When people ask me who my favourite band is, I always say The Beatles. But – to be honest – I have a more recent musical passion which runs slightly deeper. That passion is for the multifaceted multi-instrumentalist Sufjan Stevens.
Do I love all of Sufjan’s songs? I do not. But I equally defy any Beatles fan to say with a straight face that all The Beatles’ back catalogue is pleasant listening. What’s more, Sufjan falls into what I consider to be a sweet spot for fostering musical creativity. Namely, he is famous enough to be considerate in keeping his melodies sweet and his music (generally) harmonious, but he is “indie” enough to often push the boat out.
More than that, though, he seems to be driven compulsively to write songs. Having gained an MFA in creative writing from “The New School”, he could very easily have written narrative fiction. In fact, in a way, he does, it’s only that his stories are embedded in his music.
For any newcomer faced with Sufjan’s output, it is inevitable that they will feel quite justifiably baffled. On the first track from 2015’s Carrie & Lowell, Stevens admits “I don’t know where to begin”. I have always admired the honesty to this opening on an album so fraught with grief and the struggle to push past suffering. But could the moment not equally apply to Sufjan’s deviation from his musical past? On a record that is truly pared back, Stevens seems to bear the weight of – and ultimately reject – his past fixation with ornamentation. So, if Stevens himself can occasionally not quite stomach his own creations, what hope has the new listener in forging a path through a collection that is so disparate?
Well, despair not, (but also probably don’t start with 2020’s The Ascension). In recent months – possibly since my second psychotic episode, in fact – I have developed an interest in ways that the frenetic and frenzied can become calm and assured. I speak mainly of this as a theme within fiction, but I believe my conception of this idea actually dates back to some obsessional habits which I developed when unwell.
For one, I became convinced for a time that all energy expended was energy wasted. Worse, any energy I released would, according to my new belief, contribute to the chaos in the world around me which, as you may imagine, seemed quite vast. I deemed that to sit and breathe slowly and think as little as possible was the only ethical thing I could do in the light of my “discovery”. When it came to meals, I would prioritise eating slowly. Speech should be pleasant, direct and honest. Where before there had been a flurry of jokes and anxious verbal tics, now there should be kept a silence. I realise now that this was a self-preservatory delusion on my part: if I can reduce the amount I say and do, I can reduce the anxiety I cause to those around me. Naturally, this only works up to a point: there will come a time when keeping quiet will be seen as worrisome in itself.
I also became convinced that the true artist, the real person of deep creative talent, rejects creation. Do not misunderstand me; they do not reject their creations, but the very act of creation itself. It should be noted that I had developed delusions of self-grandeur which complicated matters, so that in my own mind I had become something of a creative genius myself. This idea was based upon a few things (tenuous though they were). Primarily, it harkened back to Prospero’s great speech in Shakespeare’s The Tempest in which he rejects (“abjure[s]”) his former magic and (supposedly) so too does Shakespeare give up the craft of writing. Did I think, too, of Hamlet's moment of final acceptance? Did I consider his order for us to “let be” when faced with life’s hardships and to trust to providence? I cannot say that I did, but such thoughts are so central to my responses to difficulty in general that they all but consumed me subconsciously for this period of delusion when I was ill.
But if you had seen me during this time, you would not have found a placid, pensive and philosophical young man. Though I suddenly felt that silence was better than sound, that calmness was better than laughter, that to be good, I had to be perfectly still and patient; I found I could not be quiet, calm and patient at all.
If you thought that all this was building to a moment where I’d say that the music of Sufjan Stevens was all I needed to help me through such ascetic difficulties, I’m sorry to disappoint. Music was of crucial importance to my re-emergence and my re-embracing of life, but to tell the truth it sometimes also made things worse. This holds true for both my psychosis and the depression which came after. Music taught me to hope, but it also intensified my pain. It could even have been said to have sometimes contributed to the exacerbation of madness. Not that madness wants stimulus, per se, but it fed on what it had, and what it had were song lyrics.
So, I may not have been aiming toward an easy, hopeful message with this piece, but if you’ll forgive me that, I do believe that I can still turn this around. I propose to do so by looking more closely at Stevens’ work. For, I think I can still see a way in which my former deep suspicion of wasted energy can be brought to good, if read through some of Stevens’ overarching messages. Could it be that, after all, I was only deepening my understanding of an aspect of what it means to be human in my illness?
C.S. Lewis said that “we must play” in this life, but that we can only do so in earnestness, by taking one another seriously. This, for me, encapsulates much of the beauty in Sufjan’s music, in his personality, even. So then, let’s look at some of Sufjan’s words. I here state upfront that Stevens is a Christian. Having said that, his music is often a far cry from worship music.
