The songs. The stories.

Every No Expectations show starts here. It is the fastest way we know to turn a polite audience into a singing one — if you are not in by the second chorus, check your pulse.

Attitude, delivered. This is the moment in the set where Kristi takes full command of the crowd — sarcasm as a lead instrument, and the whole floor shouting the bridge back at her.

The song that makes porch lights feel like a stadium. Kristi rides that big chorus until even the neighbors two fields over are humming it — whether they meant to or not.

Anchors our encore section with a longer instrumental passage to spotlight the full band. Stephen gets the warm-up riff; the Porch gets the fireworks.

The official 'we survived the week' anthem. If you have ever texted the wrong person at 2 a.m., this one is for you — and yes, the whole porch will confess out loud on the chorus.

John leaves the kit, grabs a mic, and the Porch becomes a roadhouse. First of the AC/DC block — seatbelts optional, dancing required.

Middle of the AC/DC run. Perfect for raising a cup of whatever is in your cooler — water counts, cider counts, pure vibes count. John means every word.

The block closer. Curtis's bass turns the porch boards into a subwoofer, and every phone light goes up like it's a stadium tour — just with better wine country air.

Journey without the overplayed karaoke pick — and somehow still everyone knows every word. Stephen's solo section is a love letter to Neal Schon.

Funk-rock ignition. Mike and Stephen trade the big riff while Kristi sells the question like she already knows the answer is yes.

Otway-to-Crowes swagger with a No Expectations grin. Curtis owns the pocket; the rest of us just try not to smile too hard while we play it.

Challenge accepted. Kristi turns this into a call-and-response with the whole lawn — and yes, she will wait for you to finish the line before she does.

The other Benatar — darker, bigger, meaner guitars. When Kristi hits that chorus, even the cicadas shut up for a bar.

Pure garage-punk sugar rush. Kristi channels every high-school hallway swagger memory while John drives the tempo like the cops are coming.

We take the Gaga anthem through the Halestorm filter — bigger guitars, zero irony, full-throated Porch chaos. Rah-rah-ah becomes a group sport.

Gloss and grit in equal measure. Kristi leans into Courtney's sneer while the guitars stay radio-sharp — Hollywood by way of Rohrersville.

German precision meets Maryland humidity. The twin-guitar attack is Stephen and Mike's playground — weather reports are optional.

Open-road optimism with a jangle you can taste. When Kristi hits that last chorus, the vineyard rows feel like Route 1 at golden hour.

The Petty story-song that lets the band breathe and the crowd lean in. Curtis's bass line is half the character; Kristi tells the rest.

We run the Letters to Cleo / 10 Things I Hate About You energy — power-pop desperation with a grin. Instant sing-along, zero shame.

Southern rock comedy gold. The whole band grins through it — especially when someone in the front row acts out the lyrics without being asked.

The scorched-earth ballad. Kristi does not do a polite cover — she does a warning. Bring a friend who needs to hear it, or a friend who wrote it about you.

Twin-guitar lava. Kristi rides the hook while Stephen and Mike melt the middle eight. Perfect mid-set caffeine for a crowd that thinks they are tired.

Arena sugar with real teeth. The chorus is a group photo — phones up, voices up, and nobody sits this one out.

Three Led Zeppelin cuts — The Lemon Song into Whole Lotta Love into Ramble On — stitched into one nine-minute monster and named for the guitarist who dreamed it up. Currently in the woodshed, headed for a Porch near you.

The mission statement in three chords. When this leaves the woodshed, it will be the song that turns strangers into a choir by bar two.

Jett's conflicted banger — self-aware, loud, and perfect for anyone who has ever texted their ex during a slow song. Kristi already has the snarl locked.

Ann and Nancy Wilson energy: riff first, take no prisoners second. Stephen is living in that galloping guitar part until it is unfair to other guitarists.

The toast song. We are building this as the 'raise whatever is in your hand' moment — friends, band, porch, all of it.

Post-grunge lift-off. Big dynamics, bigger chorus, and a chance for the whole band to breathe fire on the last build. Currently in the woodshed gym.

The quieter Creed — until it isn't. Building this as a mid-set emotional reset before we blow the roof (or the porch roof, carefully).

Taylor Momsen darkness with a modern rock wall. Kristi is studying the snarl; the guitars are studying the volume. Not a light song — that's the point.

Vault status: eventual party-starter. When it graduates, expect a full-lawn toast and zero remaining dignity. P!NK rules apply.

Yes, we know. Yes, we will play it someday. When we do, it will be earned — not a lazy encore default. Until then, it waits in the vault like a nuclear option.

Eddie energy on demand. Stephen has dibs on the riff; the rest of us are practicing not staring in awe. Vaulted until the dual-guitar lock is ruthless.

Acoustic-punk nervous energy. Perfect for a golden-hour Porch slot once we nail the frantic charm without speeding into chaos (John is working on it).

Not the cowbell song — the other immortal BÖC burner. Waiting in the vault for a night that needs cruise-control cool with a chorus that glows.

Nuclear option #2. When the Porch is ready for full black-t-shirt mode, this leaves the vault. Until then, John practices the groove like a man possessed.

Southern rock horsepower. Vaulted until the dual-lead harmony guitars are as greasy as the title deserves.

Yes, we know the internet's opinions on the lyrics. No, we do not care. The melody is a hug; Kristi will make it a Porch sing-along when the vault opens.

Dolly's plea through a rock lens — we eye the Miley/rock arrangement energy. When it lands, it will be half country heartbreak, half full-band storm.

Lzzy Hale's dual-personality banger. Perfect for the moment in the night when polite guests become the problem — in the best way.

Rawer Hole than Celebrity Skin — more teeth, less gloss. Vaulted until we can do the dynamics without losing the fury.

Southern AOR advice column set to a riff. Vaulted with its sibling Caught Up In You for a future 38 Special double-shot.

The other half of the 38 Special postcard. When both leave the vault, mid-set will feel like a convertible with the top down — even if we are standing still.

Hayley Williams-era yearning with a modern rock punch. Kristi has the melodic climb; the band has the stop-start dynamics. Vault until it is airtight.

Heavy mid-2000s radio rock. Waiting for a night when the Porch wants distortion and a chorus you can yell with your whole chest.

Swagger blues-pop that Kristi was basically born to front. Vaulted only because we are saving a few showstoppers for later in the debut era.

Underrated 80s rock nocturnal anthem. Perfect for the set's golden-to-blue hour transition once the arrangement is locked.

Photograph's sophisticated cousin — slower burn, bigger polish, a chorus that floats. Waiting until the layered guitars sound expensive, not muddy.

Hair-metal grin with zero apology. Vaulted for the night we decide the Porch needs pure Sunset Strip cheese — and we mean that as a compliment.