She just wouldn’t leave me alone. The ex-wife, that is. She kept telling me, “You have to listen to Mumford and Sons!” Yeah, right. I had no intention of listening to the Mumps, or Sanford and Son, or—I can never remember their stupid name. But she kept at me, the way fanatical Rush fans keep at you, crazy-eyed to convert you to their weird cult. I finally surrendered—you can only hold out against a John the Baptist-type for so long—and grudgingly agreed to give Mumford and Sons a listen. It was the least I could do for the ex-, who is lovely, sweet, and German, and the only person I’ve ever known who celebrates the anniversary of The Night of the Long Knives (mit Schnitzel and Kuchen!)
Having listened to Mumford and Sons’ 2012 release Babel, what’s my expert (ahem) critical opinion of the enormously popular English folk rock-bluegrass quartet? Well, first of all, I think they’re a fraud. There’s a Mumford, but no sons, when here I expected a nice family act like The Osmonds. I also think Mumford and Sons are too slick by far, and Marcus Mumford’s spirituality-laden lyrics and total lack of a sense of humor do nothing for me. Furthermore there’s a sameness to their music, as my friend Alyse noted recently: “I hope you write a review of their song! It’s one song, right? The one they just keep renaming? (Shhhh, I am so onto their marketing ploy….)”
That said, by God when Mumford and Sons get a head of steam up on their banjos, mandolins, accordion, resonator guitar (whatever that is) and multiple drums, you’ll think it’s the second coming of The Pogues. They know how to cut loose, although they don’t do it nearly often enough. Then there’s vocalist Marcus Mumford, who sounds great when he’s singing passionately at the top of his lungs, but comes off as a pussy when he isn’t. Is it okay to call Mumford a pussy, Jon? (Yes. —Ed.)
The foursome seemingly came out of nowhere (i.e., England, wherever that is) to become overnight sensations, and I for one can see why. They’re polished, impassioned, and like U2 know how to write an anthemic, catchy, and spiritually uplifting song. They also know how to pump up the volume, and can kick into overdrive faster than you can say BTO. That said, they’re no Pogues; the Pogues rarely slowed down, and Shane MacGowan wrote mad brilliant lyrics that have as much Hell as Marcus Mumford’s Heaven in them, although I feel compelled to add I liked Shane better when his mouth still looked like a an untended cemetery with a handful of ancient jagged tombstones covered with factory soot.
Who is this Mumford with his pretend sons? Well, like I say there’s Marcus Mumford (who in addition to lead vocals plays guitar, mandolin, and drums), Ben Lovett (vocals, keyboards, accordion, drums), Winston Marshall (vocals, banjo, guitar, resonator guitar), and Ted Dwane (vocals, string bass, drums, guitar).
They formed in 2007, became part of the so-called “West London folk scene” with the likes of Noah and the Whale and Laura Marling, and since 2008 have released two studio LPs, two live LPs, and eight EPs. And there was no long suffering in obscurity for these guys. First they won a Brit Award, then they took the States they way Hitler took Poland. And as of this moment the Fab Folk Four are bigger than fooking Jaysus.
What else can I say? As I mentioned, Mumford’s lyrics deal with issues of faith, and at the risk of sounding jaundiced I have absolutely no faith in anything. That and like I said before—Mumford and Sons are far more slick than any folk rock/bluegrass conglomeration should be. Mumford’s vocals aren’t raw enough, and the band’s recordings have that glossy Steely Dan sheen, as if they came off a production line after receiving 50 air brushings of paint. And songs like “I Will Wait” sound like they were written with a calculated ambition to win Grammys.
While Mumford has acknowledged the influence of Mountain Music revivalists Old Crow Medicine Show on Mumford and Sons, he has also done a remarkably thorough job of sanding every last jagged hillbilly corner off his music. This is probably due to the fact that Mumford and Sons aren’t hillbillies—well, maybe the Beverly Hillbillies, as in rich as Croesus. Indeed, one is the son of one of the richest men in England. Tough to sound poor, rural, and rootsy when you own six Jaguars, four castles, and a butler named Shrew (“Shrew! Oh Shrew! Come chew my crumpet for me!”) I hereby dub their music Poshbilly.
Fortunately I sense a backlash. My friend Oliver told me, “If you listen to the radio for 15 minutes you will hear one of their songs. If you listen for an hour you will hear 4 of their songs. Enough already.” As for my friend Todd, whom I’ve known since I was a grad school teaching assistant and he used to zoom into my classroom on a skateboard every day, this is what he had to say about Mumford and Sons: “I don’t agree with much you say. Mostly just because it’s you saying it. But I hate those Fuckers.”