I think, perhaps, my “realisation” from my illness is something of a principle that I often bore in mind and considered, but that it is profoundly difficult to live and enact. A lot of people want to be meditating, and a lot of people feel that they do waste a lot of energy, but if I did nothing more for the rest of my life but conserve energy and empty my mind of thoughts, surely all meaning would evaporate and fast? What does Stevens have to say on this matter? Well, I come back to a track from The Ascension which is up there with my absolute favourite of Stevens’ songs. It is the title track and, in amongst a frenetic and frenzied album, it is a moment of musical calm, lyrical beauty and, ultimately, peace.
The song has three refrains (I hesitate to call them choruses) which grow from a feeling of bitterness and self-loathing into a more accepting and hopeful tone. So, at first we get:
But now it strikes me far too late again
That I was asking far too much
Of everyone around me
And now it strikes me far too late again
That I should answer for myself
As the ascension falls upon me […]
I always saw this as a moment when Sufjan’s religion has got the better of him. He has been harsh and judgemental to others and has not acted upon his own principles, has not “answer[ed] for” himself. This first refrain comes back later and then comes a third (longer) version of the refrain:
And now it frightens me
The thought against my chest
To think I was asking for a reason
Explaining why everything’s a total mess
And now it frightens me
The dreams that I possess
To think I was acting like a believer
When I was just angry and depressed […]
These lines clearly allude to some of Stevens’ darkest moments. Notice how he puts no time frame on these revelations: he could have been “angry and depressed” and under the illusion that he was “acting like a believer” for a day, a month, a year or even years. I so identify with Stevens here: I, too, am frightened by my aspirations. Likewise, I am frightened by obsessive thoughts and behaviours that seem necessary and productive and noble at the time, but which afterwards turn out to have been something undiagnosed or noxious. These sound like elaborate constructs, but they are fundamental anxieties of mine. To clarify this point, before looking at how Stevens manages to turn this around, I want to lead into the final refrain with the lines which just precede it:
I thought I could change the world around me
I thought I could change the world for best
I thought I was called in convocation
I thought I was sanctified and blessed
I distinctly remember feeling (at a time when I was having messianic delusions) that I had to save the world whether I liked it or not. Believe me when I say that this weighed on me immensely. Isn’t that weight a bit like what Sufjan feels here? I truly believed I was “sanctified and blessed”, no, that I had sanctified and blessed everything myself and come to set it all right again. Even more distinct than this feeling is what came after: the tearful and bless-ed realisation that I wasn’t here to save everything, that I didn’t have to do anything of the sort. I expressed this to my mum, and she responded with a kindness and assurance and sharing of woe that only a mother who is watching her child heaping suffering on himself can. It now makes sense to me why, in similar moments, I projected voices into the room explaining that they had had the “same exact thing” happen when they had had mental difficulties. I was feeling a despair that I, thankfully, haven’t felt since, and I needed to feel that someone had been there before. It felt a little bit as though the entire universe was being pulled towards me in a gravitational inevitability and I had to either blot it all out or else be crushed.
In the view of the weight of Sufjan’s own responsibility and particularly his despair, it is so remarkable what he chooses to sing next:
But now it strengthens me
To know the truth at last
That everything comes from consummation
And everything comes with consequence […]
Putting aside the potential sexual punning – though I do think this an important aspect – I just find this so amazing. Sufjan wrote this album when he was 45 years old (give or take). I feel that in this moment he has reached – in amongst all the glitchy and the frenetic and frenzied sounds – a true peace and, above all, a personal wisdom. The world, he seems to be saying, is not his to be driven to distraction by, not his to freak out about. It would be better to admit when things are too huge for one person.
The final track of the album, America, comes with more despair and more worldly woes, but perhaps this should not surprise us. For, what comes at the close of the penultimate song (the one which we have been examining)? Well, this:
What now?
What now?
I freely admit I have brought a lot to this song that isn’t actually contained within it, that a lot of baggage has been unpacked in order to arrive at these readings. However, if you’ll permit me one more stretch of the interpretive pen: I feel those “what now[s]” quite personally. too. The road to recovery from psychosis is littered with such moments – and this makes sense because the thought “what now?” so often occurs when you realise something fundamental about your place in the world. Stevens seems to be saying: okay, so I know that the world will still turn in spite of my worry and that I am not on a mission to retrieve it from the precipice, so… what does this tell me about my life? What can I change about my behaviour and my attitudes in the light of this? The song America is an epic twelve-and-a-half-minute reply: I will despair and sing songs of despair anyway. Stevens is saying: even though I cannot save the world, I can still point out that it needs saving.
And so, too, do I feel that enjoyment and movement and energy are to be celebrated alongside peace and calmness. Both have their place.
A time to weep and a time to laugh; A time to mourn and a time to dance.
Ecclesiastes 3:4-5
- Angus