I sympathize with those few who "just don't get it." Consensus can be oppressive; a demonic Ted Lasso pursing the lips of all haters, refusing the possibility that their callow, small-minded refusal to let people enjoy things might instead be genuinely held difference of taste. But those who worry themselves into a tizzy over Turnstile's genre tag misunderstand hardcore's history. Since its inception, hardcore has been as much an activity as a music. Nobody goes to hardcore shows to just stand there with their arms crossed. (Well, I do. But I'm a nerd who is overprotective of my beautiful nose and glasses.) For decades, hardcore has made use of whatever sounds were part of its individual player's background. Whether it be the reggae of Bad Brains, the "Corona groove metal" of Madball, the chromatic guitar flourishes of Burn, the posi-vibe bubblegum pop of Gorilla Biscuits, or the high plaintiveness of Into Another or Black Train Jack's vocalists, hardcore has never been as regimented as even some of its adherents would have you believe. Hell, half the toughest tough guys in NYHC have sidelines as rappers. Rather, hardcore is as much about new shoes and dance moves and urban youth demonstrating their various styles as it is about shorthaired metal riffs and indescribable pain expressed by white hoodlums in black hoodies. And Turnstile's nothing but true to the sprawling, rambunctious spirit of hardcore. Take, for instance, "Wild Wrld," wherein merengue percussion bounces on a house music kick beat, but not before transposing what sounds like the chorus of Flo Rida's "Low" to a one-two pop-punk crush groove. The 2:55-minute song also makes space for a windmilling breakdown that should satisfy even the most grimly tattooed adherent. There are three things, historically speaking, that hardcore reveres above all else: the provisional nature of interpersonal relationships, hardcore itself, and moving that body across the dance floor. Turnstile respectfully acknowledges the first two while the band, especially on Glow On, takes the third tenant of hardcore to the hoop. Turnstile's unabashed affection for funk — and go-go, D.C.'s homegrown offshoot — is inarguable. Often overlooked (or registered bemusedly as the band being "funk metal"), Turnstile's allegiance is less telegraphed through obvious signifiers like slap bass and more subtly communicated via Easter eggs spread across its catalog. Throughout Glow On, even when not spelled out, evidence the band's deep knowledge (instilled from parents and the ambient sounds of their Baltimore/D.C. area upbringings) of the ouvre of George Clinton, Betty Davis and Walter "Junie" Morrison, is abundant.