The musical return of prodigal sons

In 2012, the English-American folk outfit Mumford & Sons had it all. Their banjo-laden sophomore album, Babel, was a No. 1 hit and won the Grammy for Album of the Year. Amphitheaters full of congregants on both sides of the Atlantic shouted out the worship-adjacent choruses. Marcus Mumford, front man and primary songwriter, grew up the son of Vineyard church leaders.

But the elder statesmen of the 2010s folk resurgence scorned the banjo and their fanbase. Mumford & Sons took their share of the cultural inheritance and squandered it on reckless living in a far country. For their next two albums, they plugged in, eschewing the familial-­like affection of fans for the cool acceptance of critics. Now, with Rushmere, their fifth studio album and first in seven years, Mumford & Sons returns home to embrace the banjo and maybe even their faith.

Rushmere Mumford & Sons

Yes, the banjo is back, appearing on the title track and the opener “Malibu.” The first few tracks frolic in acoustic guitars, pianos, and triumphant percussion—swelling to familiar heights. “Monochrome” and “Where It Belongs” trace their finger-­picking somberness to tracks like “After the Storm” from the band’s 2009 debut, Sigh No More.

The instrumentation, structure, and vocals owe as much to place as anything. (Rushmere is the name of a pond in the neighborhood where the bandmates first met.) The recording for Rushmere was divided between studios in America and England. “Truth” is pure Americana, a moody and bluesy burner that shows a truer path forward should the band continue to plug in.

On “Malibu,” Mumford sings, “You’re all I want / You’re all I need / I find peace beneath the shadow of your wings.” Christians will catch echoes of the Psalms and the book of Ruth. But given Mumford’s reluctance to call himself a Christian, is the “you” God? The banjo? His fans?

The album feels like a parable of spiritual pilgrimage. The opening lines on “Malibu” speak to the promises of a God who waits for us in our doubt. On “Monochrome,” Christ is likened to life waiting to burst from the ground in spring. “Surrender” is a hymn of reconstruction (“Break me down and put me back together / I surrender”). But Mumford waffles into theological haziness in “Carry On,” the final track.

Still, the bridge on “Malibu” connects past, present, and future—a swelling crescendo that breaks with a shout: “Walking through the valley was what brought me here.”

Fans have been waiting more than a decade to throw a feast celebrating Mumford & Sons’ return home.