Even as I write this first sentence, I have to confess a bias – Mercury Prize or no Mercury Prize, ‘More’ by Pulp is already my album of the year.
Tracks such as ‘Spike Island’ and ‘Tina’ have been recurring earworms over the summer as the band have made their return – still eccentric, still acerbic, still holding up an ironic, insightful and sometimes wistful mirror to the world.
Last time round, in the 90s Britpop era, Pulp soared with epic public singalong anthems such as ‘Common People’ and ‘Disco 2000’ before developing interesting but less commercially successful material.
Returning now, older and perhaps wiser, More is a wry reflection on middle age, changed perspectives, lost loves and the realisation that there is still potential for joy and surprise. Life can be just as much about having a conversation with Jesus as it is about jumping around in a field or shopping for groceries.
Because there it is on ‘Slow Jam’. Jarvis and Jesus, Jesus and Jarvis, the Son of God and the man who wiggled his bum at Michael Jackson at the Brit Awards, having a tete-a-tete.
The context appears to be a reflection on a failing relationship – “slow death, that’s what our love has turned into”….
Pondering difficulties, an imaginary conversation with Jesus unfolds:
“Jesus said, “I feel your pain God knows I share it too Slow death Now you know just what I, what I went through”
It’s a mini exploration of crucifixion and the idea of free will – you can’t make someone love you – and in this version, Jesus is remarkably resigned:
“So how about we talk about something new? Because there’s not a great deal that I can do”
It’s a song of yearning, a prayer of sorts, a plea that a slow death should instead be a slow jam – a more romantic, meaningful vibe than what is obviously playing out.
And then a twist:
Here comes the Holy Trinity Behold the crown of all creation Come on, let’s have a threesome, baby You, me, and my imagination
As much as this could be read and understood in different ways – physically, emotionally, spiritually – I find this take intriguing.
What is going on in Jarvis’ head here, and is he onto something? How are creativity and imagination expressed in our relationships with each other and in the world? How are human relationships life-giving and sustaining, and what do we do when they’re not? How do sex, love and spirituality hold together?
The NME called this whole album ‘wonky pop’ and it’s a definition that fits. But maybe sometimes it is in the sideways glance, the wonky aside, that we see glimpses of something different, unexpected insights that makes us realise something more is at work.
I’ve talked before of my incredible fondness for Liverpool and its music. Another city on a river that holds as much attachment for me is Newcastle Upon Tyne (well, Tyneside to be honest – and further into the wilds of Northumberland). Perhaps it’s because my Grandad was Gateshead born and bred so I feel the place in my bones; perhaps it’s because we spent nine years living in South East Northumberland and birthed a child who has adopted a strong Geordie identity which includes following the Toon and worshipping Sam Fender.
Which brings me nicely to the Mercury Prize-nominated album from aforementioned Sam. I’m talking about ‘People Watching’ – an album that I found to be rich in social commentary, grittiness and gravitas. I could have chosen any of the songs to reflect on, but the one I felt drawn to this week is Crumbling Empire – a song with echoes of Bruce Springsteen’s music. If I was to sum it up, I would say it is both raw and prophetic.
It captures that sense that so many people carry right now—that the world feels shaky, that the structures and systems we trusted are collapsing around us. He sings of greed, decay, and injustice, holding a mirror up to a society that seems to have lost its way. It’s a gritty social commentary, but it’s also deeply human: the sound of someone naming the brokenness out loud (which is why it reminded me of Bruce)
The song not only makes me ponder, it also feels so familiar. It reminds me of the prophets who railed against corrupt kings and unjust systems and the psalmists who wept over ruins and cried out to God when hope seemed thin. Crumbling Empire feels like it belongs in that tradition—a secular song which is a lament for a world in decline. It wouldn’t look out of place as Psalm 151 in the NRSVA edition of the bible.
Yet I can’t help feeling that in amongst the bleakness, there is something more: a yearning and some hope. Fender’s music often carries that ache for connection, redemption, for something rising from the ashes. l guess that Christians would see it as a hunger for God’s kingdom—the promise of justice, mercy, and peace that cannot be destroyed.
