The rain didn’t let up Thursday night in New York City, but on The Rooftop at Pier 17, Peach Pit spun it into magic. The skyline blurred behind sheets of water and fog, the East River churned, and yet nothing – not thunder, nor soaking hair or ruined sneakers – could keep the crowd from basking in the melancholic shimmer of their set.

Before the clouds split open, BNNY took the stage with blistering defiance. The Chicago-based band wrapped the pier in a blanket of slow-burning shoegaze rock, tender and overcast, mirroring the sky above. With vocals that trembled between dream and despair, BNNY delivered heartbreak like it was sacred, each song a small ceremony. Their set was short, but it lingered, like perfume on someone else’s hoodie.

Co-headlining the “Long Hair, Long Life” tour with Briston Maroney, the Vancouver quartet took the stage like a sigh you didn’t know you’d been holding. The moment they launched into “Drop the Guillotine,” something shifted. The rain, once violent, felt almost romantic – like the band had cut open the sky just to set the mood.

Peach Pit don’t perform; they reminisce. Their music always feels like riding shotgun in a memory, and on Thursday night, they played the part of tour guides through teenage heartbreak, hungover mornings, and half-healed wounds. “Alrighty Aphrodite” came draped in cigarette smoke and summer regret, “Shampoo Bottles” felt like a voicemail you should’ve deleted but didn’t, and the acoustic rendition of “Peach Pit” was a slow, swaying surrender to nostalgia itself, complemented by Neil Smith’s unfeigned story of how the band formed. I stepped onto the rooftop under the impression I had never heard of Peach Pit before, but that was quickly disproven as they shifted through songs that defined my high-school roadtrips and freshman dorm room solo dance parties.

Smith’s voice was as weary and wonderful as ever, cracking just enough to make every word feel lived-in. And when the band leaned into their jangly surf-pop tones, the drenched crowd swayed in ponchos like wet laundry on a clothesline, clinging to every note, letting the downpour rinse the week off our shoulders.

Between songs, there were sheepish grins and playful banter, but the audience didn’t budge. We were tethered to something in those songs, and we knew it.

By the time the night ended, the city lights blinked back through the mist, and the rooftop crowd – soaked and spellbound – knew they’d witnessed something rare.

Peach Pitch didn’t just play a concert. They turned a storm into a memory worth keeping.