On their first fully independent EP, the New York rock trio strip away excess, embrace piano and acoustic textures, rethink what makes a song survive without distortion, and discover that growth sometimes begins when nobody is around to approve it.
There is an appealing contradiction inside the title BLOOM.
Flowers suggest softness.
King Falcon have not exactly built their reputation on softness.
The New York City trio—Michael Rubin, Joe Conserva, and Dipayan “Dip” Chakraborty—come from a tradition of guitars designed to occupy physical space: large riffs, fiery vocals, hard-charging rhythm sections, and songs engineered to become even bigger when they collide with a live room.
Their forthcoming six-track EP, out September 18, does not abandon that foundation. The band still identifies with the big, slightly bluesy rock sound established on its earlier material. But BLOOM deliberately opens windows into something stranger, quieter, and less immediately classifiable.
Piano appears.
Acoustic guitars become more important.
Percussion widens.
Songs are allowed to breathe.
And the band’s increasingly familiar New York rock identity begins rubbing against what Rubin simply calls “the weird stuff.”
For him, that is essentially what indie music means.
“It’s the weird stuff that a record label wouldn’t approve of.”
Then comes the important part:
“That’s why it has to be trailblazed by independents. It’s risky.”
BLOOM is King Falcon’s first completely independent EP.
That fact matters beyond the business structure surrounding its release.
Independence changed the available decisions.
And perhaps, in turn, the band itself.
The Weird Stuff
Rubin is careful not to describe BLOOM as a wholesale reinvention.
The recognizable King Falcon ingredients remain.
Big rock.
Some blues.
Guitars.
Melodies that move.
But the borders have expanded.
“With age, hopefully I got better as a writer,” Rubin jokes. “Though I’ll let you be the judge of that.”
The more significant change is that the music is becoming less interested in demonstrating what King Falcon already knows how to do.
There is more indie influence now—not necessarily “indie” as a specific guitar tone or fashionable genre marker, but independent music in its most literal sense.
The sounds someone makes before another person tells them whether those sounds are commercially advisable.
Rubin points specifically toward “Holding Out.”
The song represented a noticeable expansion of the band’s sonic vocabulary when it first appeared, combining the band’s melodic instincts with something hazier and more optimistic. The track looks toward brighter days while acknowledging the conscious effort required to believe they are coming.
It was not universally welcomed behind the scenes.
“Our previous record label did not like that song at all.”
King Falcon released it anyway.
According to Rubin, it subsequently spent roughly two months at number one on the SubModern charts.
There is a satisfying lesson there, though perhaps not the simplistic one.
The point is not that labels are always wrong.
It is that artists sometimes have to make work before there is external evidence that making it is a good idea.
Risk cannot be validated in advance.
Otherwise it is not much of a risk.
Take Away the Amplifiers
The acoustic version of “Holding Out” pushes that experiment further.
King Falcon’s original material is designed around physical impact.
Remove the distortion and the drummer can no longer rescue a weak phrase by hitting harder.
Remove the electric-guitar architecture and melody has nowhere to hide.
Rubin likes that danger.
“I think the melody and lyrics still hold up even without the full band behind them.”
He also understands what the exercise exposes.
“It’s relatively easy to hide poor songwriting behind big drums and flashy riffs, but when you strip all of that back it exposes all of the flaws.”
The process changed how he writes.
Rock music can seduce through force.
A guitar tone can create excitement independently of what the chord progression underneath it is doing.
A huge chorus can feel enormous because the arrangement tells you it is enormous.
Acoustic performance removes much of that protection.
What remains is structure.
Melody.
Language.
Timing.
Whether the song itself still deserves attention.
“It’s made me more conscious of that in my writing in general.”
That is where King Falcon’s quieter material becomes particularly important.
It is not merely evidence that a loud band can play softly.
It is a test.
What Actually Makes a King Falcon Song?
The problem with expanding a band’s sound is eventually running into an identity question.
If the riffs become smaller, what remains?
If piano enters?
If acoustic textures take over?
If the band that built its reputation through velocity decides a song should barely move?
At what point does experimentation stop sounding like King Falcon?