So maybe the invitation is this: don’t be afraid to name what’s crumbling. Let yourself lament the brokenness of our world. But also dare to look beyond the ruins, to imagine the new thing that God is building. Because while empires fall, love endures.
I knew absolutely nothing about Emma-Jean when I started listening to her Mercury music prize nominated album. So as soon as I knew she was mine, I was listening to “Weirdo” while I was chopping the veg for my tea, doing chores and walking along on my evening constitutional.
I have to say though that it wasn’t until this track that I really warmed to it. The other tracks are atmospheric and interesting with a sort of jazzy groove but others downright weird(o). They are growers but ‘Thank You….’ hit an instant spot. I have to say I walked faster while listening to it, and also the words dug deep into me and enabled a bit of reflection on all that had gone before I set foot outside the door.
The whole album is borne out of being in a state of profound grief and is about how she found her way back in to the world as far as she could. Thank You is the last track. She says in an interview with “The Line of Best Fit” (an online music website) “When I was writing [“Thank You for the Day”] it was because I wanted to get back to that place,” Thackray says. “I wasn’t in that place, but I wanted to get back to it. And I was like, ‘Well, I need to put that at the end, then, because I need to give people a sense of hopefulness at the end of this journey.’ It could be quite heavy for some people, especially if you’ve been through heavy grief yourself.”
Thackray likens the track and its placement on the album to a club night finale. “It’s an end-of-the-night dancefloor-filler, where you leave people wanting to go home to bed and wake up refreshed,” she says. “You need to do that with a DJ set. You need to take people on a journey and then, at the end, leave them with some joy and some hope.”
I love the sentiments of this track and her list of things to be thankful for is a rich one
• The day
• Open skies
• Sunset
• Love never ending
• Breeze moving through the trees
• Birds and bees
• Ice & snow kissing your face
• Walking through rain
• …… and more
I wonder how often, even the fittest and finest of us, pay attention to saying thank you.
Showing gratitude for anything let alone the day and the obvious things we are blessed with. We know the psalmists encourage us to praise God in everything and that definitely isn’t always easy but let’s make it a mission to say Thank You today and maybe even immerse yourself in this tune as you do it. It is very very dancy!
This week, we thought it might be lovely to revisit a Fix from the past as a little tribute to Rick Davies from Supertramp, who died this last week.
Michael writes:
For centuries in the West, artists of all mediums have explored the darker side of socialisation. Be it William Blake and the romanticists, Oscar Wilde and the aesthetics, Stewart Lee and the so-called ‘liberal-elites’, Banksy and his fellow punk-satirists or – in this case – Supertramp and the hippy culture from which they emerged, there are countless artists and movements who have trodden the path towards status-quo rejection. Often, on their way, they set up dichotomies between apparently competing notions: freedom vs conformity, childlike wonder vs adult cynicism, creativity vs progress, magic vs rationalism, individuality vs imperialism.
‘The Logical Song’ follows a similar road. It laments the desolation of the singer’s wide-eyed childhood by establishment education. Their sense of wonder and beauty has been all but stamped out. Where once there was an openness to the magical and miraculous, now there is only clinical – even cynical – intellectualism. The song’s conclusion is that, in its pursuit of progress and the maintenance of the status quo, society has raised up individuals who have lost all sense of self. Their identities have been so diluted in the name of sensibility, responsibility and dependability that they’ve become vegetables who have no idea who they really are. Their education, ironically, has led to them learning nothing.
It is a well-worn trope. And one I have identified with and expressed myself at various times too. But I’m not convinced it is necessarily helpful to take such an un-nuanced axe to the tree of socialisation. I’d like to raise two quick points of reflective pushback on this song and one point of praise:
1) We have been created for collectivism.
