Every line of Razzmatazz twitches with sly victory вЂ“ and every lineвЂ™s a classic, too вЂ“ as Cocker, cast as a luckless loser whoвЂ™s been dumped by his girlfriend for not being glitzy enough, finds himself crowing over their reversal of fortune. But thereвЂ™s not way of prettying up the squalid truth: вЂњMy legendary girlfriend, she is crying tonight / Oh no, she doesnвЂ™t feel right / SheвЂ™s got no one to hold.вЂќ A sly, seductive and splendid treat.ДЄh, schadenfreude. вЂњCreeping slowly past the cooling towers вЂ¦ Deserted factories, looking for an adventure,вЂќ he says, trying to bring some gritty romance to their moonlit stroll. Cocker refuses to stay rooted in the same spot, switching from naughty whisper to frustrated yelp as he spills the beans on a one-sided affair gone wrong. Its genius lies in its fusion of elements the way different atoms collide and spark weird chemical reactions, from the menacing, club-like groove and creepy keyboards of the verse to the glittery synths of the chorus that fizz and fade like roman candles. Originally recorded in 1989 for third album Separation, a mix-and-match LP with one side devoted to conventional songs and another inspired by acid house, it didnвЂ™t limp out until 1991, but it was still enough to jump-start PulpвЂ™s career. My Legendary Girlfriend is PulpвЂ™s very own Big Bang: the perfect explosion when all that promise and potential combusts in a brilliant Technicolor flash until, six-odd minutes later, all thatвЂ™s left is a wonderful pop band. вЂњRaise your eyes and graze your knees / Oh for your master is displeased,вЂќ he leers, and if heвЂ™s not yet the witty, winning charmer heвЂ™d later become, heвЂ™s at least a long way evolved from the milksop of before. ItвЂ™s a spooky, sordid ditty, like a sleazy take on Hammer horror with its hammy synths and Cocker sounding like a dirty viscount. Freaks isnвЂ™t perfect but itвЂ™s a start, and on songs like Master of the Universe, you can hear a strange and special band starting to emerge. But after meeting violinist and guitarist Russell Senior, he began spinning a new vision for Pulp instead вЂ“ darker, weirder, more experimental and with more bite вЂ“ that would exorcise their old, insipid ghost. Post-It, Cocker was so disgruntled that he considered giving up on pop music in favour of going to university. No, no: let us go then, you and I, whizzing past It and on to 1986вЂ™s Freaks instead, where the real Pulp begin to take shape. HeвЂ™s a gawky, fresh-faced and strangely earnest young thing, messing about with cheery folk music and wishy-washy new wave, mooning over puppy love and magical lighthouses and other such nonsense. And ItвЂ™s Jarvis Cocker isnвЂ™t our Jarvis Cocker, either. The Pulp of their 1984 debut, It, arenвЂ™t the Pulp for any of us.

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