The Mammals
Indie-roots trailblazers, high-octane Americana from rafter-raising to hear-a-pin-drop balladry
There has always been something disarmingly human about The Mammals. Long before culture fractured into its current bewildering kaleidoscope of noise and contradiction, they were already tending to the quiet, essential work: remembering the stories that hold people together, and singing them with an honesty that resists corrosion. Their music feels less like performance and more like a gathering—a return to the communal spaces where truth is spoken gently, without spectacle.
Formed by Mike Merenda and Ruth Ungar, The Mammals emerged from the fertile soil of folk tradition, but not as preservationists. They listened closely to the past but their instinct was always restorative rather than nostalgic. They carried forward the lineage of protest music, family harmony, and grassroots resilience, weaving them into something alive, awake, and stunningly contemporary. Their songs carry the emotional clarity of people who understand what is at stake—not just politically, but spiritually, culturally, even ecologically.
Their work is concerned with the fragile foundations of real life: home, community, lineage, the dignity of work, the precarity of hope. They write like people who have seen both the beauty and the unraveling of the American story and who still believe, stubbornly, in the possibility of repair. And their performances—welcoming, unrushed, almost ceremonial—create a space where audiences can breathe again, remembering themselves in the process.
Out of this ethos emerged The Hoot, the biannual festival at the Ashokan Center that Mike and Ruthy helped build from dream to gathering place. The Hoot is not simply an event; it is an act of cultural care—an invitation for people of all ages to come together in the woods, to listen, to dance, to learn, to reconnect. It is a living manifestation of what The Mammals believe in: music as community, community as medicine, and the land itself as teacher. The festival has become a kind of sanctuary, a reminder that joy and belonging are not luxuries but necessities.
The Mammals make music for a world that is forgetting how to listen. In their harmonies is a reminder that truth is rarely loud, that connection can be a form of resistance, and that art—when rooted in sincerity—can help us navigate even the most unsettled times. They offer not answers but companionship, a kind of melodic refuge where the heart can regather its strength. Their newest release, Touch Grass Vol. 1 & 2, continues this work—songs rooted in land, kinship, and the urgent need to reconnect with the world beneath our feet. The albums feel like field notes from the heart: intimate, grounded, and offered in a spirit of repair.
In an era defined by fracture, The Mammals remain devoted to wholeness: to the places they sing about, the communities they nurture, and the fragile, enduring human spirit at the center of it all.