Unity

A locomotive burst of choppy ska upstrokes and freight-train punk power, this song runs on righteous velocity from the first downbeat. The guitar locks into a stuttering off-beat skank while the rhythm section drives forward with almost reckless momentum, leaving no room for hesitation. Jesse Michaels delivers his vocals with the hoarse urgency of someone who genuinely believes what he's saying — not performed anger but real conviction, slightly ragged at the edges, which makes every word land harder. The song carries the weight of a political sermon stripped of preachiness, arguing that divisions between people — race, class, subculture — are manufactured distractions from shared humanity. It belongs unmistakably to the late-80s East Bay scene, where Gilman Street punk shows were as much community meetings as concerts. The music feels simultaneously frenetic and welcoming, an open circle rather than a closed fist. You reach for this song when something has made you angry at the world but you still want to believe in people — when the frustration needs an outlet that doesn't collapse into nihilism. It's punk that insists on hope without being naive about it, and the tension between those two poles is exactly where the energy lives.