Hotline TNT's Cartwheel

It's so fun to analyze one's thoughts in retrospect.

This is what I wrote for Hotline TNT's "Cartwheel" in 2023:

Too good to be true: music that sounds great loud. Isn't this a dying breed? "Who in this day and age wants to listen to Big Black? Psychocandy? Siamese Dream?! That Billy Corgan shit?!?!" I do. "Cherub Rock" is born again as Hotline TNT's "Cartwheel", but Will Anderson is much less of a jerk. (I do, uneasily, miss jerks.) Turn up your headphones ear-blastingly loud.

For context, a friend and I, at that time, were recording ourselves reacting to a show called "FLCL: Shoegaze" and we came up with the idea of bringing up facts about the shoegaze genre during our reaction - in fact, the entire video would be us talking about shoegaze over the series (people should stop making "FLCL" sequels, of which the appropriate number should be zero). I therefore studied "Siamese Dream" (1993) a lot: I learned about Billy Corgan's troubled childhood, his love for wrestling, and his near-obsession with the album's sound, to the point he would put his ear into the stereo so that it perfectly captured what he heard in his dreams.

This is "Siamese Dream" at its heart: fantasy. In "Luna", Corgan is relucant but willing to admit he's in love with you; in opener "Cherub Rock" he moans "Let me out"; "Hummer" (which, evidently, he did not in his innocence know the innuendo), "Life's a bummer / when you're a hummer". Detachment, bashfulness, and then belief proceed through "Siamese Dream". And fantasy is at the core of shoegaze. I know "Loveless" is considered THE shoegaze album, but to hear Kevin Shields talk about its making, the production is seemingly all technique; "Loveless" (1991) reveals itself in its sound and nothing else. You listen and dwell in the soundscape of "Loveless", but you sing "Siamese Dream" because you are Billy Corgan. You want to live in sound because, as Billy reveals, you no longer want to live in angst.

It's fascinating how right and how wrong I was to relate "Cartwheel" to "Siamese Dream". I was right in that "Cartwheel" is exactly the same kind of ecstasy as "Dream", albeit for very different reasons; I was wrong in that I immediately did not recognize, by sheer comparison, that "Cartwheel", like "Dream", is an instant classic.

In the last two years, I have not listened to any album more than "Cartwheel". Specific songs, I have listened to more, but not an album start to finish. I get "Cartwheel" cravings. "Stump" leads to "Protocol", and at that point I'm going to "Beauty Filter", and then I have to get to "Spot Me 100". As I write about "Cartwheel", I want to listen to it NOW. I'm not joking when I say there's nothing recorded ever that I want to listen to more than "Cartwheel". In an era where nothing can seem new, it is sheer exuberance, the plain best album of 2023.

It's funny, too, because I distinctly remember when it started playing I was annoyed by it.

"Cartwheel" begins with "Protocol", opening with a jangly guitar riff one would hear in The Smiths or The Jam. I remember thinking, "Oh boy. This is another indie rock album. And a nostalgic one, too." In fact, I bet I was thinking of The Shins. What would follow would be quirky lyrics about heartbreak or whatever. And, generally speaking, I'm not in love with songs or albums with particularly long intros - even thirty seconds is a bit too much. I get the impression the artist is being coy or setting up the wallpaper for the album, which intention I find kind of boring. So, on my first impression of "Cartwheel", I already wanted it to end.

And then, at the 42-second mark, a melody develops; in contrast to the sugar and brightness of the opening riff, this is more melancholic and nostalgic. All of the themes that "Cartwheel" contains - about being yourself, about being small, about being genuine and being romantic - is contained in this melody. The album bobs up and down between this invulnerable optimism and the sadness on reflecting that times are gone.

When that melody evolves and is absorbed entirely by the crash of drums and the crush of sound, it feels like the music has lifted you onto a wave, and, at the 1:14 mark, the wave crashes down again - thus successfully completing its first cartwheel. The album, in the same vein, teases emotions out of you and then forces them out in a flood of colors. It just ... works. It's like a magic trick. I feel breathless trying to describe it.

