Come Worship At The Church Of Burch

It’s one of the great paradoxes of life that the dorks often ultimately end up the heroes.

During high school, when Hormones rage, insecurity soars, and most of the emotional damage we carry for the rest of our lives is suffered, it’s the obvious ones who get the girls, jobs, opportunities… 

High school ends though, for some, and the aforementioned early-bloomers get fat and are left slinging life insurance policies, clumsily climbing corporate ladders.

The cats who get the cream are the oddballs, who spend their adolescent years locked away in bedrooms/basements/shaping bays, endlessly tinkering to the point of obsession, only to come bursting through the door and into the consciousness of the masses.

The first time I became aware of one Ryan Burch was in Cyrus Sutton’s movie Stoked and Broke. Burch and Cyrus set out to trek the length of California—with carts carrying boards fit for a plethora of conditions—surfing along the way, and surviving on the charity of others.

If you’re going to get on your knees, you might as well slide across the ocean.

The movie was poignant in the way it conveyed California’s contrast of wealth, and honed in on the what some of the male characters in the film had sacrificed in pursuit of their surfing lifestyles.

In Burch’s case, the sacrifice was Fitting In, getting acquainted with the opposite sex—that sort of thing.

Burch’s honest rhetoric, combined with some of the most out-there, transitional surfing (this was the first time that the world saw Burch spinning and trimming on the un-glassed, stumpy blank, as far as I know) I’d seen, and I was an instant Burch disciple.

I remain one to this day.

Stand at the window and have a good look at jazz.

I’d gladly never see another air reverse again, but nothing gives me the jollies like a Burch speed line to slice at solid G-Land on a board that looks like it just rolled out of Elon’s laboratory.

Shivers, etc.

The reason we’re here today is that Burch has got a little range that he’s dropped, in conjunction with longtime backer Volcom.

First off, huge kudos have to be given to the Stone for sticking with a surfer who, at times, must’ve been one of the most difficult to market surfers on the market. Volcom’s been with Burch from his NSSA days, through a brief logging renaissance, and into the cutting edge of experimental design/mad scientist/fringe-dwelling icon he is today.

Burch is more back to the future than So Cal hip, and thankfully his range follows suit. There’s nothing worse than brands attaching rider’s names to garb that’s not in line with who they are—the cardinal marketing sin.

One can’t imagine Burch in a button up and pressed chinos, so thankfully his capsule’s void of such garments. The tees are reminiscent of vintage shaper tee’s from the early nineties, featuring custom artwork by the man himself, but tastefully done.

The tripped out chalk-on-charcoal in particular, is a triumph.

Joining the cult of free friction.

The trunks are of a sensible length—made for surfing—and the black ones are just the right blend of Fit In With The Pack with the bespoke intricacies of Burch riffing on his hand-drawn eye logo.

There’s a hoodie fit for campfires and salty skin, and a tasteful peaked cap, to give the peepers a sun-free look at the surf in the morning.

Worshipping false idols is the oldest sin in the good book, and in general, it’s an undignified sport. However, if you must put your faith in a member of the surfing brotherhood, worship at the Church of Burch.

It’s anything but orthodox.

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