Review Summary: Will the real Kings Of Leon please stand up?
I open up the door to the interrogation room. It's been a long, excruciating day for me and my eardrums, being subjected to such an atrocious piece of work from people I would have one called respectable musicians. Such betrayal, such horrors, must not be tolerated. I place my glass of water on the steel table, flick on the lights, and there they are. Those 5 despicable henchmen of modern music sit handcuffed before me. Mumford... and his sons. There's a cold, dead look in their eyes; the look of a band who has no care in the world other than to capitalize on their previous successes by making the corniest, most pristinely produced and over-the-top music in the history of alternative genres. Disgusted, I open up my file, and read. "So, Mumford and Sons, I see you have been charged with 1st degree murder of your own authenticity." Mr. Marcus Mumford leans forward, his moustache sneering as he speaks, a twisted smile on his face; "We're not gonna tell you a damn thing." I slam my fist on the table in a raging fit, and i begin my rant; "You think this is a laughing matter huh?! You don't know what you have done to these victims, these poor people! All they wanted was a taste of something refreshing and worthwhile. All they wanted at the VERY LEAST was another "Sigh No More." But you had to go and make a 14-track album packed to the brim with cut-and-copy alt-pop that would seem fit for an Imagine Dragons fan, minus the horrible attempt at making an upbeat, saucy pop song using a mandolin sample?! The sanitary production, the clichéd crescendos that are so damn predictable, the blatant attempt at transforming folk-inspired music into arena rock?! It's beyond obvious Marcus. Give up. Your days of self-homicide are OVER!!!"
Silence fills the room. Mr. Mumford leans in once again, no longer smiling, but rather a tear running down his cheek. "We didn't want this to happen. We just wanted to make an album that appeals to the masses, to the children. We wanted to be hip, and cool, and be on the radio again. Yes, we killed our authenticity in the process, but that doesn't make us monsters. Please don't punish us for this..."
I pull my recorder out of my pocket, and click the stop button. As I turn to leave the room, I utter a final goodbye; "Thanks for admitting your guilt. Now you can tell it to the judge. Oh yeah, and apparently, even your tears are fake. I saw you dip your finger in my water cup." I close the door behind me, the pounding of metal, the jingling of chains, and muffled screams of "let me out" following me all the way down the hall. And in that moment, I am happy. For I will never have to listen to another new Mumford and Sons album ever again.