Anyway, let’s get to the music, because the sooner I finish the sooner The Vinyl District will let me out of the locked cell they keep me in and let me go home. Opener “Babel” starts fast out of the gate, all those banjos and what not strumming away at punk rock speeds while Mumford sings frantically, the way I like. Unfortunately there follows a quiet and slow section, two of them actually. Ah, but they kick back into high gear soon enough, with Mumford crying, “Babel/Babel/Look at me now/And the walls of my town/They come crumbling down!” Impassioned Mumford is quite the singer; in quiet mode, he sounds like just another pop singer, one I can’t quite put my finger on. Anyway, “Babel” is a damn good tune despite the quiet passages, and I find it impossible to completely write them off, polished or not, given their uncanny knack for imitating a runaway train.
“Whispers in the Dark,” on the other hand, doesn’t move me until the three-quarter mark, when a big guitar makes a resounding sound and the band proceeds to kick out the jams. Before that, though, Mumford goes on with minimal accompaniment, then is joined by some fast banjos and whatnot, until the big vocal chorus, which leaves me cold. I’ve never run across a singer quite like Mumford before; I can hardly stomach him when he’s singing at normal volume, but love him when he raises his voice. If only the guy would spend the whole album proclaiming and shouting, I might love this baby.
“I Will Wait” starts fast, then stops dead in its tracks so that Mumford can intone the dumb lines, “Well I came home/Like a stone.” The song goes on quietly from there, until it reaches the horrible chorus, which I find mawkish and too, too sweet. Melodically the song is nice enough, but like “Whispers in the Dark” I only like it when it picks up speed. Namely, towards the end, when Mumford delivers a nice “Woo!” followed by some hot-damn picking and grinning. This one’s the band’s big hit if I’m not mistaken, and I can see why. It’s a great pop song if your tastes run to the over-dramatic, because Mumford milks it for all it’s worth.
“Holland Road” is an anomaly; a mid-tempo number that I actually like more than anything else on the LP besides “Babel.” I can’t say why; I guess it’s the melody, which is moving rather than mawkish. The piano is nice, and I try not to listen to the words, and I’m authentically moved when the stringed instruments come in, first slowly and then faster. I’m also moved when Mumford sings, “I wished you well/But you cut me down/You cut me dowwwn!” Then some great horns come in, and Mumford commences to wail, and it’s a nice, very nice, moment, as it is when the whole band comes back ablazing before the song comes to a slow, strummed, conclusion.
“Ghosts That We Knew” opens slowly and features Mumford at his most unbearable, his voice aquiver with quiet and nauseating passion until he’s joined by additional voices, and it’s like I’m stuck in church (the horror!) listening to a damned hymn from a damned hymnal. The instrumentation is minimal, and that isn’t good, until there comes a rather nice interlude featuring a banjo and strummed guitar, after which there comes a fine moment when Mumford sings, “And hold me still/Bury my heart next to yours/So give me hope in the darkness that I will see the light/Cause all you gave me such a fright.” Unfortunately a few cool moments don’t make for a good song, and while I know every Mumford and Son fan in the world will disagree with me the best thing about “Ghosts That We Knew” is its title.
I truly dislike “Lover of the Light,” a sappy pop tune that includes such suck-o lyrics as, “But love the one you hold/And I’ll be your goal/To have and to hold/A lover of the light/With skin too tight/And eyes like marbles.” Rhyming “hold” with “hold” is a minor offense, but eyes like marbles? What kind of marbles? Steelies? Commies? Aggies? There’s also a passage I swear I’ve heard from another song, and a bad one at that, and is it plagiarism if you steal something that sucks? That said I enjoy the too-brief moment when the horns join the stringed instruments in a fantastic crescendo; unfortunately Mumford interrupts them (rude bastid!) to sing the lines quoted above again, more or less a cappella. All of that said, the song reaches a dramatic climax at the end, with Mumford singing like somebody lit a fire under his ass. If this song isn’t already at No. 1 it will be soon, because the American public has an insatiable taste for swill.
“Lovers’ Eyes” seems always to be heading for some great crescendo and finally reaches it at the four-minute mark, and I find I actually like the slow build-up of tension along the way. I don’t know why I like this one; I suppose because the melody is nice, and for once I don’t find the lyrics unpalatable. I like the lines, “Tame these ghosts in my head/That run wild and wish me dead.” And the four big blasts of guitar, and one horn blast, that follow them. But they’re a false crescendo, followed by some nice piano and strings, and when the real climax occurs it’s truly moving. Strike one up for Mumford and Children.
