Carrie and Lowell: Sufjan Stevens' melancholy masterpiece

"This is not my art project; This is my life"

- Stevens (Pitchfork interview)

            "I don't know where to begin... I've lost my strength completely" Sufjan Stevens sings, the impact of his whispered style given a new and arresting sheen in part thanks to Bon Iver's treatment at his rural Wisconsin recording studio. A slew of other recording locations and engineers is indication Stevens' quest to perfect Carrie and Lowell, what he himself admits is his most personal album in his fifteen year career, (and the first album since 2010's extravagant The Age of Adz).  

            Here the feel is less epic and more personally immersive. His vocal delivery which used to seem reserved and shaky or at times whiny and has grown ever stronger and more assertive in recent releases is now quiet again, but still sounds confident. I challenge anyone to find fault in his vocals, thought the layering helps smooth it out a bit, its clear he is still in control and has grown tremendously as a singer in his own right. Carrie and Lowell is a quiet soundscape with some echoes of Seven Swans (2004). This ambient landscape rolls along in quiet contemplation, swelling with the cleansing yet relentless rhythm of spring rain showers. The more I listen the more I am moved and the more I see that he is not playing for sympathy but to express himself in the best way he can. I have further realized that the effects of such a poignant album go beyond the artist and now play a significant role in comforting listeners and assauging, or giving voice or identification with the loss of loved ones. The album stands out as much for the sum of its parts as for each finely honed line. It is a wonder to discover again Stevens' mastery.

            We have been accustomed to Stevens tradition of storytelling backed by resounding, epic, atonal arrangements - a la Phillip Glass modernism; momentous "art," or themed albums, (Illinoise, Michigan, The Age of Adz) in which were nestled quieter tracks that drove straight to the heart, such as "John Wayne Gacy, Jr.". Here sufjan has given us a seamless album of such quiet gems. There is his trademark banjo plucking, careful keys, yet a distinct lack of the percussion and soaring orchestrations and nearly spastic electronic noise we have come to expect from his big-sound, rock-opera-esque forays. All has been washed in a reverb-dust that thankfully somehow never grows old. 

"It is a wonder to discover anew Stevens' mastery of songwriting."

            Though all of his albums include elements of auto-biography, personal details mixed with local history and zoomed-out reflection, this is his most purely Sufjan-centric narrative to date. Its packed with the heart-piercing sorrow (bring kleenex), and a grace drawn from the well of life. Ultimately it is a testament to the eternal mystery of death when it comes knocking on our loved-one's door. In 2012 Steven's mother - Carrie, of the album's title - died suddenly from stomach cancer. This tragedy is the source for much of the stages-of-grief apparent throughout. In "Drawn to the Blood" Stevens grasps "How did this happen, how, how did this happen?"

            True to form, a plenitude of historical, mythological and biblical references are included, from Oregon's "Tillamook Burn" - a spate early 20th-century wildfires, the NW coast Sea Lion Caves ( he spent summers in Oregon with his mother), to childhood swimming lessons, and "slain Medusa". A few song titles seem to be twists on traditional Christian hymns, making clear the tumultuous nature of Stevens' faith (No Shade in the Shadow of the Cross, John my Beloved, Drawn to the Blood), or twists on modern pop songs (All of Me Wants All of You). There is a current of muddy confusion, desperation even, running throughout, as in Blue Bucket of Gold, "Once the myth has been told, the lens deforms it as lighting/ raise your right hand/ tell me you want me in your life/ Or raise your red flag, just when I want you in my life." Or shockingly abrupt, "You checked your texts while I masturbated ... now I feel so used" (All of Me). While such lines are deeply personal they are also universal.

            Harmonies are reminiscent of Simon and Garfunkel abound, particularly in "Eugene," and a few merciful doses of humor too: his childhood swimming teacher "could not quite pronounce my first name/ he called me Subaru." And transitions to the more melancholic in the next stanza, "Whats the point of singing songs if they'll never even hear you?" We hear you Sufjan,  and we grieve along with you, for as he chants in "The Fourth of July," the albums centerpiece, "We're all gonna die, we're all gonna die, we're all gonna die."

            Death may even seem a bit easier to contemplate thanks to Stevens' sonic elegy, his most unified and intimate album to date, perhaps even a masterpiece, though only time will tell.

            HERE.Buy it here!