In an era where the internet feels less like a tool and more like a collective fever dream, Orlando-based artist Toadchurch has cracked a code most of us didn’t realize existed: how to make digital despair danceable. At 21, Ande Christenson—the mind behind Toadchurch—hasn’t just weaponized the internet’s chaos; he’s alchemized it into something that feels eerily vital. His new album Summer of Guns isn’t just music. It’s a manifesto for a generation raised on algorithmic anxiety, where the only logical response to societal collapse is to sample it, warp it, and drop it over a hip-hop beat.
The Internet Is a Trap—Unless You’re Smart Enough to Flip It
Let’s be honest: most of us are just surviving the internet’s attention economy, not thriving in it. We scroll ourselves into existential funks, marveling at how platforms designed to connect us have instead turned us into twitchy, dopamine-deprived husks. But Christenson? He’s doing something radical. He’s treating the internet not as a trap, but as a studio. While others drown in its toxicity, he’s sampling its detritus—its memes, its noise, its fractured energy—and repurposing it into art that feels like a middle finger to nihilism.
Personally, I think this is the most subversive move an artist can make in 2026. When you use the internet’s own language—its glitchy, hyperactive, meme-saturated vernacular—to critique its worst impulses, you’re not just commenting on culture. You’re hacking it. Summer of Guns isn’t just a plunderphonic album; it’s a Trojan horse. You’re dancing to the soundtrack of your own digital exhaustion without realizing the beat is made from the very code that’s been draining you all along.
Why This Album Sounds Like a Paradox
What makes Summer of Guns so fascinating is how it balances dread and delight. Christenson admits he wanted the album to feel "haunting and sinister but still sticky and danceable." That’s not just a clever artistic goal—it’s a metaphor for modern life. We’re all walking around with apocalyptic headlines in our pockets, yet we’re expected to keep up the same old routines. The album mirrors this dissonance: one moment you’re bobbing your head to a funky bassline, the next you’re realizing the samples are layered with distorted clips of political rants or viral chaos.
This isn’t accidental. The dissonance is the point. From my perspective, Christenson is tapping into something psychologists call "emotional granularity"—the human ability to take conflicting feelings and hold them in tension without breaking. But here’s the twist: he’s not resolving those tensions. He’s amplifying them until they become art. The result? Tracks that feel like a panic attack in a nightclub. And honestly, isn’t that the most accurate sonic portrait of our time?
The Real Reason This Matters
Critics might call Toadchurch’s work a novelty—a clever gimmick for the TikTok generation. But what many people don’t realize is that his approach represents a seismic shift in how art is made (and consumed) in the digital age. Traditional music samples instruments. Toadchurch samples culture. His raw materials aren’t guitars or synths—they’re the ambient sounds of a world unraveling. A police siren from a viral video. A snippet of a conspiracy theorist’s rant. The robotic voice of a GPS. These aren’t just samples; they’re fingerprints of our collective psyche.
If you take a step back and think about it, this is the logical endpoint of postmodernism. We’ve moved beyond borrowing from other artists. We’re now borrowing from the entire, unfiltered feed of human experience—and distilling it into something that’s weirdly, defiantly alive.
What Comes Next
The danger with projects like this is that they can devolve into irony or self-parody. But Christenson avoids that trap by grounding everything in rhythm. The beats on Summer of Guns aren’t just backdrops; they’re anchors. They remind you that even in the midst of chaos, there’s a pulse—a heartbeat that refuses to quit. And maybe that’s the deeper message here. In a world where everything feels like it’s accelerating toward collapse, the only rational response is to remix the wreckage and see if it can still make you move.
I’ll admit: I’ve been thinking about this album nonstop since I first heard it. Not because it’s flawless (though it’s damn close) but because it’s a mirror. Every glitch, every jarring transition, every absurd juxtaposition—it’s all us. We’re the ones who built this hyperconnected hellscape. But Toadchurch? He’s the first one who’s figured out how to make it sound good. And maybe, just maybe, that’s the first step toward taking it back.
