“Common People”: A Satirical Study of Class, Culture, and Pretending to Care
Few pop songs have ever dissected social class with such flair and ferocity as Pulp’s “Common People.” Released in 1995 at the height of the Britpop movement, the song is a rare hybrid — part anthem, part sociology paper, and part weary sigh from someone who’s seen how society really works. It manages to be both catchy and caustic, fun to dance to and uncomfortable to think about — the perfect contradiction for a country that hides its class anxieties behind irony and a good tune.
The story begins with a deceptively simple introduction: “She came from Greece, she had a thirst for knowledge.” Already, there’s an air of detachment — the woman isn’t grounded in place or need; she’s defined by her education and her curiosity, the hallmarks of privilege. She “studied sculpture at Saint Martin’s College,” a line so specific it almost feels like gossip. The narrator’s interest in her is human at first, even romantic, but the moment she says she “wants to live like common people,” the tone shifts. This isn’t love anymore; it’s anthropology.
When she insists, “I want to do whatever common people do,” the narrator plays along, suggesting they “rent a flat above a shop, cut your hair and get a job.” These lines are scathing precisely because they sound like clichés. For the working class, this isn’t rebellion — it’s survival. But for her, it’s performance. She wants to “sleep with common people like you,” but the narrator reminds her, “What else could I do? I said, I’ll see what I can do.” It’s an uneasy transaction — not romance, but social tourism disguised as intimacy.
The next verse deepens the critique. He tells her to “smoke some fags and play some pool,” to “pretend you never went to school.” There’s bitterness in the irony. These are gestures — hollow, aesthetic symbols of ordinariness. They cost nothing to perform, yet they mean everything to those who live them daily. When he adds, “still you’ll never get it right,” the meaning cuts deep: no matter how hard she tries, she can’t replicate the feeling of having no choice. That is the real difference between the privileged and the “common people.”
Then comes one of the song’s most powerful lines — “Because when you’re laid in bed at night watching roaches climb the wall, if you call your dad he could stop it all.” It’s funny, but not really. The humor is just a mask for despair. Poverty here isn’t an idea or aesthetic; it’s infestation, frustration, and the quiet, grinding knowledge that help isn’t coming. The “common people” can’t escape it with a phone call. Their suffering is real, mundane, and permanent — not an experience to try on, but a condition to endure.
The chorus — “You’ll never live like common people, you’ll never do what common people do, you’ll never fail like common people, you’ll never watch your life slide out of view” — is both accusation and anthem. The repetition gives it a ritualistic quality, like a chant or curse. It’s as though the narrator is trying to make her understand by sheer force of repetition that empathy has limits when lived experience is missing. For the “common people,” life’s slide isn’t a metaphor — it’s a reality: unpaid bills, dead-end jobs, and an inherited cycle of limitations.
Later, the lyrics turn openly mocking: “Rent a flat above a shop, cut your hair and get a job, smoke some fags and play some pool, pretend you never went to school.” Each repetition becomes more venomous, as though the narrator grows angrier with every verse. His tone evolves from amused to disgusted; he’s seen her type before. Those who “never fail like common people” are the ones who turn struggle into fashion, who sip authenticity the way others sip imported beer.
The bridge — “Laugh along with the common people, laugh along even though they’re laughing at you” — is where the song reaches its emotional peak. It’s a warning disguised as a taunt. Her attempt to blend in will only ever make her a spectacle. The poor might mock her imitation of their lives, but the real tragedy is that she’ll never truly understand why they’re laughing. The laughter of the “common people” is not cruelty — it’s survival, a way to make the unbearable slightly more bearable.
The closing verses of the song pull no punches. The narrator’s frustration transforms into near fury as he declares, “You’ll never live like common people, you’ll never watch your life slide out of view, and dance, and drink, and screw, because there’s nothing else to do.” That final phrase — “because there’s nothing else to do” — is devastating. It captures the bleakness of a class trapped by circumstance, for whom pleasure isn’t a luxury but a small act of rebellion against meaninglessness. For them, dancing and drinking aren’t indulgences — they’re resistance.
What makes “Common People” so timeless is its precision. Every lyric exposes the uneasy tension between fascination and exploitation, between empathy and performance. It reminds us that class isn’t just about money — it’s about distance, about what you can and cannot escape. The woman in the song plays at being poor the way one might play at being brave — briefly, safely, with an exit always available.
In the end, “Common People” isn’t a song about the poor at all. It’s about the rich — their longing for authenticity, their ignorance of struggle, and their quiet fear that money can’t buy meaning. The “common people” of the title are not characters but constants — living reminders of a truth society prefers to dance past. The brilliance of Pulp’s masterpiece lies in how it forces listeners to confront that truth — and to ask themselves which side of the lyric they really stand on.
References:
Cocker, J. (1995). Common People [Song]. On Different Class. Island Records.
