of working-class life – a milder echo of the sex-as-class-war theme explored in “I Spy,” which immediately follows “Common People song” on the album Different Class. (In reality, Cocker’s acquaintance with the real-life inspiration was minimal). He’s the one orchestrating her slight humiliation in the supermarket (“I said pretend you’ve got no money”). Had the song maintained this trajectory, it might have simply become a wittier, less misogynistic iteration of Rolling Stones tracks like “Stupid Girl” or “Out of Time,” songs that mock privileged women. However, the narrative takes a dramatic turn when she smiles and holds his hand, causing the song to fracture, brilliantly and shockingly.
Suddenly, the supermarket and the Greek girl, along with the veneer of social comedy, are left behind. It’s as if Jarvis has been plunged through a trapdoor, his newfound sense of control evaporating, replaced by a profound feeling of powerlessness. The rage that consumes the remainder of the song is disproportionate to anything the girl has said; she is merely the catalyst, not the underlying cause. Cocker’s vocal delivery becomes increasingly strained and desperate, his anger fracturing his coherence. This raw hysteria evokes comparisons to Ian Curtis in “Transmission,” Jello Biafra’s contempt in “Holiday in Cambodia,” and the volatile energy of John Lydon. Notably, Chris Thomas, who produced “Common People song,” also produced the Sex Pistols’ seminal album, adding another layer to this punk rock lineage.
The source of this intense rage can be distilled into a single word: failure. In “Common People song,” Jarvis exists without a safety net, devoid of a plan B. He has achieved a measure of success, gaining entry to St Martin’s, but failure looms as a very real threat, one that would return him to his starting point. The Greek girl, in contrast, possesses the privilege of a safety net – the ability to call upon her father for rescue should her experiment in “common” living falter. Jarvis lacks this option, a stark reality compounded by his father’s abandonment when he was just seven. Already 25 upon enrolling at St Martin’s in 1988, Cocker had endured years of Pulp’s relative obscurity, a period so prolonged that the band had entered a hiatus. Pulp’s fortunes only began to shift with the 1990 single “My Legendary Girlfriend.” Thus, within the song’s narrative, Jarvis is caught between worlds, riddled with anxiety. “I didn’t believe in the concept of class at all when I was in Sheffield,” he confessed in a 1996 interview with Q magazine. “Then when I moved to London, I couldn’t deny it existed. That’s where the class obsession on this album started.” (In 1980s Sheffield, Cocker consciously avoided political themes; it was guitarist Russell Senior who advocated for Pulp to be “more political” and less “frivolous.”) Cocker himself acknowledged to BBC3, “It was a shock to me to find myself writing a song like this.”
This context sheds light on the song’s complex and somewhat problematic portrayal of working-class culture. Unlike the Manic Street Preachers in “A Design for Life,” another defining class-conscious single of the Britpop era, Jarvis doesn’t directly challenge the Greek girl’s reductive view. In fact, he amplifies it. She encounters him at St Martin’s, not a greyhound racing track, suggesting she doesn’t believe his capabilities are limited to “dance and drink and screw.” Furthermore, songs like “Mis-Shapes” reveal Cocker’s deliberate efforts to distance himself from mainstream working-class culture: “You could end up with a smash in the mouth just for standing out.” Yet, provoked by the Greek girl’s romanticized notion, he finds himself idealizing (“they burn so bright”) a culture he never truly embraced. Trapped between social strata, he experiences neither the solidarity of working-class community nor the financial security of the middle class. Therefore, when she declares, “I want to sleep with common people like you,” it wounds him with the implication that he is like them, while simultaneously fueling his anxiety that, despite his efforts, he might be.
This insecurity breeds a potent viciousness. The initial pathos of “watch[ing] your life slide out of view” and having “nothing else to do” morphs into a searing fury directed at those who “think that poor is cool,” which in turn escalates to overt violence. In a verse omitted from the single edit, Jarvis compares “common people” to a seemingly docile dog in the corner, capable of suddenly “tear[ing] your insides out” – a line of such raw savagery that it becomes almost jarring to recall the earlier supermarket scene of playful mockery. In the BBC3 documentary, Cocker refers to another excised section (“You will never understand…”) as the “punchline” of the entire song, wincing at the intensity of his own vocal performance. Did he consciously intend for “Common People song” to encompass such unsettling ambiguity, or did the song, as often happens with great works, take on a life of its own?
“Common People song” gives voice to a perspective that resonated in punk (John Lydon) and post-punk (Mark E. Smith), persisted into the 90s (Nicky Wire), and now feels almost silenced in a pop landscape increasingly dominated by a single class, much like television and publishing: that of the spiky working-class intellectual. However, due to its musical potency, its memorable video, its cultural timing, and Jarvis Cocker’s unique charisma, “Common People song” managed to deceive many into mistaking its underlying rage and pain for something straightforward and uplifting. “Common People song” is akin to that dog in the corner: seemingly harmless, yet capable of tearing your insides out.
Note: Wikipedia speculates that the Greek girl was Ambrosia Sakkadas, a Greek Cypriot student at St Martin’s, but provides no concrete evidence. Jarvis Cocker himself claims to have no recollection of the girl’s name.
Note 2: Some of the ideas presented here were inspired by a stimulating discussion on the I Love Music message board, which prompted a fresh perspective on a song I believed I knew intimately. One contributor suggested that Jarvis’s drink choice might allude to “Rum and Coca Cola,” a 1940s Trinidadian calypso song about cultural imperialism, adding an intriguing layer of interpretation. Alternatively, perhaps Jarvis simply enjoys rum and coke. The BBC3 documentary referenced above is highly recommended.