When Will Anderson begins singing, his voice hazy above the noise, "Which side I'm on? / Don't matter if you're gone, / just make sure..." ... Listen. I know this is an intensely irrational thing to say. But when I hear this, I do think, "This is how it was when people first heard The Beatles."

I grew up in the 2000s. There were no guitar heroes. Rock at this point, after grunge, had firmly splintered into many niche groups: emo, metal, "indie", punk, whatever. There was no one band that contained all of their audience's hopes and dreams, though My Chemical Romance and Arcade Fire are very close (people my age really love MCR for some reason). Rock essentially died in the 2010s.

Meanwhile, as a young man, I would go through what would be the typical "Who's Who" of rock, which would generally be Rolling Stone's roll-call of rock bands: Cream, Jimi Hendrix, Allman Brothers Band, The Clash, AC/DC, Aerosmith, blah blah blah. I think Jimi was the only one I really liked as a kid, but beyond enjoying the music I never formed any emotional bond with it. Radiohead and The Clash I always enjoyed intellectually, but I never felt that sense of community fans of rock bands typically describe. I, therefore, never experienced the joy of rock music which, I realize now, is almost a temporal joy, the joy of an artist relating to you in the moment as one would feel for Dylan or the Grateful Dead. The art is timeless, sure, but there's also the feeling of sharing a moment with people in the now. And it's worth contrasting this joy to the joy of listening to, say, Beyoncé or Kendrick Lamar or any other modern act. They're special because, in an odd way, you feel like you're making music with them, as if the material doesn't come unless you are willing to listen; and the material that comes reveals another human being.

Having been a complete virgin to this feeling, when Will Anderson sings the lyrics of "Protocol", I think, "That's a Rock Star." Never have I said this, ever, for anyone.

Which sentiment is pretty absurd. The Who sang about how they won't be fooled again. Dylan sang about Desolation Row. "Protocol", I think, is about Will embarrassing himself after performing what may be the titular cartwheel, after falling head-over-heels in love with someone. It's very low-stakes.

But here's the thing: with music, there are no low stakes. There are no high stakes. There is nothing important, unless the music makes it important. If Billy Corgan made a totem out of his misery, then Anderson made an idol out of lovey-doveyness. The music carves its own world.

I remember "Protocol" overwhelming me. I didn't think it was the greatest thing I ever heard (I do now), but I remember, after being so cynical about it, holding my breath.

When "I Thought You'd Change" starts, I knew there was something special. If "Protocol" sets you into the ideas of the album, "I Thought You'd Change" is the first track you play ear-blastingly loud. The overall feeling of the instrumentals - particularly those explosive drums - feel ... they feel like Merzbow! You want the guitar and drums to take up as much space as possible in the room you're inhabiting; you want the drums to literally fill in your brain; you want the sound to cocoon you; you want to feel numb to your fingers. The sound makes itself an ocean, and you want to sink into it. And then, when Will sings, "I'm on fire, just in time," you believe him - and you sing the lyrics too because, in reality, between artist and listener, we are on fire, just in time. That's the real reason why you want to crank the music as loud as possible: it's like a merging and elevation of consciousness.

The high of "I Thought You'd Change" continues with "Beauty Filter"; where the guitar is far more prominent in the former, surging through the music like magma, the drums in the latter feel like they're trying to compact layers of sound. There's a very heavy feel to "Beauty Filter", which lends to the themes of self-judgment in the music. Anderson sings, "Don't buy in" (RIGHT as the guitar squalls, as if his guts are being sucked in), "Feeling counterfeit, / just stop it, / on your usual shit"; there's an overall effect of his voice being buoyed above the noise. I don't really know what the song is about, but my guess is it's a plea to someone else to be real.

I'm heading to the end of the album, namely the trio of songs capping it out; meaning I'm skipping the pop-punk "Out of Town" (where Anderson croons, "Baby girl, where's the sign that you're not around?") and the emotional, Fennesz-like "Maxine".

