Mozart. Picasso. Maybe Jodi Foster? They made it through. But, most prodigies end up on the side of the road. The chasm between precocious and wise is vast. It’s a wonder that any prodigy survives the trek. And make no mistake, Jarvis was a prodigy. While he played zero instruments, he always appeared to know more than the rest of us. He was just fifteen when he started Pulp, but he arrived basically fully formed — the glasses, the rumpled suits and ties and the wry observations. But by the time he was thirty those winks seemed too clever, like he was trying to have it both ways — the horny young schemer who was also the horny mature professor. If there was anyone who could straddle that chasm, though, it was surely Jarvis.

Also, has there ever been a better name for this particular sort of man than Jarvis Cocker? His middle name is “Branson” for chrissakes. He’s perfect in every way. I loved him as the intolerable, snotty, Britpop knowitall. But also, I knew that time would come for him. Tired of the sort of fame he had brought onto himself in England, Jarvis disbanded Pulp when he was thirty-eight. He suggested that he was retiring to France — and it almost made sense. Because he was old when he was young his genuinely older, hornier old self verged on less clever, more distasteful. “Good for you, Jarvis,” I thought. Better to end it as a charming, hormonal, gifted young man than a leering, sloppy, past prime Englishman in tweed jackets and spectacles.

Well, apparently, retirement didn’t suit Jarvis, because in 2006, less than five years after the last Pulp record, we received, “Jarvis,” his solo debut. By then a father, stripped of his band, if not his angst, it appeared that we would get a glimpse of how England’s most precocious, Alternative Pop star since Elvis Costello was aging. We were going to get a glimpse of what he had under the Burberry overcoat.

Well, the transition, it turned out, was pretty smooth. Daddy Jarvis is basically the same guy as precocious Jarvis except his songs are a bit more naked, his perspective shifts genders occasionally and he flashes some hope that, unless he’s unfeeling, sounds quite genuine. Creatively unencumbered, you can hear Jarvis really focusing on each song’s structure. Unlike the songs he made with Pulp, not a single track on “Jarvis” is five minutes or longer. He establishes his perspective or story, he gives us his verses, sometimes a bridge, and his singalong choruses. As with Pulp, there are orchestral flourishes — strings, flutes, vibes and glockenspiel. But, unlike Pulp, nothing here is designed for a remix, much less the dance floor.

While “Jarvis” is ambitious in craft, it’s scope and sounds are fairly conservative. Many of the songs are bouncy, mid-tempo Pop songs led with either piano or acoustic guitar. Nearly all of the choruses are impeccable. Jarvis Cocker knows how to write words and surf a melody that we want to join in on. The two single, “Don’t Let Him Waste Your Time” and “Fat Children” have two of the biggest three hooks of the album and introduce much of the album’s ostensible thematic concern. The former is an “advice song” from the knowing friend who assures her that the guy really is not worth it, he just wants to get laid, life is short, trust me (I was that guy). The latter is about the regression of our society and the mindlessness and hate that has become the norm for late Western culture. The primary theses of “Jarvis” are:

1. Men are shit

2. We are all shit

And yet, who makes depressing, glass of champagne is half empty music more fun than Jarvis Cocker? Nobody. On “Disney Time” the new Dad wonders if the lies and repressive symbols we feed our kids in their princesses and cartoons are really worse than pornography. And on "From Auschwitz to Ipswich,” our erudite nerd-hero cheerily confirms the end of not just civility, but civilization. Somewhat reminiscent of Randy Newman’s “Political Science,” "From Auschwitz to Ipswich,” posits that all empires fall, we’re just too dumb to see it falling and, regardless, we lack the wisdom or grit to do anything about it. Good stuff.

Jarvis lets the Parisian sunshine in on “Black Magic,” “Baby’s Coming Back to Me” and “Quantum Theory,” all of which are perfectly smart and charming love songs. They are also among the most generic tracks on the album which is unfortunate because (a) I genuinely want to know more about Jarvis Cocker thinks about domestic life and love and (b) they suffer in comparison to the more pointed and cynical songs. That struggle is what makes Elvis Costello, Elvis Costello and Paul McCartney, Paul McCartney. And, it seems that Jarvis got a little more Elvis than Paul.

As a vocalist, we get three different, if familiar, versions of Jarvis on his debut. There is a lower register version that sounds like a more tuneful, though less powerful Nick Cave. There is a clever, quicker, spit-filled version that sounds a great deal like Bob Geldoff. And then there is the cheeky, jubilant and unrepressed sing-song version where Jarvis Cocker grabs hold of a chorus and sounds exclusively like Jarvis Cocker. 

Across eleven concise songs (thirteen if you count the two quick, palette cleansing instrumentals), the album stays mostly in balladry and buoyant mid-tempo numbers. But, on the original release, Jarvis tucked in a hidden track thirty minutes after the last song. On the LP it came as a separate seven inch single. And that song, “Running The World” may well be the best on the record. Over a marching beat and some very Sergeant Peppery flourishes, Jarvis ecstatically sings:

Well did you hear, there's a natural order

Those most deserving will end up with the most

That the cream cannot help but always rise up to the top

Well I say, "Shit floats"

If you thought things had changed

Friend, you better think again

Bluntly put, in the fewest of words

Cunts are still running the world

Cunts are still running the world

There it is. Underneath the Burberry trench, under the corduroy blazer and the tousled shirt, was the snotty, precocious punk. Thank goodness. He’s still here.

by Matty Wishnow