Pulp Stuns Glastonbury with Surprise Set, Rekindling Class Rage and ’90s Magic

In a move as unpredictable as their decades-spanning music, Pulp delivered a secret set at Glastonbury Festival’s Pyramid Stage that electrified Worthy Farm and confirmed what fans have always known: there is no band quite like them.

Appearing under the pseudonym “Patchwork” on the official bill, Pulp’s unannounced return to Glastonbury arrived exactly 30 years—and four days—after their iconic last-minute headline set in 1995. That legendary performance, hastily arranged after the Stone Roses canceled, catapulted them into the cultural firmament. On Saturday night, with no emergencies to cover, they returned on their own terms. The result was a rapturous, charged celebration of the band’s enduring oddness, sincerity, and defiance.

“Sorry for people who were expecting Patchwork,” quipped frontman Jarvis Cocker, grinning at the sea of faces who had long suspected what was coming. Though keyboardist Candida Doyle had tried to downplay speculation in a local interview, claiming Glastonbury “weren’t interested,” the jam-packed Pyramid Stage told a different story. Word had clearly gotten out.

From the moment they opened with “Sorted for E’s & Wizz,” a wry meditation on drug-fueled disorientation at festivals, it was clear this would not be a conventional nostalgia trip. Instead of basking in easy sentimentality, Pulp chose to subvert expectations—as they always have. The song’s ambivalence about hedonism played as both a wink to the audience and a reminder that Pulp’s music has always looked askance at mainstream narratives.

Then came the hits: “Mis-Shapes,” “Disco 2000,” “Babies.” Each one sent waves of emotion rippling through the crowd, which spanned multiple generations. Yet none of these anthems felt dated. Their core messages—of defiance, difference, and gritty beauty—still resonated, perhaps even more urgently in today’s climate.

That timeless quality speaks to what has always set Pulp apart from their Britpop contemporaries. While bands like Blur and Oasis became the poster children of mid-90s swagger, Pulp moved on a different axis entirely. Their sound—an idiosyncratic blend of glam rock, disco, French pop, and analog synth—was never derivative. Their lyrics, often dark and deeply observant, cast light on society’s margins rather than its illusions of cool.

What was remarkable about this Glastonbury performance wasn’t just the reverence for the past—it was how seamlessly it incorporated the present. Songs from their recent comeback album More, like “Spike Island” and “Got To Have Love,” slotted effortlessly into the setlist, reaffirming that Pulp’s vision has evolved without losing its essence. There was no creative dilution, no desperate grasp at former glory. Just a smart, self-aware recalibration of their ethos for an older, wiser version of themselves.

Cocker remains a magnetic and articulate frontman, spinning wry reflections about the festival (“to enjoy Glastonbury, you have to submit to it”) and recalling the terror of being thrust onto its main stage three decades earlier. But this time, he was calm, in control, and clearly relishing the moment. “I feel very relaxed today—how about you?” he asked the audience, who responded with cheers that echoed across the fields.

And then, the finale: “Common People.”

It was a climax that transcended mere concert-going and moved into the realm of shared catharsis. One of the most anthemic songs ever written about class divisions and performative privilege, “Common People” is not just Pulp’s biggest hit—it’s a cry of rage disguised as a singalong. And sing along they did. Tens of thousands of voices roared the lyrics into the night sky. In a moment of cinematic synchronicity, the Red Arrows flew overhead, slicing the air with smoke trails mid-song, as if Glastonbury itself had orchestrated the gesture.

Then they were gone. Cocker, ever the showman, promised to see everyone later in Arcadia, leaving fans both breathless and satiated.

In an age of polished, algorithm-driven pop, Pulp’s unvarnished authenticity and commitment to storytelling through song remain deeply refreshing. Their music is theater and grit, spectacle and substance. And though their heyday may lie in the past, their relevance—and resonance—has never felt stronger.

Glastonbury 2025 will be remembered for many things, but chief among them will be the night that “Patchwork” turned out to be Pulp—and reminded us all why the misfits still matter.