In 1984, members of Crass—the revolutionary anarcho-punk band and art collective from England—self-published the leaflet You’re Already Dead to hand out at their shows. In it, they touted the merits of creating pure art instead of “consumerist products,” putting in the hard work of direct action, and fighting for a world where punk isn’t derivative, escapist, or boring. “It is our job to reclaim beauty and intelligence, dignity and truth,” the band wrote. “NOW IS THE TIME TO CONSTRUCT OUR OWN REALITY.” That year, Crass were touring behind their album Yes Sir, I Will, from which they stitched one lyric onto a huge black-and-white banner. While the band thrashed around onstage, the words burned into the eyes of the audience: “There is no authority but yourself.”
Turnstile, by comparison, are a largely apolitical band. Whereas Crass spat lengthy tirades about Margaret Thatcher and fought for a feminist future, Turnstile singer Brendan Yates writes vignettes about overcoming dejection and turns nonconfrontational refrains like “I need a little T.L.C.” into hooks. But both bands share a DIY ethos: the belief that communal self-determination is the root of broader change. To watch Turnstile’s evolution over the past 15 years has been to watch them embrace what it means to be yourself. Nonstop Feeling angled it as an enticing alternative in the youth scene, while Time & Space found catharsis in introspective self-growth. Then came 2021’s Glow On, which uncorked how liberating it feels to enter adulthood with self-assurance and understanding, its stadium-worthy riffs courting the masses alongside go-go beats and fluttering synths.
Four years later, Yates realizes maintaining that mentality is just as difficult as reaching it in the first place. “Running from yourself now/Can’t hear what you’re told,” he admits at the opening of Never Enough, Turnstile’s new album. The 35-year-old singer is downtrodden, to put it lightly, and nursing a broken heart. Though Yates holds narrative at a distance, opting to focus on emotion, time is constantly slipping through the hourglass: “24 hours ain’t the day it used to be,” “Time is happening devastatingly,” “Days into years holding out.” Yates delivers the anxious words with the gusto of someone granted several extra decades to live. That’s generally how it goes with age: As time speeds up, so does our determination to spend it more authentically.
Turnstile experiment more freely than ever on Never Enough. They incorporate Glow On’s pop sheen to revitalize a period of ’80s nostalgia when punk bands softened into radio rock. “Light Design” merges now-classic Turnstile rhythms with the Police’s pedalboards and cool-toned synths. “I Care” goes even further; drummer Daniel Fang finds levity in bulbous drumrolls and gated reverb like Stewart Copeland, and when Yates pushes into a higher register, he passes for an Americanized Sting. Franz Lyons’ spry bassline and Pat McCrory’s echoing guitar in “Seein’ Stars” could retroactively slot into Zenyatta Mondatta. Most impressive is how comfortable Turnstile sound in this attire.
With much of Never Enough recorded at Los Angeles’ famed villa-turned-studio the Mansion, it’s tempting to drag a finger down the alumni list for a mix-and-match comparison: Blood Sugar Sex Magik with a bit of This Is Happening? In reality, Never Enough isn’t a Mansion album in sound; it does, however, display the oft-touted clarifying capabilities of that studio in its lyrics. “When I get to dreaming, then I know/Everything I feel is surreal,” Yates sings in a trance. With no deadline or ticking financial clock, Turnstile relished “living in [their own] music” for months. That’s what fame and success get you: time to explore and poke and prod, even if external expectations and critiques amplify in tandem.
So why does Never Enough feel like Turnstile are still holding back? “Slowdive” and “Sole” land like satisfying but familiar Glow On B-sides thanks to recognizable vocal melodies and chord progressions. That first-listen déjà vu could be avoided if Turnstile continued what they half-attempt elsewhere, like segueing from heavy rock riffs into a cinematic overlay of drone, flittering piano, and cello warped to emulate seagulls on “Never Enough.” Or shaking up the rigid guitar in “Dreaming” with trumpet and saxophone, which inject a playfulness akin to the horns in the Cure’s “Close to Me” or Elvis Costello’s “Let Them All Talk.” That fruitful reunion between Turnstile and saxophonist Leland Whitty of BadBadNotGood, who hardstyled their way to a joint Grammy nomination, is a no-brainer. Slick production and experimentation aren’t diminishing Turnstile’s sound; they’re enhancing it.
Maybe the thinness of Never Enough is simple math. Although Turnstile are a five-piece, with guitarist Meg Mills joining after the 2022 departure of Brady Ebert, they wrote and recorded Never Enough as a quartet. That leaves McCrory as the lone guitarist on the album, and his parts shiver with no second guitarist to bounce off of. Even Lyons gets buried in the mix—a shame, since he’s been honing his bass skills in lessons with Fugazi’s Joe Lally. (There’s plenty of surprising guests, too—Hayley Williams, A. G. Cook, Faye Webster—but they’re near-impossible to discern.) Then again, it could just reflect Turnstile’s feelings of isolation. “My head is overjoyed/And this is where I wanna be/But I can’t feel a fucking thing,” Yates cries on “Sunshower.” Even if you invite friends to install their art behind your Tiny Desk Concert or distribute handmade zines when you open Blink-182’s arena tour, the loneliness of fame still finds you.
On Never Enough, Crass’ call to reclaim “beauty” and “truth” takes shape in Turnstile’s mindful integration of electronic music to their punk roots. “Look Out for Me” shakes off the ’80s radio rock for full-volume, mosh-worthy riffs; trades those for deep minimalist synth like solemn church organ; and proceeds to build into a Jamie xx–style slice of UK club. It’s transcendent. “Dull” stutters, warps, and smashes fists into fretboards, pulling back like a bowstring before it succumbs to dial-tone clipping. Even “Time Is Happening,” an out-and-out pop-punk hit, pairs its sugar-high bliss with an ambient comedown. The album’s two hardcore tracks, “Sunshower” and “Birds,” take different approaches. The former, a circle pit ripper, begins searing hot and ends with a soothing new-age meditation guided by Shabaka’s flute, like a cold plunge after the sauna. On “Birds,” Fang’s percussive tricks mount anticipation before Yates takes off screaming: “I found a song playing just for me/And now I’m free/No one left to be.”
Being yourself isn’t always easy, even in a genre that preaches nonconformity. At least Turnstile make it look effortless. Yates long ago stopped abiding by outdated signifiers of masculinity; the sober frontman enjoys Shirley Temples at the pub, dances onstage more with his hips than his arms, and tenderly credits his older sister with getting him into music. “I want to thank you for letting me be myself,” he declared on Glow On, and meant it.
In Yates’ eyes, hardcore is not defined by how it sounds, but by the community it builds. It’s why Turnstile threw a free charity concert outdoors in Baltimore before Never Enough dropped, and why those new songs spawned endless stage divers despite, or because of, mellow synth passages. To be comfortable in your body and mind, especially in the presence of others, is a right that feels like a privilege. What greater sensation than being guided towards that acceptance through music? “Never enough” isn’t a mantra for self-abasement or a premeditated retort to critics; it's permission to be imperfect while growing. LP4 was never going to be what everyone else wanted it to be. For Turnstile, that couldn’t be more of a relief.
