Marcus Mumford, “(self-titled).”

With Marcus Mumford as the chief songwriter and patriarchal namesake his band, you wouldn’t be faulted for thinking of Mumford & Sons as a solo project. Yet there are things so personal that are better owned entirely by the person who experienced them. (Self-titled) is an album that Mumford began writing in a tumultuous point in his life in 2019 while dealing with indulgence—alcohol, food, other things so far publicly unsaid—after coming to terms with sexual abuse he experienced as a 6-year-old.

The album opens with lyrical dynamite. Mumford has since begun speaking publicly about this, but it’s not necessary to the storytelling of opener “Cannibal:” “I can still taste you and I hate it/ That wasn’t a choice in the mind of a child and you knew it/ You took the first slice of me and you ate it raw/ Ripped at it with your teeth and your lips like a cannibal/ You fucking animal.” With that, Mumford begins a journey of accepting what happened, sharing his story and searching for forgiveness.

It’s a literal process. There was no solo album until the first song was written. From there, with the guidance of his bandmates, he went at it without them. But he wasn’t alone. Cowriting with producer Blake Mills (Alabama Shakes, Jim James, the Killers), the two recorded at L.A.’s Sound City with contributions from studio visitors like Brandi Carlile, Phoebe Bridgers, Clairo and Monica Martin. This led to an album that wasn’t only personal but unique from Mumford & Sons releases.

For more than three minutes, “Cannibal” consists of just Marcus Mumford and his guitar. Over muted fingerpicking, his slightly reverberated voice layers a bitter, gut-squeezing story about the experience, with “such power there, it may destroy me.” Not until Mumford demands, “Help me know how/ To begin again,” does the release finally come in the form of a grand Mumford & Sons’-esque outro.

The second song, “Grace,” is about the songwriter explaining to his mother what the first song is about. It’s a narrative album and a narrative song, with Mumford overtly not playing blame while providing comfort, even if he’s still faking it: “But it’s all behind/ I’m fine, it’s all right/ Do I sound like I’m lying?” This song is also where the contributing band (Pino Palladino, Jim Keltner and Steve Ferrone) makes its presence known. The main guitar riff has more electric grit than Mumford & Sons, while a guitar solo distances it from the Americana sound for which Mumford is best known. It sounds more like Collective Soul.

“Prior Warning” is a feel-bad song that lyrically enters Mumford & Sons territory. Mumford has done something bad and feels bad, nor can he explain his actions. It’s likely about some of the more recent turmoil in his life and is told over airy electronic percussion, washes of synths and a woodsy, funereal organ. The ruminative “Only Child” sounds different (almost a country song) but carries this same vibe of shame; the artist isn’t singing about his childhood, but himself acting like one. And there are more uncomfortable experiences on “Dangerous Game” (with guest vocals by Clairo), which combines more woodsy instrumentation with overdriven guitars and Afro-pop-like metallic pings and percussion.

There are happier-sounding, uptempo songs on the album, too, but they still carry a weight. Both “Better Angels” and “Better Off High” are highlighted by a squelching guitar that sounds like something Daniel Lanois would play. Complete forgiveness is hard to come by on (self-titled), be it his abuser or himself. Even on songs like the gospel-like “Go In Light” (with Monica Martin) and “Better Angels,” it’s more a process than a finish line.

The album instead concludes with “Stonecatcher” (with Phoebe Bridgers), the melody and progression of which fans of Snow Patrol’s “Run” will find familiar; and “How,” with Brandi Carlile. The former is a sort of prayer for mercy and a sort of therapy. “All we can hope/ Is that we suffer well/ When the cycle ends/ When there’s tales to tell/ When it reaches me,” he sings. He’s said the song was inspired by Bryan Stevenson of human rights nonprofit the Equal Justice Initiative, who’s a mentor to him.

And on “How”—which returns to the album to the same starting point—Mumford and his guitar addressing his abuser directly.

“I hope your memory is less vivid than mine/ And is free from that awful maple light,” he sings. “I have to say I still wish you had just done it in the dark/ So the pictures didn’t burn so bright.”

He questions motive: “I had wondered what was done to you/ To give you such a taste for flesh.”

He wants to find it in his heart to forgive and “release you from all of the blame I know how,” but he’s still working it all out.

“As if saying the words will help me know how/ Please help me know how.”

Follow editor Roman Gokhman at Twitter.com/RomiTheWriter.