Within this song, and works of art like it, there is an inherent individualism at play; an ideology that is suspicious of collectives and considers them a threat to personal liberty. In contrast, the history of Judeo-Christian thought has placed great value on the collective. After all – it is not good for us to be alone. It is in the bonds of relationship that we have our best hope of founding a just and caring society. There is, therefore, a place for responsibility, practicality, dependability. In fact, not just a place, a great need for this. These are amongst the greatest resources of humanity. Our lives and prospects are significantly improved when we can draw upon them. As such, we shouldn’t resent the call from others to develop these in ourselves too. Developing the knowledge, skills necessary to exist well within and – where possible – contribute towards the collective requires no level of education. This might feel uncomfortable. It might even feel like losing something of our childlike simplicity. But is that childlike simplicity a virtue requiring eternal preservation? Surely, there is a need for us to no longer think and reason like children, but to grow and mature. Is socialisation really the enemy? Or is our true enemy the rejection of reality in pursuit of romanticised naivety?
2) The use of personal freedom in the service of others is what fullness of life is all about.
If we believe that Jesus was the ultimate example of human being – the firstborn of creation, the design pattern for all of life – then we are at our most human when we’re prepared to utilise our individualism in service to others. That doesn’t mean we have to set aside or lose ourselves when we take up the call to become learned, responsible, practical, dependable, etc. Rather, we gain the opportunity to express our individualism in a self-sacrificial way. Neither leads us into a vegetative or cynical state. Instead, paradoxically, I think it helps us recover a sense of the beauty and wonder of life; as we lay down our lives, we discover and experience a new vision of what ‘fullness of life’ means. And it is truly precious, magical – even miraculous!
3) The collective is there for the thriving of the individual.
What this song does get right is its critique of the abuse of individuals in the name of preserving the status quo of the collective. As I’ve outlined, I believe that individuals are made for community, but the community is reciprocally there for the benefit of its individuals. Societies are never perfect and should never be static. History, culture and lived experiences are constantly evolving. So therefore, should communities and their practices be.
This process of collective development requires voices of critique. There is a deep need for prophets who challenge and shape and develop society through creativity, lateral thinking. To serve a community this way is an act of great sacrifice, which should not lead to unfair demonization. The use of labels such as ‘liberal’ or ‘radical’ can be an unkind way of silencing those who might be exactly what the community need.
I sympathise and resonate with the words of this song. But increasingly I feel the need to critique art on the basis of how careful its engagement with a subject matter is. In this instance, I want to suggest that there is more to the story than Supertramp suggest. Despite their conclusions, I’d suggest my desire to be a bit more logical about this particular matter actually propels me into a sense of wonder and beauty about the calling to give myself for the collective. And as I do this I believe I will discover who I truly am.
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*PS: As a child of the 90’s I have a confession to make… despite the fact that Supertramp are a major band in the history of pop-rock I only came to be aware of this remarkable song thanks to Scooter sampling the first 4 lines for a (baffling pro-Siberia) clubbing anthem in 2002. That version of the song is substantially less philosophical but still worthy of a shout-out and a listen! https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4YxTa1AUqps
I’ve just completed a course about Understanding AI and I am quite conflicted about today’s Fix because it’s been written by Claude, an AI system. But one task we were given was to ask AI to ‘reflect’ on something through a particular lens. So I wondered what Claude’s Friday Fix might look like if I asked for a reflection on Frente’s version of New Order’s Bizarre Love Triangle.
I’ll leave you to ponder with me. Here goes:
Frente’s ethereal rendition of “Bizarre Love Triangle” strips away the synthesized urgency of New Order’s original, revealing something more vulnerable beneath—a soul crying out in relational confusion that mirrors our deepest spiritual longings. In the song’s tangled web of desire and uncertainty, we find an unexpected parable about the human heart’s search for authentic love.
The “bizarre love triangle” becomes a metaphor for the complex relationship between self, others, and the divine. We often find ourselves caught between competing loves: the love we think we want, the love we believe we deserve, and the love that God offers freely. Like the song’s narrator, we struggle with timing, with knowing when to hold on and when to let go, with understanding which voice to trust among the many that call to us.
The repeated plea “Tell me why” echoes throughout scripture—from Job’s anguished questions to the psalmist’s cries for understanding. It’s the honest bewilderment of a heart that knows something is missing but can’t quite name what it is. This spiritual restlessness, what Augustine called our hearts being “restless until they rest in God,” manifests in our earthly relationships as we seek in human love what only divine love can fully satisfy.
