Montreux Jazz suits him well. Jarvis Cocker, the disjointed moonwalker, struts onto the Vaudoise Riviera like it’s a stage carved from his own daydreams. Here, in the land of Chaplin, he bends his lanky frame with the grace of a marionette possessed, throwing punchlines laced with that unmistakably British self-deprecation – the mark of an artist who knows exactly what he’s worth. And Jarvis is worth plenty.

His voice adapts, stretches, glides over a supercharged orchestra dressed in strings and wild percussion. At his side, ever-unshaken, sits Candida Doyle—her keyboard posture rigid, fists at right angles, like she’s summoning sound through sheer force of will. Her synth lines recall a hacked Farfisa on disco steroids. Strange? Yes. Glorious? Absolutely. Doyle, after all, co-authored the very DNA of Pulp’s sound since Freaks.

Pulp carved their legacy deep into Britpop’s veins. Always a few steps behind Oasis in the charts, but far ahead in wit, irony, and layered charm. They toured in « double-decker buses » across Europe, bringing their oddball elegance to cities where Jarvis’s peculiar charisma far exceeded the standard.

From Morrissey to Adam Ant, Billy Idol to Marc Almond – a lineage of sharp-dressed misfits paved the road. They didn’t just sing. They winked. They sneered. They whispered secrets. And so does Jarvis, even in Montreux. He speaks/writes on the big screens French to explain what an encore is, then gifts the audience a burning sunset on Spike Island.

Pulp refuses to tread the tired trails of indie pop. Their synth-laced art rock still sidesteps formula. No Razzmatazz tonight—but we get Sorted for E’s and Wizz, bold and tight. No I Spy, but This Is Hardcore unravels with film noir glamour and operatic pomp. Cocker lies full length on the lake stage, a pop noir Bond villain. A nice Dr. No with a Sheffield accent.

The finale gathers all ten members of Pulp 2025. A hush falls:
“It is just a sunset,” someone says. “It just happens every day…”
But with Jarvis, even the mundane glows. Video inserts, a sickly full moon, his shadow dancing like a specter. The rhythm breaks, twists. He passes the mic to his guitarist like a handshake with the past.

Steve Mackey passed, sadly. But the group feels fuller now. They punctuate their legacy with exclamations—Lipgloss, Babies, Do You Remember the First Time? Their first time in Switzerland was in 1998, in St. Gallen. Jarvis remembers it like it was yesterday.

The signs Soup and Special Offers roll out in a glittery Montreux disco. The crowd loses itself. The band’s energy peaks. Common People finally kicked, people raved with joy, chants rose up to a climax.

The day before, the contrast: Jarvis, relaxed in the MJF workshops, opens up about his fascination with outsider art, with the Facteur Cheval, with another rock-sculptor near Saint-Malo. A man of words and wonder, he gives culture its due.

Pulp has matured. I never thought I’d see them again – just as I never thought I’d witness Neil Young or The The again, who lit up Zurich two weeks ago. The world of the indie kid is a fragile one, built on hope and memory. We dream of seeing our Peel Session heroes live again. But not all returns are equal.

Bloc Party, too, takes the stage. Once architects of Silent Alarm anthems—Banquet, Helicopter—they battle time with new songs. Kele Okereke, in a custom Orlando Magic jersey (Shaq? Fournier? Banchero?), pours himself into it. But the emotional pull doesn’t land with the same weight. Not yet.

Still, the band is steady. A new drummer injects fresh muscle. The recipe’s there for another British pop wave, stirred by Montreux’s soft heat. On balconies above, curious neighbors take in Bloc Party in coulours and also in black and white, like a film that hasn’t quite found its focus. Perhaps a small London club would suit them better.
They haven’t grown like Pulp – yet. There’s still time to distill all these clever ingredients. And let us not forget: Bloc Party’s unwavering stance for LGBT+ visibility in a music scene often stuck in macho posturing. For that alone, they deserve a salute. Boldness has many forms.

Montreux Jazz, 2025: a place where pop isn’t just heard – it shimmers, shape-shifts, and slips into your bloodstream. Jarvis Cocker doesn’t just perform. He haunts, he heals, he hints. “This is just a sunset,” he says in a wonderful finale. But in his voice, it’s never just anything. Just a sunset? Maybe. But tonight, it burned like the first time.

David Glaser