At the relatively wizened age of 43, Jarvis Cocker is finally ready for his close-up. His solo debut, Jarvis (Rough Trade), follows the years he spent as the leader of Britpop collective Pulp, which released a classic album (1995’s Different Class) with a killer single (the class-conscious “Common People”) and went on to infamy after Cocker invaded the stage in protest during Michael Jackson’s performance at the 1996 Brit awards. Jarvis is replete with the same witty wordplay and astute pop gestures that made Pulp such an obsession with fans, peppered with the bitterness and wisdom that come with surviving the pop-culture wars.

Jarvis is the first time your fans have heard from you in some time, given the breakup of Pulp. I understand you’ve been busy. You have a son now. How old is he?
He’s no baby anymore. He’ll be coming home in half an hour. He’s three years and 10 months, I believe. Hell, he can go out and get a job soon. Earn his keep. [Laughs]

Between your work on Relaxed Muscle, the Harry Potter soundtrack and the double CD you curated with (Pulp bassist) Steve Mackey, you’ve clearly been busy. How did the solo album come together?
Well, it was kind of around the time I moved here to Paris, and I wrote two songs for Nancy Sinatra, which I ended up doing my own versions of on this record (“Don’t Let Him Waste Your Time” and “Baby’s Coming Back To Me”). I suppose I kind of realized, because I’d been thinking that I should just stop all this business, it’s not very dignified for a man of my age. But then when I’d written those songs, I liked them and felt that they were my songs, really. Even though I was happy for Nancy to do her version of them. And I kind of thought to myself, “I’m going to stop all this,” but then I also started writing quite a few songs at the same time. So I just kind of accepted it, gave into it, thought, “OK, then, I’ll just have to make a fool of myself for the rest of my life.” So then I just kind of got on with writing songs until I had enough that I thought were good enough to record.

It’s funny to hear you describe the process of pulling this together in such a “Well, I guess I’ll be a pop puppet figure” fashion when the record strikes me as a very considered, contemplative, sober reflection on growing older and the responsibilities that come with age.
It really was a solo record as in, “I’ve moved (to Paris) and have no musician friends here.” So I had to do it myself. I’d never really liked the idea of doing a solo record because I thought it sounded too wanky, really—like self-indulgent and stuff. Subject matter-wise, coming from the U.K. and feeling somewhat cut off—not really, I mean, it’s quite easy to get back to London, in fact I’m going back there tonight—but spending most of my time now in Paris, it was like a step back from your life, I suppose. So maybe that’s why it’s a bit reflective, and all these things I’d resisted for so long—like getting married, having a kid and thinking, “Oh shit, now I’ve got to be mature and sensible”—and how to deal with that. Hopefully not going too mature. [Laughs]

Well, maybe not totally. The song “Fat Children” is one of my favorite songs of yours, and yet it’s totally rocking, almost like teenage driving music.
There was kind of a searing, amazing insight to that one: that kids in the U.K. were fatter than the ones in France. Which I wouldn’t have got without having moved here.

But even with a song like that, it seems like you could only have made a record like this now, with the life experience you’ve had and turning over in your head whether or not you still wanted to do this. Like Leonard Cohen later in life, doubling down on his commitment to craft.
Yeah, well he was one of the people, when I was thinking about people who do things that are alright, even though they’re old [laughs], he was one of the examples I thought of, even though the last solo record he did (2004’s Dear Heather) I didn’t think that much of. He’s done some pretty good stuff, and I still respect him. So the important thing is that if you still think you’ve got something to say, I guess, then that’s it. Like I say, I’m resigned to my fate now.