Rubin does not have a formula.
“I think I just know it when I hear it.”
That answer might be frustrating from a theoretical perspective, but creatively it makes sense.
Identity often becomes recognizable before it becomes explainable.
“As a songwriter, it excites me tremendously to be able to add new dimensions and textures to the music, but at the core of it I will always make what sounds right to me.”
Perhaps that instinct itself is the continuity.
Rubin jokes that what makes it cohesive may simply be “subliminal repetition of myself.”
Every songwriter has habits.
Intervals they reach for.
Rhythms that feel natural.
Certain emotional temperatures.
Ways of resolving chords.
Ways of phrasing dissatisfaction.
Taste becomes the fingerprint.
You can change the instrument and the fingerprint remains.
No Fat, No Fluff, No Bullshit
The acoustic video for “Holding Out” relocates the song to the Coney Island boardwalk, placing this relatively expansive side of the band inside an unmistakably New York visual environment. The official release itself frames the stripped-down rendition and sunny Coney Island video as a deliberate departure from King Falcon’s usual high-energy rock approach.
Ask Rubin how deeply New York influences the band’s songwriting and his answer has little to do with lyrical references to neighborhoods.
It is structural.
“There’s no fat, no fluff, no bullshit.”
For him, that is New York.
And in songwriting terms, it becomes editing.
“Is this bit really adding to it?”
Is the additional measure necessary?
Does the section justify occupying the listener’s time?
“If the answer is no, then I’m just wasting your valuable time as the listener, and that wouldn’t be very New York of me.”
It is a fantastic description of musical economy.
New York has produced plenty of maximalist art, of course, but the city’s best guitar music often understands urgency.
Get in.
Say it.
Make the rhythm matter.
Do not mistake length for significance.
That efficiency may be the deeper thread connecting King Falcon to the city’s lineage even when their sonic vocabulary expands well outside the familiar garage-rock template.
The Woman at the Casino
There is another lesson Rubin carries into nearly every lyric he writes.
It did not come from another musician.
King Falcon were driving toward St. Louis when they stopped at the Kansas Crossing Casino and Hotel during several days off from touring.
Outside was a huge, empty parking lot.
No trees.
No shade.
The asphalt baked until the air above it visibly distorted.
Inside, the band passed time around the free soda fountain beside rows of slot machines.
“The same folks lose their money over and over again.”
On the third night, a woman working at the front desk noticed them.
They looked like they were not from there, she told them.
They “musta been some typa band er somethin.”
Eventually the band checked out.
Before Rubin left, she gave him an unsolicited piece of criticism.
“Son, the music is great. But ya ain’t been through the shit yet. I wanna feel it in my heart.”
Rubin still thinks about her.
Every time he writes lyrics.
There is something almost too cinematic about the interaction.
A touring rock band.
A sun-scorched casino parking lot.
Slot machines.
Free soda.
A stranger offering the kind of artistic advice that could easily sound ridiculous but somehow does not.
Maybe because she identified the exact problem musicians spend years trying to solve.
Technical ability can make a song impressive.
Experience makes it believable.
Feeling It in the Heart
That casino story becomes an unexpectedly useful way of understanding songs like “Wait,” “Nothing Feels Amazing,” “Hourglass,” and “Holding Out.”
King Falcon often make music that moves harder than the emotional material underneath it.
The drums charge.
The guitar pushes.
The vocal refuses to sit still.
Meanwhile, the lyrics deal with forgiveness, dissatisfaction, uncertainty, time, and the struggle to sustain optimism.
“Nothing Feels Amazing,” for example, has been characterized through precisely that collision: emotional numbness delivered through charging drums, churning guitars, and a song that refuses to let heaviness become static.
Perhaps what Rubin learned from the stranger in Kansas was not simply “write sadder lyrics.”
It was to distrust emotional abstraction.
Pain needs detail.
Hope needs resistance.
A lyric has to feel like someone discovered it rather than selected it from a list of things rock singers are supposed to say.
“Ya ain’t been through the shit yet.”
Maybe he has now.
Or at least enough more of it to understand what she meant.