I'm heading directly to the rush of "Spot Me 100", where Will wails, "Squad car, / caught you on the autobahn, / rock star - / I feel like you were never home." The guitars then crescendo, building and building and building upon one another (what is this, a Glenn Branca symphony?); Will finally sings, at the top of the tower of noise, "Long as I / hide my bad side," letting the music collapse. He feels like he is holding his breath as he continues, "If I / never survive." I, too, am holding my breath. In spite of the noise, there's a very surreal feeling to the scene he's painting, as if the sound depicted the panic of police sirens and after-midnight raids.

Then, the music flips and becomes jungle, the drums picking up faster and faster in pace; Will sings as if in a trance

I've heard this song before, it makes fun of your friend's advice: "Find out what you need" - Me!

The song ends at warp-drive, a pummeling corridor of sound. Whatever is happening here - rage, fear, self-loathing, self-hatred - the song rampages through whatever emotions are brought up in the crisis, ending in release.

From "Spot Me 100", "BMX" immediately starts, opening with a mangled guitar after the indecision of "Spot Me 100" and then flaring in a column of fire with that amazing guitar riff; thundering in the background are the drums. (I wonder a lot how the hell the band got the sound they wanted.) If "Cartwheel" spends a lot of its time in the flightiness of love and everyday emotion, "BMX" is Valhalla. The explosion of sound makes you leave your body. The transportational quality of the music is reflected in the lyrics too:

Fly on, do you want to be in the front with me?
Miles, I'll let you see even if you leave
Normal thing to say, doesn't make you stay
I fall the other way

Then, the last lyrics of the song, before it fades into quiet,

Crossed off all your thoughts on
Distortion, play your old songs

as if to say, Dissolve yourself in the music, all old songs flowing seamlessly into the new. This is Anderson's ascension; even on a small scale, he becomes those musical heroes of yore through the guitar alone. He's riding the titular BMX off into the horizon, the wind blurring his vision, as fast as he can.

The band could have ended the album on "BMX", but it made more sense to end on the humble "Stump" - and it's funny I say that, because "Stump" is one of the best songs on an album of amazing songs. And, rather than focusing on the guitar riff - which evokes all the nostalgia of kids playing in the backyard - I'm going to focus on the lyrics, which I think are the best on the album:

Digging deep, know your reach, you'll probably keep two or three
Jump over my turn at the farm, could I play my part?
Stump, cover up holes in the yard, but you stole my heart.

I thought for five minutes whether I should add a commentary, but I know now that I shouldn't. The lyrics speak for themselves.

I think "Stump" reveals why the album is so magical to me. Perhaps I'm admitting, here, I have not adapted well to this modern, digital, fast-paced world. I know it's a cliché to say we're all disconnected, but it's also not wrong to say. It doesn't help every person in the world is in the forum of public opinion through their phones.

In this milieu, an artist usually resorts to the cliché of "It's just you and me", but even that feels too distant, that feels too violent, in an "us-versus-them" way. "Cartwheel" is very simple. It's about being in the moment. It's about a moment of embarrassment, it's about the moment when you needed your friends the most, it's about the moment when you knew you fell in love. It's about time, but it's not about the end of time; there are no regrets in "Cartwheel", there's only sensation.

And one could argue Hotline TNT came to this result through pretty novel means. People have tried to emulate the timeless, reckless, headlong nature of rock for decades, but we've become so self-aware that we restrain ourselves from making truly libidinous, confident music. The comparison to Branca is, amusingly, apt, as I reflect on it: where many bands focus more on melody or amplitude or, in the case of the bands of the '90s, on the very texture of the music, "Cartwheel" is composed largely of many "sheets" of sound layered on top of one another, such that they play on one another and present different colors to the hearer.

Where most singers want to freeze or put their memories in amber, Anderson's memories come up warm and vibrant, and not all of the memories are good. The album is not about the titular "Cartwheel"; as sung in "Protocol", it's about feeling so good, so reckless, so thoughtless that you want to perform a cartwheel. And once "Cartwheel" ends, with those final strums of the guitar in "Stump", you can always start again with the heartbeat of "Protocol". Which I always do.