Pulp

Finsbury Park, July 1st, 2023

51.56877 -0.102672
Nikon F100, 24mm ai-s f2.8 HP5+

Memories are murky, they cloud over time until you're not sure what's true, what's myth and what matters. This recollection is murky, but it feels like my godmother, Barbara’s birthday party, although the year feels off. The place was very large, no woodchip on the wall. It was Barbara’s second husband, Harry, who was talking to me about music that night, that moment. Harry was a big music fan, he was a drummer, quite a good drummer, played with quite a few bands in the sixties. Harry wanted to know about music that night. New music. I said “Pulp” to him. Just like that. I said “Pulp” when he asked me what new bands I was into. And it wasn’t me saying it. It was my girlfriend whispering it in my ear. “Pulp.”

My God.

And then, next thing you know, Pulp are everywhere. Every time I’d meet Harry, or my parents would meet Harry, he’d mention it. Every time. As if I was some guru, some finger-on-the-pulse wizard who could sift the sands of time, stare into the void and come out alive.

Time passed. I hunkered down, married that girlfriend who whispered in my ear, had kids, raised a family and worked retail, abandoning my camera for a time. And life happened. And Harry… Harry died. Pulp’s bassist died too. At some point I picked my camera up again, and started to wonder about life, death, ennui, futility and that void. Years later, another century, 2023 hit. Harry was gone, but somehow Pulp’s return to the stage felt like a strange kind of resurrection. I managed to smuggle in my Nikon F100, a 24mm lens and a roll of HP5+. I shot the whole roll on the way to getting slightly tipsy on vibes and rosé after the bar was drunk dry of beer by the old folks letting their hair down one last time, and every shot came out. Harry was looking out for me. My God. My God.

• Edited extract from Pulp: Common People Photo-Zine