The Shorter Letter
“Holding Out” illustrates that lesson from another direction.
The song sounds breezy.
Hopeful.
Its momentum suggests optimism comes easily.
But the emotional idea underneath it is more complicated: sometimes hope is something you deliberately maintain despite mounting evidence that surrender would require less effort.
Asked whether he was consciously interested in that contradiction, Rubin answers with a famous idea:
“Have you ever heard the saying, ‘If I had more time I would write you a shorter letter?’”
The answer initially feels evasive.
It is actually completely consistent with his songwriting philosophy.
Simplicity is work.
Optimism in “Holding Out” does not need several paragraphs explaining itself because the song has already been edited toward the emotional gesture that matters.
Hold out.
Keep believing.
Continue.
The complexity exists underneath the economy.
Just like New York.
No fat.
No fluff.
Piano Enters the Room
When asked which new sounds were deliberately invited into BLOOM, Rubin’s first answer is immediate.
“Piano. I love the piano.”
There is also more percussion.
More acoustic guitar.
These might seem like relatively modest additions, but for a guitar-forward rock band, instrumental changes alter the way songs have to occupy space.
Piano can support harmony without guitar distortion filling every frequency.
Acoustic guitar exposes rhythm differently.
Additional percussion can generate movement without relying solely on the standard rock-kit vocabulary.
These choices align with how the EP is being positioned: six tracks pushing King Falcon into new sonic territory while preserving the band’s established foundation of anthemic choruses and searing guitar work.
Expansion does not necessarily require replacing the old vocabulary.
Sometimes you simply add words.
150 Shows Later
King Falcon have played more than 150 shows in the last two years, building the kind of experience that inevitably changes how musicians understand their own songs.
A studio can convince you something works.
A room full of people can disagree immediately.
Rubin acknowledges that performing so extensively has changed the band’s writing instincts, but he resists the idea that every song should ultimately be engineered for the stage.
“There are some songs that work better live and some that work better as recordings.”
That distinction is increasingly important.
The contemporary music economy places enormous pressure on songs to function everywhere.
Playlist.
TikTok.
Headphones.
Festival.
Club.
Radio.
Arena.
But songs can have different intended scales.
Rubin loves theatrical live performance.
He also values something the stage cannot fully replicate.
“There is something to be said about a song that feels like it’s your own personal moment.”
A recording can create intimacy through isolation.
Nobody else in the room.
No communal singalong.
No audience reaction.
Just you and the sound.
“Sometimes that moment is just between you and a recording.”
That perspective helps explain why the acoustic side of BLOOM does not feel like an abandonment of King Falcon’s live identity.
Not every dimension of a band has to serve the same room.
New York Guitar Music Is Not One Sound
King Falcon naturally get situated within the history of New York guitar bands.
The comparison makes geographical and sonic sense.
They are a guitar-driven band formed in Brooklyn, and critics have linked them to the spikier tradition associated with groups such as The Strokes, while also noting the power-pop elements that distinguish their sound.
Rubin does not resist the lineage.
“We are definitely a guitar band and we are definitely from New York.”
But he rejects the idea that either fact determines a fixed sound.
“Very much like the people within the city itself, that genre is very diverse.”
King Falcon also carry elements that feel less geographically expected.
“I think we also have a little bit of a southern rock element to our sound sometimes that is a bit out of place for New York.”
That displacement may be precisely what makes it useful.
A lineage is more interesting when artists inherit its attitude rather than merely its guitar settings.
King Falcon can take New York urgency, southern-rock scale, indie experimentation, acoustic intimacy, blues phrasing, and piano and still arrive at something coherent.
Again:
Subliminal repetition of self.
Independence as Rebirth
The title BLOOM initially suggests gradual development.
Rubin sees something more dramatic.
“This is our first fully independent EP we’ve released.”
The membership of the band has also changed since the debut.
“So it really does feel like a total rebirth of the band.”
That makes BLOOM less a collection of experiments between albums and more a document of King Falcon arriving at its current form.
The debut established the name.
Touring tested the songs.
Lineup changes changed the chemistry.
Independence altered the decision-making.
New instruments widened the palette.
