As nu-folk figureheads, Mumford & Sons helped set the template for a sort of beard-positive weepy man-pop: they walked so The Lumineers, Hozier and Noah Kahan could fly. But until recently there was a suspicion that time had not been kind to nu-folk, a movement criticised for its Londoncentric upper-middle-classness and for the fact that most of its artists sounded like Waitrose versions of The Band.
Mumford & Sons struggled more than most when the backlash arrived. Their look was American Civil War cosplayers attending Oxbridge feeder schools, and they were all from the higher strata of British society. Winston Marshall, their banjo player, was, for example, the son of the hedge-fund billionaire (and GB News co-owner) Paul Marshall. He was never going to be a starving artist.
Nor is he any longer a member of Mumford & Sons. Not long after expressing his admiration for Jordan Peterson, the tragic manosphere guru, Marshall departed the band, who return slimmed down to a three-piece.
Though reduced in number, they remain cheerfully bombastic, and the spirited if uneven Rushmere fulfils the declaration of Marcus Mumford, the band’s frontman, that the LP would hark back to early hits such as Little Lion Man and I Will Wait – good news for fans; possibly a cause of existential dread for doubters.
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Rushmere is in places hugely catchy, though there remains an aura of ersatz sincerity about Mumford & Sons, who can come across like the kumbaya youth-group leaders sure to be seen tiptoeing out for a sneaky cigarette when the kids are all in bed.
The record, named after a pond on Wimbledon Common, close to where the band formed, is at its most enjoyable when the musicians focus on straight-ahead tunefulness, as they do on the single Caroline, where Mumford’s rasping vocals squeeze every last syllable out of the title.
In addition to wielding banjos in anger, the whiskery trio have a tilt at classic 1970s rock: the hard-charging Truth nods towards AC/DC, Led Zeppelin and Black Sabbath (“nodding” being the crucial term: you are never not aware that you’re listening to Mumford & Sons).
But there is some stodge, too: Malibu, the opening track, is one of those Mumford & Sons gather-round-the-campfire homilies where, instead of toasted marshmallows, the treat of the day is nostril-clogging sentimentality.
And the record’s several forays into stripped-down acoustic pop sound like Ed Sheeran lost in the woods after a camping weekend gone wrong and slowly taking leave of his sanity.
Consider Anchor, a whiny dirge that clocks in at less than three minutes yet somehow feels many times longer. A similarly sappy aspect infuses Blood on the Page, a duet with the country singer Madison Cunningham, who appears to have recorded her contribution with a bucket over her head, so indistinct is her voice.
It doesn’t help that Mumford’s lyrics have an often preachy quality – the singer was raised in an evangelical church – that sometimes veers into the trendy-vicar zone (“Cause there’s no evil in a child’s eyes”).
Still, there is no denying the band’s eagerness to get back to work, and the post-Winston Marshall reset appears to have done them good. It’s a considerable turnabout given what was for many years a severe backlash against nu-folk, which in 2018 resulted in Mumford & Sons moving towards a more anonymous soft rock on their LP Delta.
The ongoing success of Kahan’s Stick Season is a reminder that bearded men spilling their woes while acoustic guitars flutter in the background have not yet gone out of fashion – and, in that climate, Rushmere is an old-school Mumford & Sons album that might just give the band a new beginning.
It’s not going to win many new listeners. On the other hand, it won’t make you want to grab the nearest banjo and impale it on an electric fence, which surely counts as its own kind of victory.
