Pinegrove, an indie-folk group comprised of childhood friends, reminds me of New York. It reminds me of the seemingly endless roads, the vast mountainous green hills, and the bridges and the gravel roads and the little houses with little driveways and little fences. 

Pinegrove reminds me of the quiet parts of New York—the hushed, dim parts. 

And it’s because I first discovered Pinegrove when I was driving through the broad state of New York. It seemed infinite, that state. I drove across so many bridges, past so many little houses, through so many towns with their own green hills and gravel roads, and Pinegrove was my quiet soundtrack for the quiet state. 

They’re perfect for every mellow mood, for every quiet state, for every rolling green hill. Pinegrove has masterfully crafted their sound throughout their first few albums: dark harmonies, introspective lyrics, and a little bit of twang. The perfect amount of twang. 

When I saw the release of their fourth album, Marigold, I immediately felt the hush of New York blanket me as it did last summer. 

Pinegrove’s signature sounds were on full display within the first few seconds—sounds that I was just getting to know when I first discovered them in New York last summer. What I first discovered, though, and something that remains constant throughout each of their albums, is that their voices are rich. Rich with the rhythms that dance between them and rich with passion and emotion like no other. 

“Dotted Line,” the opener of the album, showcases that richness so beautifully. There’s just something about a voice, cracked like clay, emoting so much at once—nostalgia, fervency, and passion

“No Drugs” shouted passion from the top of the tallest green hills, and it was one of my favorite songs from the album. It was the folk undertones, the voice cracks, and the mellow mood of the song that brought me back to summer, but it was the passionate lyrics—like “I want to remember everything we talk about / I want to feel light moving in everything you say,”—that cemented me in the present. It felt like a conversation on a worn couch of a basement or a wooden table in a familiar cafe—it felt real and meaningful. 

As I got further down the tracklist, adding more songs to my growing list of favorites, I noticed how “Marigold” was the very last song of the album. It was like each song paved the way to that pinnacle point, the finale, the last moments of nostalgia for the quiet states. 

It all lead to “Marigold: a song with no lyrics. 

I kept expecting voices—the perfectly cracked voices singing those perfectly whole lyrics—but they never came. It was just…wordless.

I’m glad the words never came, for ending an album with a six-minute instrumental track that seemed to represent each song preceding it didn’t need words to do so. Just the ebb and flow of drifting rhythms, of infinite space, of resonance and richness were enough to close the album. 

“Marigold,” the final song of the album, floated away without a word, and that silence was the loudest moment of all.