I had criticized the "Left," so I must be the "Right," or so their logic goes. Though there's nothing wrong with being conservative, when forced to politically label myself I flutter between "centrist," "liberal" or the more honest "bit this, bit that." Being labeled erroneously just goes to show how binary political discourse has become. Then followed libelous articles calling me "right-wing" and such. Rather predictably, another viral mob came after me, this time for the sin of apologizing. That took courage, particularly in the age of so called "cancel culture." I made an apology and agreed to take a temporary step back. Despite pressure to nix me, they invited me to continue with the band. Unintentionally, I had pulled them into a divisive and totemic issue.Įmotions were high. The distress brought to them and their families that weekend I regret very much. That name was being dragged through some pretty ugly accusations, as a result of my tweet. Furthermore, it's our singer's name on the tin. It took me more than a moment to understand how distressing this was for them.ĭespite being four individuals, we were, in the eyes of the public, a unity. And, owing to our association, my friends, my bandmates, were getting it too. To call me "fascist" was ludicrous beyond belief. My family knows the evils of fascism painfully well. My Grandma, unlike her cousins, aunts and uncles, survived. Thirteen members of my family were murdered in the concentration camps of the Holocaust. I failed to foresee that my commenting on a book critical of the Far-Left could be interpreted as approval of the equally abhorrent Far-Right. Over the course of 24 hours, it was trending with tens of thousands of angry retweets and comments. I believed this tweet to be as innocuous as the others. You're a brave man." Posting about books had been a theme of my social-media throughout the pandemic. "Congratulations Finally had the time to read your important book. And as you might imagine it's been no easy decision.Īt the beginning of March I tweeted to American journalist Andy Ngo, author of the New York Times Bestseller, Unmasked. Who in their right mind would willingly walk away from this? What we've achieved together has vastly exceeded the wildest fantasies of this shitkicker from Mortlake. A legacy of songs that I believe will stand the test of ages. It will be with immense pride that I look back at my time with Mumford & Sons. What a blessing it was to be so close to such talent as theirs. And Marcus leading us with all the might of a hurricane or all the tenderness of a breeze, depending on what the song demanded. To my right Ben, with his unparalleled passion for music, pounding at the keys. On stage, to my left Ted, a roaring bear, with his double-bass flying high above him. Fast-forward ten years and we were playing those same songs every night in arenas, flying first-class, staying in luxury hotels and being paid handsomely to do so. A voice that can compel both a field of 80,000 and the intimacy of a front room. I was surrounded by three supremely talented song-writers and Marcus, our singer with a one-in-a-million voice. We saw the country and then, as things miraculously grew, the world. Where would we sleep that night? Hostels in Fort William, pub floors in Ipswich, even the Travelodge in Carlisle maintains a sort of charm in my mind. Be it odysseys through the Scottish Islands, or soapbox shows in Soho. Being in Mumford & Sons was exhilarating.Įvery gig was its own adventure. We made it but my voice sadly didn't, completely shot by exhaustion, I had to mime my harmonies. I remember blitzing it down the M6 through the night, the lads asleep beside me. I think it was Ben who drew the short-straw and had to follow by train with his keyboard. We couldn't fit all four of us and Ted's double-bass into the VW Polo. Bouncing off a sweaty stage in an Edinburgh catacomb we then had to get to a gig in Camden by lunch the next day.
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