There was a time when the idea of a hardcore punk band breaking through the mainstream seemed not just unlikely, but almost impossible. The culture around hardcore music thrives on defiance, on community built in the margins, not on commercial validation or Grammy nods. And yet, Turnstile—Baltimore’s once-local secret—has rewritten the script. Their third album, Glow On, didn’t just crack open the genre’s possibilities; it exploded across boundaries that had previously contained bands like them. From underground clubs to the Grammy stage, Turnstile’s rise over the past four years has felt like watching the impossible slowly turn into inevitability.
The success of Glow On didn’t feel like a compromise or a marketing move. It felt emotional. It felt earned. When Glow On dropped in 2021, the world was still emerging from the haze of lockdowns and cultural disconnection. In that fractured moment, Turnstile delivered a record that felt like a burst of clarity. The album wasn’t just hard-hitting—it was spacious, melodic, even spiritual in places. Songs like “Mystery” and “Underwater Boi” didn’t just punch; they invited you to feel. And they arrived at a moment when people were craving something honest and euphoric. Fans were getting tattoos of the album art before the vinyls even shipped.
What makes Turnstile’s success even more remarkable is how uncompromising their vision has remained. You could hear it in their performances, like their 2021 appearance on Late Night with Seth Meyers, a moment that crystallized their crossover potential. It wasn’t just another band playing a song under cold studio lights—it was a visual and sonic statement. Their intensity didn’t waver; if anything, it translated powerfully through the TV screen, startling those unfamiliar with hardcore into realizing they were witnessing something entirely different. For a fan who had first seen them play in a VFW hall with sweat dripping off the ceiling, it was a surreal, proud moment—like watching a childhood friend finally get their due.
It wasn’t just late-night TV. It was the Blink-182 tour. For many of us who came of age in the early 2000s, Blink wasn’t just a band—they were an identity. So watching Turnstile, a band raised on that same music, step onto the stage as their opener on a world tour felt like a full-circle moment. They weren’t just opening for icons; they were becoming icons themselves. In cities across the globe, audiences that had never moshed or screamed lyrics in their life were now drawn into the gravity of Turnstile’s sound. And somehow, it never felt like they were pandering. Their joy onstage was contagious, their presence magnetic, and their belief in their art absolutely unshakable.
The Grammy nominations that followed—“Blackout,” “Holiday,” and “Alien Love Call” all receiving nods—felt like a quiet victory for those who had long known how powerful Turnstile could be. It wasn’t just about trophies or industry approval. It was recognition that a band rooted in the hardcore DIY ethos could not only hold its own but set the tone for what modern rock could become. These weren’t just songs. They were expressions of resilience, unity, and love wrapped in distortion and fury. And in an era where authenticity is rare, Turnstile had it in spades.
Their live shows became even more of a phenomenon. At a festival in Chicago, a friend of mine who had never listened to a full hardcore record told me she cried during “Alien Love Call.” Not because it was sad, but because it felt like release. That’s the thing about Turnstile—they hit the cathartic core of what music can do. Their songs don’t just make you want to jump around; they make you want to feel everything all at once. And that emotional complexity has opened doors for new fans who might never have found themselves in a pit otherwise.
Part of what makes Glow On so compelling is its musical fluidity. Turnstile isn’t trying to prove they can be heavy—they already are. What they’re doing is expanding what “heavy” can mean. The ambient textures, the space between the riffs, the unexpected softness—they’re reminders that vulnerability doesn’t weaken hardcore; it deepens it. It’s the same kind of duality you hear in post-punk or dream pop, but filtered through the urgency of punk. And it connects because it reflects life. We aren’t just rage and speed. We’re confusion, joy, sadness, and hope.
There’s also something deeply communal about Turnstile’s rise. They’ve brought along fans, photographers, zine makers, and artists in a way that feels intentional and familial. Their visuals—bright, warm, sometimes surreal—mirror the emotion in their music. It’s a world you want to step into, not because it’s cool, but because it feels alive. At one pop-up event in Brooklyn, people stood in line for hours not just for merch, but to feel part of something. To talk. To share. To exist together under a banner of noise and beauty.
That sense of community matters. In a time when the music industry often feels increasingly algorithmic and disjointed, Turnstile’s rise reminds us that word-of-mouth, shared experience, and genuine connection still move the needle. It’s not about chasing trends—it’s about creating something so powerful and real that people can’t help but talk about it, bring their friends, and hold onto it like a secret worth sharing.
For those of us who’ve followed their journey from basements to big stages, it’s impossible not to feel proud. Not just because they’re “making it,” but because they’ve done it on their terms. The past four years haven’t just been a breakout—they’ve been a revelation. Turnstile didn’t sell out. The world just finally caught up.
And maybe that’s the most inspiring part of all. In an era where so much feels disposable, this band has built something lasting. Not just a catalog of great songs, but a movement rooted in joy, release, and a deep understanding that music can still save lives. Whether you found them through a playlist or were there from the first tape, it doesn’t matter. What matters is that now, when “Blackout” blares through your speakers, you know exactly what that feeling is—a reminder that you’re not alone. That you’re glowing too ✨
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