That band name derives from singer/guitarist Marcus Mumford, but the band members aren't actually his sons. Rather, it's a play at quaint family businesses run by real people in real small towns, trades passed down through generations: both independent (yes, as in indie) and commercial. It's a shallow cry of authenticity, but this West London quartet really does sound more like a business than a band, supplying value-added products at discount prices. Their debut, Sigh No More, is stocked with group harmonies straight from the Fleet Foxes warehouse, exaggerated earnestness on consignment from the Avett Brothers, some of the same rock "real"-ness that built the Kings of Leon brand, second-hand drama from that run on Keane a few years ago, and some insistent Gomez rusticisms gathering dust in the back room. It's not spot-the-influence if they're pushing them on you with a salesman's insistence.
Mumford & Sons take an emporium approach, with an inventory that's broad but never deep. By spreading their attention around so many different trends, they aim to do many things adequately-- perhaps to distract you from an inability to do any one thing especially well. They love big moments and acoustic instruments, so you might call what they do hoedown pop, although that might be giving them too much credit: Every hoedown on Sigh No More-- every rush of instruments in rhythmic and melodic lockstep-- conveys the same sense of hollow, self-aggrandizing drama. And they pull that shit on every track.
Among the predictable crescendos, there are some unexpected textures, mostly courtesy of some guy calling himself Country Winston playing banjo and dobro. And they contain hints of Celtic melodies in songs like "Roll Away Your Stone" and "Thistle & Weeds", like they might be trying to update Fairport Convention and Pentangle. But none of these ideas is fully developed or explored, the gestures fleeting at best.
For music that ostensibly prizes the appearance of honesty and confession, Sigh No More sounds surprisingly anonymous, giving a sense of the band as engaged music listeners but not as real people. Mumford paints himself a sensitive guy put upon by insensitive lovers: "Tell me now where was my fault in loving you with my whole heart," he whines on "White Blank Page", as the music swells and ebbs to exonerate him of any misdeed or misunderstanding. Worse is "Little Lion Man", which is already a hit in Britain but sounds overly self-absorbed in its insistent mea culpas, as if admitting wrongdoing is a noble gesture: "I really fucked it up this time, didn't I, my dear?"
When Mumford & Sons stray from their tales of romantic martyrdom, the results are actually worse. Late in the album, "Dust Bowl Dance" kicks up some American Gothic ambience with what sounds like the least believable stab at a murder ballad ever set to record. "I'll go out back and I'll get my gun," Mumford sings, like a man who had never handled a firearm in his life. "I said, 'You haven't met me, I am the only son.'" When the Sons' electric guitars finally kick in, the song descends from ill-advised to downright embarrassing. Live, it's probably their closer, but "Dust Bowl Dance" hints that Mumford & Sons are in the costume business. They're playing dress-up in threadbare clothes.
