I’ve always been a little wary about indie superstar Sufjan Stevens. I first heard his music at an informational meeting for the philosophy club at my Baptist school (turns out it was a hangout for all the self-superior leftists with beards on campus). His albums-about-the-states projects have seemed too calculated, inorganic, self-congratulating-ly clever. In his “The Great Sufjan Song Xmas Xchange!” contest, he picked the lamest possible song as the winner (full disclosure: I entered and am a bad loser). Recently, in a notorious interview (where he was the interviewer), Stevens delivered a bizarre, “poor-me” monologue hinting towards retiring from music because albums–nay, the very concept of songs!–were dying, if not already dead.
Cover art by Royal Roberts
Yet at the end of the day, Stevens always redeems himself. The holier-than-thou social gospel-ers at my school were right to put him on because he’s one of the only Christians in the music world who isn’t a total embarrassment. His work, however immense and lofty it gets, sounds so meticulous because he’s agonized over and found the best possible way to arrange and express his ideas. Regardless of his inexplicably lame choice, his “Song Xchange” contest was an unprecedented event, connecting artist and fans in a way that never would have been possible before the Internet. And, most importantly, he hasn’t retired from music or tried to redefine albums or whatever he was getting at.
After numerous side projects, he’s following up the universally-acclaimed Illinois with his first proper album since 2005– The Age of Adz— and he’s surpassed his previous work by light years. I came into Adz fully expecting to be the cynical contrarian I was to The Suburbs, but within one playthrough I knew I was listening to an inspired masterwork by a supremely gifted artist.
For those who have only heard Illinois, prepare yourself: Adz is noisy and messy, both musically and lyrically. Stevens intertwines the lush orchestration of his signature works with aggressive synthesizers and drum machines, and he’s (thankfully) abandoned his perpetual hushed-whisper singing for a longing wail drenched in reverb and other effects. The press for the album claims that it is based on the artwork of Royal Robertson, who was known for developing schizophrenia after his wife of 19 years left him and took their 11 children. His magic-marker-and-glitter works were amateurish pulp science fiction visions with apocalyptic, misogynistic messages railing against sexual deviancy; Robertson considered himself a prophet but included all kinds of syncretistic numerology and speculation about aliens in his work. It’s a strange connection: Robertson, the unbridled bush leaguer, evoked by Stevens, the meticulous master, but it absolutely works.
The frenzied blips, warbles and beats suggest Robertson’s strong sci-fi elements, and the lyrics scream of sexual turmoil compounded by a commitment to Christ. The main difference is that Robertson obsessed over a love that left him, while Stevens rages against himself for leaving a love. And– against my better judgment, I’m going to say this– it appears the reason for this is that Stevens has tried and failed to reconcile homosexuality with Christianity.
I’m not bringing up the issue for an Ingraham-esque “outing” of Stevens or as gossip-mongering; I have no idea about the man’s sexuality and wouldn’t care if I didn’t get this interpretation from the source material, and even then, I wouldn’t care if it weren’t so moving. Of course, I could be absolutely wrong; he’s made a career on writing as other characters. However, there’s no narration, he doesn’t set it in a particular time or place, and it’s all extremely personal. Whether it’s autobiographical or exaggeration/fabrication through a character, this struggle does appear to be a running thread that conceptually links the songs.
Album opener “Futile Devices” is a restrained, acoustic love song to a man who plays the guitar and crochets– two activities Stevens is known for– but I can’t bring myself to think he would write a love song to himself from someone else’s perspective. “All for Myself,” the album’s most openly erotic song, talks of him and his lover running shirtless “with hairy chests.” Stevens is often a very obtuse, indirect writer; a choice such as this is as close to an open confession as he could get.
And when I bring this up, don’t think I’m being some sort of Fred Phelps inquisitor. This is only important because of Stevens’ explorations of theology in his music (check out his excellent Seven Swans if you can). And if you are gay and believe in Jesus, to some degree or other, you will question whether these two attributes can coexist or not. For Stevens, he appears to have repented from his sin, and he’s broken a few hearts and eviscerated in his own during the struggle. It first rears its head in the title track, named after Robertson’s art.
Through a massive, majestic techno-orchestral arrangement that’s equal parts Tron soundtrack and Wagner, Stevens equates the feeling of romantic love with the exhilaration of wrapping your head around eternal life, then lets his love know “I must be moving on,” though he still loves his partner deeply. On “Get Real Get Right,” the album’s most funky and light-hearted track (at least at its start), he nods to Robertson with an appearance by an alien prophet telling the narrator to “get right with the Lord.” Stevens says to his lover, “I know I’ve caused you trouble, I know I’ve caused you pain, But I must do the right thing, I must do myself a favor and get real, Get right with the Lord.” After drawing a sacrificial commitment from his lover, he must withdraw from the relationship if he is to take his faith seriously.
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The real power of The Age of Adz is that Stevens doesn’t slip into empty moralizing and he doesn’t gloss over the difficulty of his choice; his love seems all-consuming, and his temptation is overwhelming. “Vesuvius” finds the perfect metaphor; the pressure and desire to revert to autonomy is a volcano; its eruption has destroyed everything around him, and he rages against its resurgence with all his might. In this song alone, he addresses himself, saying “Sufjan, follow your heart, follow the flame or fall on the floor,” a call to follow his deceitful desires rather than prostrate himself in submission to God. The penultimate song “I Want to be Well” likens his sin to an illness, which could be both literal and figurative, and shows his violent anger– at himself, at God, at the lover he has to leave right now. He starts out rationalizing, “I’ve come to realize life is not about love with someone,” then has to respond to objections: “I’m not fucking around!” he cries as the track’s drums careen out of control.
It all comes to a head in “Impossible Soul,” a 5-part, 25-minute denouement that finds Sufjan beating himself up over all this drama, lamenting the impossible situation wherein his heart finds itself. He begins by apologizing to a woman who loves him; he cannot desire her the way he’s described for his true lover over the past 10 tracks. The remainder of the song chronicles an interior monologue where he first questions his decisions, then curses himself, then tries to psych himself up and snap out of his self-loathing. In the final section, he sings alone over banjos, ending the album with a wistful summary of his love: “Boy, we made such a mess together.” I’ll never know exactly how that feels, to have such an integral part of your identity be such a blazing contradiction to your spiritual convictions; but Stevens makes the struggle, confusion, and longing so real, it’s hard to keep your eyes dry.
I’ll get the review-y stuff out of the way first. The Age of Adz is as unique a vision as you’re going to find in today’s music world. Sufjan balances his well-established mix of classical composing and pop melodies over a tightrope of fishing line; he populates the mix with all manner of novel synth sounds in perfect counterpoint to the traditional orchestra; and he connects through his lyrics like never before, abandoning all the distance and haughty intellectualism of his past albums.
And now for what I really feel: Adz is one of those albums that, once you’re done listening, you’re not done with it emotionally. For an hour, for a day, you can’t stop thinking about it. It agitates you, puts you in strange moods. It’s so perfect, so beautiful, and it’s recounting something so awful, you don’t know what to do with yourself. You listen again and again, and it sinks further and further into your head. This isn’t just an enjoyable bit of music; this is a refresher on how important art is for understanding the human soul. And when such art is so truthful and so powerful, it shouldn’t be missed.
[Author’s note: I would like to minimize any offense I may cause by calling homosexuality “sin.” I do not count myself as righteous above anyone else, so I do not use the term to alienate or judge. In the Bible, homosexuality is given no more fierce condemnation than the adultery that every single person on earth commits through mere lust. Because it is so strong an element in one’s identity, I understand why it is such a sensitive issue.]