Akin to one another, all these groups have recently experienced explosive fame, enveloping the masses in their heavily replayed hit singles. The former two, however, are not of the same blood as Mumford and Sons; I will elaborate shortly, after you have consented to my waiver of warning. This review is not of a reverent nature. It is, in fact, a deeply felt enunciation of the polar opposite. If you’re a Mumford fan, revert your eyes now, click the back button, and cease to ever have glanced at a potentially quite upsetting expression of dislike.
The Black Keys, in my opinion, deserve their immense following and high regard. They are tremendous performers, reincarnates of the sultry blues that have defined the evolution of music but have disappeared from modern compositions. The Kings of Leon are also different: bluesy but of a differing, more rugged disposition. I have yearned desperately to like Mumford and Sons. I, similarly to practically every sentimental girl across the planet, enjoy emotionally charged lyrics, dripping meticulously with feeling. With the introduction and subsequent craze over Little Lion Man, I was skeptical.
Yeah, the song was catchy, and I appreciated its novel nature.
When The Cave came around, I liked it. My interest was evoked by the inclusion of terms such as “choke” and “noose around your neck.” I never looked much past their singles, however, as their sound didn’t particularly entrance my melodic desires. They recently released a new album, Babel (2012) which people have been ebulliently gushing over. I gave it the time of day at the recommendation of many. I might as well have listened to merely one of the tracks and called it a day. Every single song sounds exactly like the former, and is a predictor of what is to ensue. The lyrics have no redeeming element either; they are somewhat inane, with nursery-rhyme schemes such as “You saw my pain, washed out in the rain… Cause you know my call, we’ll share my all…”
The album, simply and succinctly put, is boring. It lulled me to sleep, and not in a cooing, heart wrenching Bon Iver manner. Please… I could’ve written better, more encompassing lyrics in my fifth grade English period. I want my hour of auditory attentiveness back. Just because you throw a banjo into a mesh of poorly written drivel doesn’t mean it possesses a distinct, innovative character.
*Article by Arielle Swett