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Frank O'Hara's poem “Katie” has seven lines of self-reflection. The fifth line is especially memorable: “I am never silent, or rather, silent.” In writing workshops, especially with young authors – teenagers whose sense of wonder has not yet been swallowed up by waves of sarcasm or skepticism – I ask them to compare the concepts of “silence” and “silence.” There is no unanimous answer, nor are there any clear conclusions. The goal is to awaken this childish curiosity and offer their own interpretation of O'Hara's lines. One participant claimed that even a bird deprived of a voice can create music by flapping its wings in air currents. Another noted: a person strives for silence, but the body resists – internal mechanisms make sounds against our will. The very process of life sometimes becomes the source of a real hum.
These thoughts came back to me while listening to the new album by Racing Mount Pleasant, a band that combines emotional restraint with a big sound. The band was born on the campus of the University of Michigan, like something out of a movie about musical inception: the three founders—Callum Roberts, Connor Hoyte, and Sam DuBose—agreed to form the project in the first hours of meeting at student orientation in 2019. They were later joined by Sam Uribe, Casey Cheatham, Kaysen Chown, and Tyler Tenstedt. Calling themselves Kingfisher, they conceived of mixing the cacophonous energy of Arcade Fire with the orchestral scale of Explosions in the Sky, using horns, dynamic crescendos, and other techniques that required multiple players. But their first shows were in living rooms—an intimate performance I attended in Michigan in early 2022. Back then, many people, including me, were yearning to reconnect, and the gradual buildup of their compositions created a sense of a collective journey. The layered melodies formed as if we were slowly approaching our destination, knowing that the journey would be long. The sound filled the room with anticipation, as if the audience were frozen at the top of a ride, watching the clouds before the rapid fall.
Three years later, Kingfisher changed their name and released the hour-long, thirteen-track album Racing Mount Pleasant. The lineup and creative ambitions remain the same: they still combine post-rock power with the melancholy sincerity of late-2000s Midwest emo, but now they place more precise accents. Paradoxically, their music has become both quieter and louder.
Opener “Your New Place” sets the tone for the entire release: starting with sparse guitar notes and the monotonous lines “It’s chaos / Pull me out and spread me out / You’ve been in bed all November,” it gradually builds up layers. The transition to the second part happens not in a single explosion, but in a series of waves — drums join the guitars, then the brass instruments burst in. It’s unexpected, but not shocking, rather refreshing, like the lights in a house turning on one after another after a long period of power outage.
The band’s strength lies in their ability to maintain an intimate atmosphere even while making grand sonic gestures. The songs unfold like miniature suites, eschewing the “quiet-loud-quiet” trope. Sometimes a track will start with a spurt, building to a sprint. On the title track, the guitars pluck the strings furiously, the brass wriggle to the beat, and the rhythm is held together by sheer stubbornness. There’s a respite when the drums die down: the brass duet resembles not a duel but hands searching for each other in the dark. When they join, the guitars return, and then there’s a jubilant finale, where the members’ voices merge in a single impulse. The main pleasure of the album is not only in the richness of the arrangements, but also in the sense that the band is squeezing the maximum out of every idea.
The Midwest emo connection of the past enhances the sincerity of the release, especially in its more minimalist moments. The most ascetic track, “You,” doesn’t strive for a climax, but rather for the simple lines: “I’ll breathe for you / You don’t have to move… I’ll dance for you / You don’t have to move.” The lyrics here and elsewhere are straightforward: the hero addresses an invisible “you,” expressing apologies, complaints, or longing without making demands. In the minute-and-a-half-long “Heavy Red,” the whispered “You know I’m sorry / Now we collide” is accompanied by a beep, like the soundtrack to a cartoon scene where the camera pans to a character’s cracked heart.
I appreciate how the band plays with the contrast between lyrical restraint and sonic intensity. This tension-building disharmony is perfect for an album that balances banal themes (heartbreak, loneliness) with powerful performances. Even the seven-minute “Call It Easy” is fun to watch as the musicians guide complex arrangements to their logical conclusion. The finale “Your Old Place” gets tighter, the instruments tightening around the vocals until the final line, “Oh God, is this the end?” , is abruptly cut off. Racing Mount Pleasant doesn’t reveal new truths about love or longing, but it provides catharsis without final answers. By the end, you’re left with thoughts similar to the final line of “Katie”: “I think I’ll be alone for a little while longer.” ♦
Sourse: newyorker.com
