When Jody Porter’s pick strikes steel, it’s not about the song, or the chords, or the sweet sincerity of a string bent violently toward God. No. It’s about the low-slung truth of rock ‘n’ roll, the street, the sex, life’s intricate ballet of emotions, and the hard won reality of original American art.
Jody’s rock ‘n’ roll odyssey has been anything but linear; never following a direct course from one point to another, never falling into populous muck holes, never veering to avoid dangerous alleyways. Instead, his art has taken shape along a tortured trail that jumps and retreats like the beat, beat, beat of a cardiogram. It has included a fair amount of genre tourism, to be sure, as a pioneer in London’s shoe gaze movement with the Belltower and, later, as the essential power behind the power-pop quartet Fountains of Wayne.
There have been the side projects, the collaborations, the musical one-night stands. But there has never, until now, been a work squeezed so painfully, joyously and personally from the soul of Jody Porter.