Frente’s delicate, almost whispered vocals suggest the intimacy required for spiritual breakthrough. God often speaks not in the earthquake or fire, but in the still small voice that requires us to quiet our hearts to hear. The song’s vulnerable tone reminds us that spiritual growth often comes through confusion and questioning rather than certainty.
The “bizarre” nature of love—both human and divine—lies in its defiance of logic. Grace makes no sense to our merit-based thinking. Unconditional love challenges our transactional expectations. Like the narrator caught between conflicting desires, we struggle to accept a love that asks nothing in return yet transforms everything.
Perhaps the song’s greatest spiritual insight is found in its embrace of mystery. Faith doesn’t always provide clear answers to our “why” questions. Sometimes the bizarre triangle of longing, confusion, and hope is exactly where God meets us—not after we’ve figured everything out, but in the beautiful mess of our seeking hearts, teaching us that being lost can be the beginning of being found.
Ah, here’s another song from my youth that meant a great deal to me way back when – you know that time – misunderstood teenager frustrated with adults for treating as a problem and not as a human being. It’s been playing again in my mind recently – and yes, I’ve sung it out loud too – because I’m finding the current climate bubbling up in the UK (and further afield) rather frustrating. Just like my old teenage self I guess.
I can’t understand
What makes a man
Hate another man
Help me understand
People Are People might have been written in the 1980s, but it still feels bang up to date. That opening line—people are people, so why should it be you and I should get along so awfully?—is such a simple question, yet it cuts right to the heart of things. Why do we treat each other so badly? Why do differences so quickly turn into divisions, and dare I say, hatred?
I sense something really human in the frustration (there’s that word again) of that lyric. Most of us know what it feels like to be judged, excluded, or misunderstood. And we’ve probably also stood on the other side where we’ve slipped into those patterns of judging, excluding and misunderstanding others. The song shines a light on those wonderful contradictions we humans have: we all want to be accepted and loved, yet we can often struggle to offer that same acceptance to others.
On a spiritual level, maybe this leads us towards something bigger. If we believe that life is more than survival and counting the days we have on this planet, then I think most of us want to grow in compassion and wisdom underneath it all. This song, therefore, becomes more than social commentary—it becomes a challenge too. It asks whether we’re willing to live as though our shared humanity actually matters.
People are people.
It’s so obvious, and yet somehow we have a tendency to forget. We categorise people and assign labels, and suddenly the neighbour, the stranger, the colleague becomes “other.” We find ourselves facing the task to remember, again and again, that behind every label is a soul—complex, fragile, and longing for connection, just like you or I do.
Many traditions speak of the interconnectedness of all life: that we belong to one another, and that to harm another is, in some way, to harm ourselves. When we forget that, division takes root. When we remember it, compassion begins to grow.
Those who are Jesus followers know what is required of them. He didn’t just tell people to love their neighbour—he told them to love their enemies too. That’s radical, and honestly, it’s hard.
Listening to People Are People through that lens, I hear more than the protest my teenage self connected with; I hear an invitation as well. What if we actually lived as though people really are people—valued, loved, created in God’s image? What if the question, “why should it be?” wasn’t just frustration, but a genuine invitation to do better?
Perhaps the invitation here is to pause, breathe, and see the person in front of us—not their differences, not their faults, but their shared humanity. So maybe next time I hear Depeche Mode’s chorus looping in my head, I could let it push me back to that central truth: people are people, and every single one is beloved of God.
…days of enjoyment to which everyone cheers. So sing Blur, quite rightly, in ‘Bank Holiday.’
With many of our contributors coming from the Methodist world and also being Greenbelters, it’s always a challenge to negotiate contributions in August when moving, holidaying and Greenbelting is on the agenda.
It’s rapidly becoming a tradition to have a break on the Friday of the August Bank Holiday weekend and so what we offer instead is the link to the Greenbelt playlist. So here’s 2025’s. Have fun playing it over the weekend – or seeing it performed live if you’re at Greenbelt.
The Friday Fix 