The Single Life: Mumford & Sons, AC/DC & More

The natural order of things has it that the bigger the band, the easier to criticise they tend to be. On that basis, Mumford & Sons are a great white whale of popular music. The harder part might be in explaining why they are such a Zeppelin-sized target (as in the Hindenburg, not Led). But then they go and make it easy. “No more banjos!” came the battlecry. But in amongst some fairly clichéd lyrics and pretty bland music, surely said banjos (and mandolins, and fiddle, and even the tin-fucking-whistle…) gave at least some point of difference to their stadium singalongs? Thus, Believe (Gentlemen Of The Road/Dew Process), and what are the faithful offered? Well, it tends to plod along in a manner akin to U2 doing their ‘we’re sooooo Celtic’ thing before they went all post-modern on themselves. You get through a couple of verses waiting for something to happen. And it doesn’t really, although there’s an outbreak of electric guitar solo around two-thirds of the way through, which will give those in Row ZZ of the second tier of whatever football stadium they’re playing the chance to raise their iPhones in the accepted manner.

There is (probably) no U2 reference meant in The Edge (Rice Is Nice), but it may be a turning point of sorts for the participants as well. I admit to never being fully convinced of Donny Benet’s disco shtick in his solo artiste work – although he can run a nice line in Miami Vice pastel suits, as here. But add the singular presence of Dreamlanders’ bandmate Kirin J. Callinan in dangerous crooner mode, and magic happens. It’s a bit sexy, even if you’re not sure you want it to be. Includes references to ‘feeling you up’ and ‘skin on skin’ - which may well be a little scarred. The ghost of Donna Summer looks down, then looks away, but then has to have another look even while covering her eyes with her hands.

Alex Gow tends to be somewhat of a sharp dressed man as well. Although in Oh Mercy guise, his wardrobe is probably more straight from the American Apparel Spring catalogue than the above. Sandy (Casadeldisco) strolls briskly to the 7-11 on the corner while pondering on whether he deserves to be loved. ‘What a world,’ the artist muses, philosophically. We agree. Returning from his creative sojourn in Nashville, Portland and Los Angeles among other places, the song falls somewhere between his fashionable and modern electronic-bedded pop, with maybe an odd nod to mid-‘80s wordy and worthy such as Lloyd Cole or Prefab Sprout. That could prove an interesting tangent to the album that comes next.

Then again, there’s always an extraordinary demand for the predictable in the rock and/or roll. How else can you explain AC/DC shifting 2.8 million (yes, that probably is nigh on three million by now...) units of Rock Or Bust in these days of depressed sales. The songs, similarly, play by the rules. Case in point, Rock The Blues Away (Columbia). Brian is in (one of his many) car, on his way out with his ‘girl’, where accordingly ‘everything will be all right’. Probably all night. Cue Angus to take one of those arthritic stuttering hops back and forth across the stage while reeling out one of those copybook cascading solos. Drums and Johnno’s scream cut back in, repeat and ad lib to fade. Order another few dozens cases of Krug. And/or VB.

Several steps back down the food chain you can sometimes see that those of indie status have eyes on the stadium. Many – ok, most – will not get close, but let the kids dream, let the kids write would-be anthemic choruses. Brisbane’s Aerials are out to make the widescreen racket on a beer budget, know they’re copping some moves from everybody from Arcade Fire, to trying for some Rage Against The Machine righteous outrage as Burn Burn Burn (Firestarter) rolls at you in a sincere – if perhaps a little earnest – manner.

But those who set their focus to something a little less grandiose are also to be appreciated. Black Springs apparently default to a ‘psych’ kinda feeling, even while admitting they’re not quite sure what that means. But then Time To Go (Independent) introduces itself with a carefully pondered, but slightly off-kilter strum, which suggests they’ve got at the old Go-Betweens records in the garage before those kids from Dick Diver pinched them all. It settles into a summery jangle, even though seems to be something a little darker and more melancholic going on in the conversation. Noice.

Meantime in Melbourne, The Bon Scotts show the banjo is not necessarily to be feared or despised. Summer Tapes (Independent) is just a happy scruffy backyard singalong under the Hills Hoist, probably being the last song before they have the argument about who’s going to the bottle shop for the next selection of craft beers and ice for the Esky. Pop music, yes – of an unselfconsciously slightly ramshackle manner that may even contain some cowbell.

That’s not to say something designed for big commercial success can’t have some soul. While some of the music can tend to the treacly, Sam Smith’s voice is an unarguably sometimes glorious thing. Then the recording corporation wonders how to increase the market penetration – mostly with a look across the Atlantic to an American market he would appear eminently suited to – and thus they add some John Legend to Lay Me Down (Capitol). Now, leave the boy alone and just let him sing.

One artist who probably wouldn’t allow herself to be part of any such marketing plan – with a couple of record companies already discarded for ‘artistic disagreement’ – M.I.A. leaks a typically cross-cultural electronic mash that is either genius or indulgence with Can See Can Do (N.E.E.T. Recordings). It comes at you in waves, part air-raid warning, part tribal dance as she touches on politics of personal, sexual, and territorial nature all at once. A decade on, and I’m one of the many who still can’t quite make up their mind as to how much of a pose her stridentness may be. So, it comes back to trying to concentrate on a music that is quite unlike anyone else’s.