Of gimmicks and esoterica
Michigan-bred singer/songwriter Sufjan Stevens is about as likely to appear on the side of populism as Britney Spears or Linkin Park are to land on a year-end list. But the hushed-voiced creator of folk-based, near-orchestral arrangements is plaintively optimistic that a change may be coming.
"What I've learned through my life and through my singing is that the less you give and the quieter you are, then the more people will listen," says Stevens. "And there's just a lot of hype and flourishes and circus acts going on all over the place in popular music, and everyone's vying desperately for attention. But I think that what that does is it exhausts the listener, and that people are really ready for music that's quiet and sophisticated and that's soft-spoken."
It's thoughtful answers like that, delivered free from "umms" and "likes," that further endears Stevens to the critical masses (and probably distances him from the general masses). His thoughts are quietly brilliant, delivered with such a sterile tone that their gravity can escape you. His music works similarly. It doesn't scream at the listener for attention, but rather, Steven's work, to the musician's own surprise, garners much of its attention because of his gentle and soothing voice.
"I've always prided myself on being able to play multiple instruments and record different parts, and really work on the textures of the arrangements ... and that's easier to listen to," says Stevens. "Because I think there's a kind of a trigger within me when I hear my own voice that really is suspicious of it or isn't quite comfortable with it, 'cause I'm used to hearing it in my own head."
His two most recent albums -- 2003's Greetings from Michigan: The Great Lake State and this year's Seven Swans -- both showcase Steven's impressive prowess as a composer. Each track on both discs stands alone from those that surround it -- cycling from lush harmonies with wood flute calls to stark, spare moods swept with only Steven's deft fingers tickling his banjo or piano keys. The two projects ran simultaneously -- Swans is a more personal nonfiction collaboration with Daniel Smith, leader of Christian indie rockers the Danielson Famile (of which Stevens is an occasional member), while Michigan is a collection of fictional works that name-check locations in Steven's home state, the beginning of an ambitious solo project that he has devised to tribute each state in the Union.
If beautiful, soft-spoken arrangements and insightful banter wasn't enough to sway music intellectuals, ambition certainly will do it. And even just the promise of a venture as involved as the one Stevens has devised will keep him in good critical stead for a while to come.
"It's really a ridiculous proposal because right now, it's all proposition," admits Stevens. "And, you know, proposition cannot carry its own weight ... . And I think what really counts is the product and the work of the songs, and the art in the songwriting. And so, there's a lot to be done, and there's a lot of different ways to approach it. You can study geography and do research, and then create and fabricate a world based on that research. Or you can do on-site research and actually go to the place, and I think that that's ideal for me."
Thus far, Stevens already has begun work on odes to Illinois, New Jersey and Rhode Island -- the tiniest state constrained to songs under a minute. He expects to tailor each state-specific work to the location it represents: Texas being a multi-album set sold with spurs and a cowboy hat, Florida a mixture of Latin influences and hip-hop that Stevens predicts will not work.
His crossover into popular culture probably won't, either. Which is just fine with this critic.
nikhil.swaminathan@creativeloafing.com
