On April 28, 2025, 300 twelve-inch vinyl slabs will hit the underground, courtesy of Zegema Beach Records, carrying the debut full-length from Vancouver’s Emma Goldman, all you are is we.
The first single, “I don’t think much at all,” drops like a brick through a storefront window—raw, jagged, and unapologetic, with a pleasant breath of air revealing close to the end of the 3-minute banger.
Named after the anarchist firebrand, this screamo outfit doesn’t just nod to revolution; they channel it through a sound born from the cracked concrete and political churn of their hometown.
Emma Goldman, featured in our special feature about Zampler #compilation here, has been around since 2018, kicking out a demo and a handful of tracks on splits and compilations before vanishing into a hiatus around 2020. They resurfaced in 2022, reshuffled with a new bassist and vocalist, and what came out of that shift wasn’t just a reboot—it was a gut punch of reinvention. The screamo they play now isn’t stuck in nostalgic quicksand; it’s got teeth, tearing into the here and now. All you are is we doesn’t waste time proving that.
Recorded in 2024, the album leans into chaos but carves out space for grooves that’ll shove bodies into motion—think less “mosh pit” and more “rave in the rubble.” It’s as if they took Emma Goldman’s misquoted line, “If I can’t dance, I don’t want to be part of your revolution,” and ran with it, daring anyone to stand still.
“I don’t think much at all” zeroes in on labour—the kind that grinds you down behind a counter or a stove. It’s about service workers staring into the void of routine dehumanization, where every shift blurs into a dull hum of boredom. The track builds to a breaking point: a fantasy of plunging a kitchen knife into some smug, rude customer.
No grand metaphors here—just the visceral snap of someone pushed too far. That’s the thread running through the album. It’s not abstract manifestos or soapbox rants; it’s the muck of everyday frustrations. Dead-end jobs that choke out your soul, the sleazy allure of hyper-sexualized election ads, the sheer ridiculousness of chasing a career while the world teeters on political and economic cliffs—Emma Goldman digs into these sores with a rusty blade, exposing the personal toll of a system that doesn’t care.
The sound mirrors that tension. It’s screamo, sure—frantic, discordant, all the trademarks—but it swings wide, hitting emotional peaks that feel like they could collapse under their own weight. One minute it’s a scream ripping through the mix, the next it’s a groove pulling you into the fray. They juxtapose that with lyrics yanked straight from the overstuffed, maximalist media sludge we’re all drowning in—billboards, clickbait, 24-hour news cycles. It’s not subtle, and it’s not supposed to be.
What Emma Goldman seems to wrestle with most is a question: how do you claw out of that torment? Not the big, world-saving kind—the small, personal kind that festers in your gut. Their answer isn’t a sermon; it’s in the act itself. They play hard, perform harder, and aim to drag communities into the mess with them—dancing, thrashing, whatever it takes. It’s less about hope as a shiny ideal and more about finding it in the shared sweat of a room full of people who get it.
The album doesn’t promise escape, but it offers a lifeline: a reminder that the grind might crush you alone, but together, it’s something you can scream back at.
All you are is we isn’t a revolution in the history-book sense. It’s too grounded, too tied to the grit of Vancouver’s streets and the band’s own lives.
Emma Goldman doesn’t posture as saviors or poets laureate of the underground—they’re just here, loud and insistent, turning their daily bullshit into something you can feel in your bones. “I don’t think much at all” sets the tone: a blunt, furious jab at the monotony, daring you to pick up the knife—or at least dance while you’re still standing.
