There’s a strange alchemy happening in the digital age where the very tools designed to erode our sanity are being repurposed as instruments of artistic rebellion. Take the case of Ande Christenson, the 21-year-old Orlando-based artist known as Toadchurch. If you’ve ever scrolled through your feed and felt a creeping sense of despair about the state of the world, you’re not alone—but what’s fascinating is how someone like Christenson is turning that existential dread into something vibrant, chaotic, and undeniably creative. His new album, Summer of Guns, isn’t just music; it’s a cultural autopsy wrapped in a beat-driven package. And that’s what makes it so compelling. Personally, I think this represents a generational shift—artists aren’t just reacting to the chaos anymore; they’re weaponizing it.
Let’s unpack this. The internet, as we know it, is a double-edged sword. It’s a place where algorithms curate our nightmares, where outrage is monetized, and where the line between reality and performance blurs daily. Christenson, however, sees this as a raw material. His work with Toadchurch is a prime example of plunderphonics—a genre that thrives on sampling, remixing, and recontextualizing existing sounds. But here’s the twist: instead of just sampling music, he’s sampling the zeitgeist itself. Summer of Guns is a sonic collage of our collective anxiety, stitched together with beats that refuse to let you wallow in despair. What makes this particularly fascinating is how he balances the grim with the groovy. It’s like hearing a funeral march played on a disco track, and somehow, it works. In my opinion, this duality is what gives the album its edge. It’s not just about making a statement; it’s about making you move while you’re processing it.
Now, let’s talk about the album’s conceptual backbone. Summer of Guns was born from a one-week album jam organized by Christenson’s sketch-comedy group, Bogo. Originally intended as a throwaway project, it evolved into something far more intentional. This isn’t just a case of ‘accidental genius’—it’s a calculated response to the absurdity of our times. Christenson describes the album as ‘haunting and sinister but still sticky and danceable,’ and he’s not wrong. The beats are sharp, the samples are layered, and the overall effect is like walking through a neon-lit dystopia while dancing to a synthwave soundtrack. A detail that I find especially interesting is how he uses the internet’s darkest impulses—its capacity to make us feel small and disconnected—as a springboard for creativity. This raises a deeper question: Can art born from despair ever be truly uplifting? Or does it just mirror the chaos it seeks to transcend?
What many people don’t realize is that plunderphonics isn’t just about borrowing sounds; it’s about borrowing ideas. Christenson’s work draws from the sample science of Handsome Boy Modeling School and the party frequency of All Good Funk Alliance, but he’s not content to be a mere imitator. He’s taking those influences and twisting them into something that feels both familiar and alien. This is the internet’s paradox: the more fragmented and isolating it becomes, the more it demands connection. And Summer of Guns is a testament to that tension. The album’s darker tenor isn’t a drag—it’s a whetstone, sharpening every beat, every sample, every moment of dissonance into something more potent. If you take a step back and think about it, this approach reflects a broader trend among young artists who are refusing to be passive consumers of culture. They’re curators, editors, and, yes, even prophets of a new aesthetic.
But here’s where it gets really interesting. The album’s title, Summer of Guns, is a loaded metaphor. It speaks to a world where violence is normalized, where the line between entertainment and trauma is increasingly blurred. Yet, Christenson doesn’t let the album wallow in that darkness. Instead, he infuses it with a sense of urgency and rhythm that makes you want to dance. This isn’t just music—it’s a social commentary wrapped in a beat. What this really suggests is that the next generation of artists is redefining what it means to be ‘positive’ in a world that feels perpetually broken. They’re not pretending everything’s fine; they’re using their art to process the messiness and, in doing so, creating something that resonates with people who feel the same way.
In the end, Summer of Guns is more than just an album. It’s a manifesto for a new kind of artistic resistance—one that doesn’t shy away from the internet’s darkest corners but uses them as fuel. And that, to me, is the most inspiring part. It’s a reminder that even in the face of algorithmic despair, there’s still room for creativity, connection, and a little bit of hope. Whether you’re dancing to the beats or reflecting on the lyrics, Christenson’s work challenges us to confront the chaos without losing our rhythm. After all, if the internet is the problem, maybe the solution is to turn it into a stage—and that’s exactly what he’s doing.
