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.įortunately I sense a backlash. Indeed, one is the son of one of the richest men in England. This is probably due to the fact that Mumford and Sons aren’t hillbillies-well, maybe the Beverly Hillbillies, as in rich as Croesus. 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. And songs like “I Will Wait” sound like they were written with a calculated ambition to win Grammys. 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.
That and like I said before-Mumford and Sons are far more slick than any folk rock/bluegrass conglomeration should be. 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. And as of this moment the Fab Folk Four are bigger than fooking Jaysus. First they won a Brit Award, then they took the States they way Hitler took Poland. And there was no long suffering in obscurity for these guys. 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.
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). 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.
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They also know how to pump up the volume, and can kick into overdrive faster than you can say BTO. They’re polished, impassioned, and like U2 know how to write an anthemic, catchy, and spiritually uplifting song. The foursome seemingly came out of nowhere (i.e., England, wherever that is) to become overnight sensations, and I for one can see why. Is it okay to call Mumford a pussy, Jon? (Yes. 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. They know how to cut loose, although they don’t do it nearly often enough. 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. 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….)” 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. There’s a Mumford, but no sons, when here I expected a nice family act like The Osmonds. 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. 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!) 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. But she kept at me, the way fanatical Rush fans keep at you, crazy-eyed to convert you to their weird cult. I had no intention of listening to the Mumps, or Sanford and Son, or-I can never remember their stupid name.
She kept telling me, “You have to listen to Mumford and Sons!” Yeah, right.
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