I assumed my first few moments around Turnstile would go something like this: congratulate them on their success, small-talk-small-talk-small-talk, inquire about new material they’re working on, and wait for the perfect window to ask how it feels to be the biggest thing in hardcore music. But, instead, the band instinctively senses that I, too, am from Baltimore, and our conversation launches into hyperlocal IRL Yelp reviews of the city’s beloved—and maligned—spots for late-night eats. There’s Sip & Bite, in Canton, which is best saved for when you’re drunk and desperate. There’s the ’50s-sci-fi-themed Lost City diner, in Station North, which opens for only a few months at a time every seven years or so for no detectable reason.
And then there’s the Papermoon diner, in Remington, that’s littered with wacky toys: old Pez dispensers trapped inside the glass of the front counter, an army of ’90s action figures staring out the window, baby dolls hanging from the ceiling in a very unsettling manner. “I sent some friends from out of town there, and they went just to get a milkshake and they wouldn’t seat them,” Brendan Yates, the band’s frontman, remembers of its quirks. “They’re like, ‘Oh, you can’t just order a milkshake. If you want to be seated, you have to get a whole meal.’ ”
For Yates, it’s a relief to talk about Baltimore in a way that isn’t let me explain to you how much of a hidden gem this place is. It’s early spring and the city is finally starting to poke its head up from the misery of winter. The Orioles are back on the field, newly aspiring joggers crowd the park walkways that are otherwise barren, and old heads are breaking out their three-wheeled Slingshots again, playing Jeezy so loud that windowpanes tremble.
Despite our exchange about the city’s quirkiest holes-in-the-wall, we’ve settled in the back room of the more sensible Artifact Coffee. Pat McCrory, one of Turnstile’s guitarists, orders the Ham Jam, a seriously buttered sandwich stacked with collard greens, eggs, cheese, sliced ham, and spicy jelly. As we trade memories of Baltimore’s greasy spoons, there’s a sense of calm from everyone here; in conversation, the band members engage earnestly but, at various points throughout our time at Artifact, I catch each of them silently basking in the serenity of a sunny morning. It’s meditative.