Acoustic arrangements exposed the writing.
And the band gradually found what Rubin describes as its footing, both creatively and onstage.
His metaphor for the process is appropriately simple.
“You have to water the garden for quite a while before the flowers start to grow.”
Then:
“This EP is the result of us watering the garden.”
The bloom is not the beginning.
It is the visible evidence of all the work that happened before anybody could see it.
In Conversation With King Falcon
MUNDANE: You’ve described BLOOM as a bridge between your debut album and the music you’re already creating for 2027. What changed in the way you approached songwriting and production this time around, and where do you hear the clearest signs of where King Falcon is heading next?
MICHAEL RUBIN: Well, first and foremost, I got older. And with that age hopefully better as a writer—though I’ll let you be the judge of that.
BLOOM, for me, is a mix of the big rock and slightly bluesy sound that we have already established, but there is also much more of an indie sound.
Let’s talk about that “indie sound”—it’s the weird stuff that a record label wouldn’t approve of. That’s why it has to be trailblazed by independents. It’s risky.
“Holding Out” is probably my favorite example of this. Our previous record label did not like that song at all. We released it and it was number one on the SubModern charts for like two months, I think.
MUNDANE: “Holding Out” already represented a slightly more expansive side of the band, but the acoustic version strips the song down even further. What did you discover about the songwriting once the distortion and full-band energy were removed?
MICHAEL RUBIN: I think the melody and lyrics still hold up even without the full band behind them.
It’s relatively easy to hide poor songwriting behind big drums and flashy riffs, but when you strip all of that back, it exposes all of the flaws.
It’s made me more conscious of that in my writing in general.
MUNDANE: King Falcon has built much of its identity around big riffs, fiery vocals, and the physical energy of rock and roll. When you introduce quieter textures into that world, what elements still need to be present for a song to unmistakably feel like King Falcon?
MICHAEL RUBIN: That’s a good question.
Hate to say it, but I think I just know it when I hear it.
As a songwriter, it excites me tremendously to be able to add new dimensions and textures to the music, but at the core of it I will always make what sounds right to me.
Maybe the thing that makes it feel cohesive is subliminal repetition of myself.
MUNDANE: There’s an interesting emotional contradiction in “Holding Out”: it sounds optimistic and breezy, but that optimism feels like something the narrator has to consciously fight to maintain. Were you interested in writing about hope as an active choice rather than something that comes naturally?
MICHAEL RUBIN: Have you ever heard the saying, “If I had more time I would write you a shorter letter?”
MUNDANE: The acoustic video takes you to the Coney Island boardwalk, which gives the song this nostalgic, distinctly New York atmosphere. How much does New York actually make its way into your music—not necessarily through lyrics, but through attitude, rhythm, imagery, or the way you play together?
MICHAEL RUBIN: I think it describes the ethos of New York City perfectly.
There’s no fat, no fluff, no bullshit.
In my own writing, I take this to mean justifying every part of the song.
Is this bit really adding to it?
Is that extra measure really necessary?
If the answer is no, then I’m just wasting your valuable time as the listener, and that wouldn’t be very New York of me.
MUNDANE: Across “Wait,” “Nothing Feels Amazing,” “Hourglass,” and “Holding Out,” there’s a noticeable push and pull between heavier emotional ideas and music that remains incredibly propulsive. Do you consciously look for that contrast when you’re writing, or is it something that naturally emerges from the three of you playing together?
MICHAEL RUBIN: We were on our way to St. Louis when we decided to stop at the Kansas Crossing Casino and Hotel to stay for the few nights that we had off on tour.
It had a massive empty parking lot with absolutely no trees or shade of any kind. The asphalt would just bake and get so hot that the air above it was visibly distorted.
We spent a lot of time indoors hanging out at the free soda fountain by slot machines, watching the same folks lose their money over and over again.
On the third night, a lady who worked at the front desk told us we “looked like we weren’t from here” and that we “musta been some typa band er somethin.”
When we finally checked out of that hotel a day or two later, I’ll never forget what she said to me:
“Son, the music is great. But ya ain’t been through the shit yet. I wanna feel it in my heart.”
