Someday I Suppose

There is a reckless joy buried in the opening horn blast of this track — a collision of brass swagger and punk velocity that announces something rare: a band that refuses to choose between the dance floor and the mosh pit. The guitars churn with a choppy ska rhythm, all upstroke and bounce, while the horns layer in waves that feel almost cinematic in their urgency. Underneath it all, the rhythm section locks into a driving pulse that never lets the tempo breathe too comfortably. Dicky Barrett's voice is a force unto itself — gravelly and half-shouted, it carries the weight of a man who has been knocked down and finds the whole situation vaguely funny. The song captures a specific kind of Boston defiance: not bitterness exactly, more like an acknowledgment that things might not work out, and a shrug that says that's fine, we'll show up anyway. The lyrics circle around resilience and vague futures, the feeling of holding onto something uncertain because letting go seems worse. This is music for the moment just before something changes — driving fast on an overcast afternoon, turning the volume up because the silence would be louder. It belongs to the early 1990s ska-punk explosion, a genre that blended Caribbean rhythms with American hardcore energy, and this song captures why that fusion worked: it made urgency feel celebratory.