„Right now, we live in the f***ing piss torrents of a perma-f***ing c***shower and in such a f***ing world, conditions have deteriorated to the f***ing point where f***ing Mumford And Sons can get to reach Number f***ing one on both sides of the f***ing Atlantic, with their faux, „Golly, wouldn’t it be jolly to be poor, capering around the junkyard wearing neckerchiefs and being authentic“ chic. Who buys this septic f***ing horseshit?
Well, here’s their latest f***ing album. And I have to admit, I’m surprised. I imagined it would represent the listening equivalent of scraping around the tenth circle of Satan’s own anus with a f***ing mandolin plectrum – but actually, it’s more like the f***ing twentieth. It is a growth on the left bollock of the testicles of f***ing pop.
This po-faced, gale force f***ing guff is meant to have us punching the air but all it makes you want to punch is their f***ing faces, followed by a low one to their corduroy-clad f***ing bollocks!“
(„Mr. Agreeable“ im britischen Magazin The Quietus)
Mit Dank an Ekkehard!