These days the first time a band opens the garage door, major labels and hipster publications are already waiting outside for a sacrificial lamb to grind in their hype machine. It's just as easy for a band to turn those tables and play the fool, bleating about their punk rock pedigree and street cred, then a month later poutin' and swingin' on that alterna-mainstream music channel.
You'll soon discover that hype doesn't enter Porch's realm. They're too busy being Porch. Too busy smoking out a sound that approximates the March of the Tin Soldiers running head on into Iron Man. Too involved---making like Neurosis on speed on a sunny day, the Laughing Hyenas after being certified insane, the Jesus Lizard on a monster of a glue trip---to chat up their most bitchin' "my childhood sucked" memory in some commercial rag.
Guitarist/vocalist Todd Huth remarks, "I hope I don't get too jaded by this whole thing. If I do, I'll probably just get the fuck out because it isn't worth it when something like that happens." All three members have had their share of the "biz" in the semi-influential bands from whose loins they sprang. Huth was in the original Primus line-up, and now plays guitar part-time in the reformed version of that band, Sausage---(hence Porch's label, Les Claypool's Prawn Song). Drummer David Ayer did time with Bay Area punks Samiam. Bassist Chris Frey comes courtesy of Midwest noisesmiths Today Is The Day.
The band agrees to disagree whether there just might be dollops the size of a pinhead from these past units seeping into the current chaotic melange---but there is no argument regarding the fact that they're taking punk and noise rock in disparate new directions. A Porch song doesn't just teeter on the brink, it masochistically jumps---celebrating the smashed face and broken ribs, the bruised ego and tattered psyche. Huth barks lyrics like an agitated soul who has finally had enough of the inherent boredom in life; Ayer and Frey support this tornado with concrete-heavy precision.
"Expectorant" leads a double melodic-psychotic existence, in all its raspy, power chord glory. You wouldn't know "Iceburg" is about, as Huth relates, "just a very vivid dream I had that I wrote down." It bristles with rancorous frustration: "I climb up the dirt mound/reach for her hand/then she's somewhere else again/crashing and kicking don't make the day." "Palm Hair" is a punch-to-the-gut, Mule-ish footstompin' hootenanny from hell. Then there;s the cherry on top: a speed demon, rusty pickup truck version of the Pretenders' nugget "Tattooed Love Boys".
Strange but true: all three members grew up in somewhat well-adjusted middle class families, two of them are married, one of then has two friendly dogs and one is already a father. Of course, Brady Bunch upbringings can often ne dangerous underneath their porcelain-white veneer: weighty emotions steadily build up inside until one day they have to be detonated. The resultant explosions are the sound of Porch. A triumvirate too engrossed in dealing with these truth to bother with a rock star image make-over or a carefully manufactured sound. Porch is the real, albeit twisted, deal. Recommended dosage: HUGE. It's one habit you may want to beat the shit out of, but won't wanna kick.