Some reviewers seemed to read the song “I Will Kill Again” as the monologue of some confessed, delusional murderer, while I saw it as the memoirs of some retired pop singer, thinking he could “slay ’em again” onstage if even only in his head. That he was looking for one last chance to prove he had it in him. Seems a bit autobiographical, actually.
You’re more on track than the others, yeah. It’s all those things together. Even though you’ve settled down and become married, at the drop of a hat, you may go out and fuck somebody really inappropriate. It’s like you don’t suddenly turn into a nice person because you’ve married and got kids. You have to actually turn yourself into one or control yourself. The phrase comes from this guy called Wearside Jack, who became famous when this killer in England, the Yorkshire Ripper in the late ’70s, came to prominence. A hoax tape that [Wearside Jack] made threw the police off the scent for a while, but his line at the end was “I will kill again.” It became a catchphrase—not very tasteful, I suppose—but he’s saying “I’ve still got it, I can still do it, I will kill again.” It is definitely meant more in that way.

It felt to me like you could interpret it as you trying on the clothes of a pop star who had been very culturally relevant at one point, and then thinking 10 years later, “What if I got it back together again, just for old time’s sake, to see if I can do it?”
That’s why there’s the line in it about “come on and serenade me on your acoustic guitar.” You know, there is that temptation to take that middle-aged acoustic-guitar troubadour route. And I do quite like some of that sort of music, but I don’t think I could really pull it off.

It’s funny how you and Richard Hawley (former Pulp bandmate) have ended up in somewhat the same place musically speaking. It’s adult, it’s wistful, it respects its source material.
I suppose so, sure. Sorry, I’m a bit distracted, I think my son’s coming back home now. (“OK, I’ll just press the button, hold on.”) Anyway, I think I’ve let them in. [Laughs]

Have you heard Damon Albarn’s recent project The Good The Bad And The Queen? What do you think of it?
I have, yes. I thought there were a couple of decent songs on it, but generally speaking, it doesn’t do that much for me.

It’s interesting how you’ve both ended up in similar places. You both had recognition in the ’90s with your respective bands, and now are making more adult, somber albums about what it’s like to be older in the same profession.
Yeah, some of the English magazines have brought that up, and Damon didn’t take to it very kindly. [Laughs] I think I’ve always irritated him, and I don’t really understand why. He’s been loads more successful than me, he probably has loads more money than me as well. So I don’t know why he’s irritated.

What’s it like living the expat life in Paris? What made you decide to pick up stakes and settle there?
It’s been alright. Hold on, I’ve got to pause for a short while. (“Is your boyfriend all right? I’m going to England with him tonight, so he’s not going to have a bath now, so if you need to go and do anything, go ahead. He’s not in school tomorrow, now. But he’s all right, your boyfriend? OK, good.”) Sorry, I’m back again. I’m a bit of a cheater, really. If I’d really wanted to move to France I could have gone to Marseilles or something. Here, I can get the train back home anytime I want, and I only live about five minutes from the train station. I’ve even got English satellite TV here. So I haven’t really entered into the whole spirit of it. I hardly speak any French, much to my wife’s irritation. I’m sort of slightly playing at it.

Back to the record: Were you listening to “Crimson And Clover” around the time you wrote “Black Magic?” It’s a great, surprising soundbite.
Steve Mackey, the bass player, had already heard “Don’t Let Him Waste Your Time” and then he just gave me that sample of “Crimson And Clover” and thought I could do something with it. I wasn’t really familiar with that song at the time, but then I saw that Jim Jarmusch movie Coffee And Cigarettes, and the song is on the soundtrack. It wasn’t a song I was that familiar with, but I liked the sample and wanted to do something with it. In typical “me” fashion, it took about 18 months to actually get anything together, though.

If I had to ask you about your favorite solo artist or album ever, is there anyone who immediately comes to mind aside from Leonard Cohen?
It’d have to be Scott Walker, I suppose. And he did call his debut record Scott. My next record won’t be called Jarvis 2, which put me off using that, but oh well. His records are really pretty amazing.

Hopefully we won’t have to wait as long for your later works as we’ve waited for Scott’s.
Well, the ones in the ’60s—Scott 1 through Scott 4—they were done pretty quickly between ’67 and ’69. Although he’s slowed down a bit recently. I hope not to do the same, of course.