When I meet Adrianne Lenker, she is unsteady on her feet. She is taller than me, and as she shakes my hand, I feel her rocking slightly on her heels, like she might tip backwards if don’t grip hard enough. She says she has shuddering aches in her body, though she’s not sure from what; she has not been sick in a very long time. Through nearly three straight years of nonstop touring with her band, Big Thief—through every time change, from Australia to Minnesota—she never once fell ill. Now she has stopped, for one moment, and her immune system has tumbled down like suitcases from an airplane’s overhead compartment.

Big Thief formed in Brooklyn four years ago, not far from the tiny cafe where Lenker and I are taking refuge from the cold, but their sound seems to come from somewhere broader, more spacious, and less provincial. The quartet’s music, which folds together the warmth of folk and the homely squall of indie rock, feels placid on the surface, even when the electric guitars blurt. But beneath the fingerpicked acoustic guitars and muted percussion, Lenker’s fearful intensity radiates like a family secret. As the band’s songwriter, singer, and emotional anchor, she gives them their gravitas, weight, and charisma; you would like any band that sounded a little like Big Thief, but you can only love Big Thief because of her vision burning inside of it.

As they prepare for the May release of their third album, U.F.O.F., Big Thief are coming off their first extended break since the release of their debut full-length, Masterpiece, in 2016. Lenker’s bandmates have dispersed to different corners—guitarist Buck Meek moved to Topanga Canyon in Los Angeles, where he is learning how to surf and writing solo material; bassist Max Oleartchik decamped to Tel Aviv, where he grew up, and drummer James Krivchenia headed to New Mexico to work on his own electronic music. Speaking to each of them separately, there is a distinct sense that they are all recuperating after a mission to Mars.

Lenker and I are meant to walk over the Williamsburg Bridge, something she used to do when she first moved to New York from Boston in 2012, when she had no money and knew no one. Sitting in the cafe, about a half mile from the bridge’s pathway, we can hear the face-scouring wind from the window. The air outside is damp, and Lenker winces every time the door opens. I remind her that we can sit and talk somewhere warm, but she stands up, briskly. “I feel better when I’m moving,” she insists.