“Porcupine Pie” is Neil Diamond’s mischievous palate-cleanser—childlike nonsense with grown-up timing, a little wink in the middle of a very serious show.
Here’s the key context up front: “Porcupine Pie” exists in two “classic” Diamond worlds at once—studio whimsy and live showmanship. The studio version appears on Moods, released July 15, 1972 on Uni Records, with the song running about 2:04 and credited (like the whole album) as written by Neil Diamond. The live version—leaner and even more impish—shows up on Hot August Night, recorded at the Greek Theatre, Los Angeles on August 24, 1972, released December 9, 1972, where “Porcupine Pie” clocks in around 1:51.
And yes, the song had a very real moment in the marketplace: when “Play Me” was released as a single in August 1972, “Porcupine Pie” was the B-side—and “Play Me” went on to peak at No. 11 on the Billboard Hot 100 (with strong Adult Contemporary performance also documented in Diamond’s singles discography). That detail matters because it frames “Porcupine Pie” exactly right: it wasn’t designed to be the grand statement. It was the flip-side grin, the odd little treat you found only if you stayed curious enough to turn the record over.
Now, what is it, really?
If you come to Neil Diamond for the big emotional architecture—“I Am… I Said,” “Song Sung Blue,” the anthemic ache of a man trying to out-sing loneliness—“Porcupine Pie” can feel like a prank. A chanty title, a string of deliciously absurd images (“vanilla soup,” “a double scoop,” the whole candy-store dream logic) that sounds like a child has taken over the lyric sheet. But that’s precisely the point. Diamond always understood something that the greatest radio performers understood: an audience cannot live on intensity alone. A concert—like a life—needs breath, light, release. And sometimes the most compassionate thing a songwriter can do is let the heart unclench for two minutes.
On Moods, the song sits near the beginning of side one, right after “Song Sung Blue.” Think about that sequencing: one of his most enduring, gently philosophical hits opens the album… and then Diamond follows it with a piece of pure silliness. It’s as if he’s saying, Don’t worry—I won’t trap you in solemnity. We’re going to laugh a little, too. That’s not inconsistency; it’s emotional intelligence. It’s the intuition of an entertainer who knows that sincerity shines brighter when it’s allowed to share space with play.
And on Hot August Night, that instinct becomes theater. The album’s legend is tied to those Greek Theatre performances—ten sold-out nights, the sense of a star becoming something more than a star: a ringmaster for communal feeling. In that setting, “Porcupine Pie” functions like a knowing aside between friends. It’s Diamond reminding the crowd—and himself—that the man who can shake an amphitheater with a chorus can also be the guy who cracks up at his own nonsense. The live track’s shorter runtime reinforces that “in-the-moment” quality: quick, bright, and gone before you can overthink it.
So what does “Porcupine Pie” mean?
In the simplest sense, it’s a celebration of imagination for its own sake—language as candy, melody as a skipping stone. But underneath that, it’s a small statement about persona. Neil Diamond’s public image could skew grand: the big gestures, the dramatic phrasing, the sheer size of his choruses. “Porcupine Pie” pokes a friendly hole in that balloon. It says: I know I can be larger than life. Tonight, let me be human-sized. In an era when so many performers guarded their “seriousness” like armor, Diamond dared to be goofy on purpose—right there in the same catalog as his most naked confessions.
If you hear it the way a late-night radio storyteller would—voice low, a little smile in the syllables—you can imagine the scene: the show is roaring, the lights are hot, the world outside is complicated, and then, suddenly, a song arrives that refuses to carry any burden at all. Just a ridiculous dessert, sung with conviction, like a child insisting the dream is true. And for a moment, you believe it—because the point isn’t logic. The point is relief.
That’s why “Porcupine Pie” survives as more than a curiosity. It’s proof that the best performers don’t just move you—they also make room for you to breathe.