Review Summary: Your conception soundtrack.
As far as nostalgia and novelty acts go Pornosonic latches onto a bizarre demographic. It’s one of those ideas like The Diablo Swing Orchestra that makes you stop and go “who would want to immortalize
that.” Granted, there exists a portion of the population that fetishizes the 70’s and a smaller portion of the population that fetishizes terrible 70’s porn; and, there’s a good chance that this portion of the population has some pretty positive Pavlovian connections to their particular brand of entertainment. Which isn’t to say that these guys take what they do seriously at all – there’s no way that you can make a record like this with a straight face. Everything from the cover to the commercial featuring a languid and sleazy Ron Jeremy as a pizza delivery man indicates that this record was made with a tongue firmly lodged in cheek.
But the idea behind it doesn’t matter. Whether or not it’s an elaborate joke or serious music is irrelevant. Is it
good? Fortunately, it is, and even though the music isn’t particularly deep or meaningful, it’s an entertaining and frequently hilarious half hour of orgasm-inducing funk. This record does a terrible job of emulating sex. This is not the kind of thing that you would put on to get that special someone in a baby making mood (unless your name is Shaft or Black Dynamite), but it does deliver a tight, hook laden performance from a group of talented musicians. This is syncopated sludge: thick, syrupy, and slicked back with pomade. The band grooves around about a riff per song and augments it with horns, whammy laden guitar solos, or energetic, improvisational flute. To contribute to the atmosphere, Ron Jeremy has kindly lent his vocal talent to indulge in a few audio clips that indulge in some of pornography’s most prevalent clichés. There’s a professor offering extra credit on an exam that’s already “50% anal” and a pilot that accidently leaves the intercom on while he’s receiving a blowjob from a flight attendant (“I guess that’s why they call it a COCK-pit”).
These skits reveal the crucial flaw of Pornosonic. Like any tribute to a genre that was never really good in the first place, the fun is purely surface level, and the band was wise to limit this album to a brief 30 minutes and 10 songs. Even at this length, the songs can grow stale after repeated listens, and the jokes, while amusing the first time, become obnoxious after repeated listens. Pornosonic is a one trick pony, and the trick, while entertaining, isn’t a particularly good one. This is the kind of music you play for your friends and say “hey, check out how funny these guys are,” or just play the first few seconds of “Cramming for College” for them to see how they react. It’s not serious music, and it wasn’t intended to be. Enjoy the novelty that’s there, because there’s not much else.
