Album Review: Mumford and Sons – Rushmere
3 min read
After years of silence, lineup shakeups, GB news start ups and mild speculation about whether they’d even return, Mumford & Sons are finally back with Rushmere. But instead of coming out swinging, they ease back in—and maybe a little too gently. The album gestures toward the sound that first made them famous, but it rarely feels like more than a shadow of their former selves. It’s polished, sure, and sonically pleasant, but Rushmere often plays like a band unsure of where to go, settling instead for where they’ve already been.
The opener, Malibu, brings back their signature acoustic swells and slow-building crescendos, but there’s a weariness to it. What once felt impassioned and urgent now feels overly familiar—like a band running through the motions rather than reigniting any real fire. Lyrically, it’s introspective, but not in a way that sticks with you. It floats by—easy to listen to, easy to forget.
Then there’s the title track. Rushmere is named after a pond on Wimbledon Common, where the band apparently first started dreaming big. It’s a sentimental reference, and the song tries to lean into that history—but the emotional payoff never really lands. Rather than reflection, it feels like nostalgia for nostalgia’s sake. It’s pretty, but self-referential in a way that doesn’t invite the listener in.
Caroline tries to break the mold with a bit more drive—some electric guitar, a quicker pace—but it still can’t escape the band’s old blueprint: gentle verses, a chorus that lifts just enough to register as “anthemic,” rinse, repeat. It wants to feel urgent, but the lyrics drag it down, lacking the bite or clarity to make the energy count.
The ballads, Anchor and Monochrome, slow things to a crawl. These tracks dwell in a kind of moody introspection that aims for depth but lands closer to self-indulgence. Lines like “I can’t say I’m sorry if I’m always on the run” read more like Tumblr-era navel-gazing than hard-won wisdom. There’s a difference between vulnerability and vague sadness—and these songs too often blur that line.
Production-wise, there’s no denying the album sound is solid . Dave Cobb’s touch is clean and spacious, giving every instrument its moment. But that only highlights the real issue here: the songs themselves don’t give us much to hold onto. For all the shine, there’s a real lack of urgency, experimentation, or even risk.
The one track that might’ve shaken things up—Blood on the Page, a duet with Madison Cunningham—falls surprisingly flat. There’s little chemistry, and the song doesn’t give either artist room to stretch. It’s the kind of collab that looks better on paper than it sounds in practice.
In the end, Rushmere feels more like a box-checking exercise than a true return. Longtime fans might find comfort in the familiar tones, and maybe that’s enough for some. But if you were hoping for reinvention or even a fresh spark, you might come away wondering what, exactly, the time off was for.