To be totally honest with you, I think about her every single time I write lyrics now.
MUNDANE: You’ve said BLOOM introduces sonic elements that weren’t as present on the first record. What were some of the sounds, production techniques, instruments, or influences you deliberately wanted to bring into the King Falcon vocabulary this time?
MICHAEL RUBIN: Piano.
I love the piano.
Lots more percussion and acoustic guitar moments as well.
MUNDANE: You’ve played more than 150 shows in the last couple of years, which inevitably changes the way a band understands its own songs. Has spending that much time onstage affected how you write now—especially when it comes to dynamics, guitar parts, choruses, or knowing what will translate in a room?
MICHAEL RUBIN: For sure.
Although, to be honest, there are some songs that work better live and some that work better as recordings, in my opinion anyway.
I love when a live show is big and theatrical, but there is something to be said about a song that feels like it’s your own personal moment.
Sometimes that moment is just between you and a recording.
MUNDANE: King Falcon often gets placed within the lineage of New York guitar bands, with comparisons to groups like The Strokes, but BLOOM seems intent on expanding beyond an easily recognizable NYC indie-rock template. How do you embrace that lineage without allowing it to define what the band is supposed to sound like?
MICHAEL RUBIN: I mean, we are definitely a guitar band and we are definitely from New York.
But very much like the people within the city itself, that genre is very diverse.
I think we also have a little bit of a southern rock element to our sound sometimes that is a bit out of place for New York.
MUNDANE: The title BLOOM suggests growth, but also something finally becoming visible after developing beneath the surface. At this point in King Falcon’s evolution, what do you feel is beginning to bloom that wasn’t fully present—or that you weren’t quite ready to explore—on the debut album?
MICHAEL RUBIN: This is our first fully independent EP we’ve released.
Also, the band members have changed from the first record.
So it really does feel like a total rebirth of the band, and I think now we’ve finally found our footing both creatively and with our live shows.
You have to water the garden for quite a while before the flowers start to grow.
This EP is the result of us watering the garden.
Water the Garden
There is a temptation to understand artistic growth through visible events.
The successful release.
The larger room.
The chart placement.
The new lineup.
The first independent project.
The song the label disliked becoming the song listeners embraced.
Those moments matter.
But Rubin’s garden metaphor points toward everything they conceal.
Most growth happens before it becomes interesting to anyone else.
A band plays 150 shows.
A songwriter gets older.
A lineup changes.
A stranger in a casino tells you your songs do not hurt enough yet.
You write another lyric.
And another.
You remove an unnecessary measure.
You discover that the chorus still works on an acoustic guitar.
You add a piano because you love piano.
You release something without waiting for institutional permission.
Eventually, someone calls it evolution.
From inside, it probably feels much messier.
King Falcon’s BLOOM arrives September 18 as six tracks explicitly positioned between the band’s first record and material already taking shape for 2027.
That makes “bridge” an accurate description.
But bridges usually imply movement between two fixed places.
BLOOM feels less certain than that.
The destination is still being made.
Perhaps that is why independence matters so much.
There is no longer the same requirement to know in advance which weird idea will become useful.
The band can find out by making it.
That philosophy also explains why “Holding Out” feels central to this period.
First, it expanded King Falcon’s sonic language.
Now its acoustic version removes the very qualities most associated with the band and asks whether the composition underneath can stand by itself.
It can.
And in passing that test, the song gives King Falcon permission to keep changing.
The point of BLOOM is not that the guitars are disappearing.
They are not.
The riffs remain.
So does Rubin’s voice.
So does the physicality of the band’s live show.
But those things are becoming choices rather than obligations.
A song can be enormous because enormous is what it needs.
Another can be quiet.
One can belong to a packed room.
Another can belong exclusively to someone wearing headphones alone.
There is room for the southern-rock instinct that does not quite belong in New York.
Room for indie weirdness.
Room for piano.
Room for the song that somebody at a record label might have rejected.
That sounds less like King Falcon abandoning its identity than finally trusting it.
After all, a plant does not become something else when it flowers.
The bloom was inside it the entire time.
You just had to water it long enough to see.