“The Reminder” is a second-rate Dylan song, or make that Paul Simon, with whom the Mumfords have collaborated on a version of “The Boxer.” A short little ditty featuring Mumford and a strummed guitar, the song stands and falls on the melody, which is unfortunately nothing to write home about, and the lyrics, which are, er, I can’t remember, which makes them by definition forgettable. I know he says something to the effect that he never knows if he’s doing you wrong, to which all I can is, he is. He is doing you wrong. And the next time he darkens your door, as he says in the song, I suggest you call the police.
“Hopeless Wanderer” opens with some pretty Coldplay-school piano, and sorta reminds me of a Coldplay tune. It starts slowly, just Mumford and the piano, followed by some group vocals. Then the song takes off, and I mean really takes off, with lots of mad strumming and piano and Mumford singing, “Hold me fast/Hold me fast/For I‘m a hopeless wanderer.” Then it slows some into a staccato section, only to really take off, with banjos, horns, and guitar, and Mumford getting wonderfully agitated, singing about how he’ll learn to love the skies he’s under, before the whole shebang ends on a bluegrass note. And strike another one up for the Poshbilly foursome.
“Broken Crown” opens with some folksy guitar, then Mumford sings some, and so far so bad. The piano that comes in helps, as do the mandolins and banjos, but the song has a hushed Renaissance Faire feel that I find ye oh so fey. I like the fast-paced instrumental passage in the middle, and the way Mumford cries, “I fucked it all away!” and when the horns come in the song becomes more than bearable. Unfortunately they vanish every bit as fast as they appeared, and it’s just Mumford again, and I don’t think I’ll be listening to “Broken Crown” ever again.
I like “Below My Feet” because it has some big rousing moments as well as passages of quiet beauty. I’m not much on the a cappella group vocals, but I do like the big guitar that throws two giant power chords at ya, and the way the song picks up momentum, even though the band stops it again. And I like the big rousing instrumental section, if not the “Aaaaaaahs” atop it. And the big chorus that follows that, with its giant sound, is all that. But the lyrics! “I was told by Jesus all was well/So all must be well.” Oh really? A bit grandiose, or even mental, isn’t it, Jesus chatting you up? And talk about gullible! Well if Jesus said all’s well, all’s well, the evidence of Mumford’s own eyes, the never-ending parade of unspeakable horrors in the news media, the entire monstrous 20th Century, and the success of that song about my lovely lady lumps notwithstanding. This is the problem with faith—it entails a slack-jawed credulity bordering on insanity, which is why I believe in nothing but the utter futility of everything.
The LP closing “Not With Haste” has a too-pretty melody, and opens at a slow tempo with Mumford and some quiet guitars, which are joined by piano. Then the pace quickens, the banjos and mandolins etc. come in, and things are sprightly for a minute or so. Then Mumford sings, “I will leave no time/For a cynic’s mind,” which is my whole problem with this outfit: Mumford’s intense sincerity and the humorlessness that accompanies it. He’s a humorless bugger; there isn’t a single laugh line on the whole LP, and I will never love a band that dispenses with irony, sarcastic humor, silliness, cynicism, and most of all the willingness to laugh at itself. (One reason I don’t like Frank Zappa? The blowhard never laughs at himself, only at others.) Take all those wonderful things away and what are you left with? Emo. And I say fuck that emo shit.
I so wanted to like Mumford and Sons, but their slickness, self-seriousness, humorless and unrelentingly spiritual and clunky lyrics, and all-too-obvious commercial ambitions make it impossible. Like I’ve said ad nauseum, I love it when they go into high gear, but those moments don’t occur nearly often enough to make me want to listen to them. Only on “Babel,” “Holland Road,” and “Below My Feet” do I sense authenticity, rather than a calculated desire to climb to the top of the pops. Mumford and Sons aim for the stars, but achieve only a kind of overweening spiritual grandiosity, of the type that leads to conversations with the Son of God. In the end I’d sooner celebrate the anniversary of The Night of the Long Knives than listen to Mumford and Sons, because at least you can make a joke out of the former (How crazy was Rudolf Hess? On The Night of the Long Knives, he brought a fork.) And I’ll take a bad joke over a humorless band any day.
GRADED ON A CURVE:
C-
