It's not fair to be such a talented musician and so devastatingly good looking. At least that was the overall consensus in the car as we drove up to the concert. And for the record, I wasn't sharing a ride with 15 year old fangirls with Edward t-shirts on. These people were straight men in their middle twenty somethings who couldn't help but covet in disbelief the dark haired, perfect-faced artist with eyes like a poetic morning on a misty sea. Those striking eyes alone are enough to make a girl understand a deeper meaning to the word beautiful, and when added to a soft spoken man who plays the banjo, well, it's all over. But, however more abundantly blessed than any one of us riding in that car he may be, I don't think you can quite say we felt jealous of him. Jealousy would imply a sense of resentment and I'm not sure it's possible to have any resentment toward someone you feel you've connected with on a level in which words are a useless tool for description. The otherworldly emotions invoked by listening to John Wayne Gacy Jr for the first time alone are ineffable. It's not simply the marvelous progressive song structure or haunting lyrics about a serial killer that captivate me; it's the confusingly empathetic interpretation of an exposed self awareness that leaves both the performer and the willful audience naked, all of which is completely embodied by the subtle inhale and exhale of a vulnerable singer in the last moments before the track ends. Simply put, that song changed the way I know how to feel. It was also the first song (of many) that convinced me of the genius that is Sufjan Stevens, all flawless facial features aside.
The anticipation grew as we waited in our seats at Kingsbury Hall on the campus of the University of Utah; second row balcony, almost center. Since Sufjan had not toured to Utah in many years I felt especially eager for this concert. There are very few concerts I feel compelled to attend (call me crazy but I'm not into drunk chicks spilling their beer all over me or creepy dudes getting handsy on me all in the name of “feeling the music”), but this was one of the few I probably wouldn't have missed for anything. There is something that attracts me to visually view the raw organics of acoustic based music in person.
The lights went out and DM Stith, Sufjan's opening act and fellow band member, walked out onto the stage with his guitar. He sat in an unremarkable chair which was simply lit with one amber toned light sitting on the ground to his left. His music was passionate and folksy with a strange undertone that is hard to describe beyond bluesy minstrel. Stith's almost classical finger picking complimented by his falsetto register, which often slipped into heart wrenching ohs and moans (aptly nicknamed “sex scenes” by Sufjan during the band's practices), proved to be the perfect prelude. When Stith finished his serenades, the lights came on for a few minutes and then quietly dimmed again. The crowd roared.
A low overture floated out from the darkness of the stage for a few seconds until a magenta light faded onto Sufjan standing alone at center holding a banjo. A mesh screen divided the audience and the musician who was whimsically dressed in white angel wings (wings being a signature piece he commonly wears) and shiny silver pants. His wardrobe a stark contrast to his bare voice and lyrics. “I will try, I will try, I will try”. More magenta light flooded the stage and the entire band joined in with foreboding force for a moment before dissolving back to black. “We saw the dragon move down. My father burned into coal. My mother saw it from afar. She took the purse to the bed. I saw the sign in the sky.” Sufjan stood alone while the projected stars on the trapezoidal screen behind him mesmerizingly built and re-built nonsensical illustrations. His voice became harsher. “He will take you if you run he will chase you”. The magenta light eased to red and slowly exposed the entire band once again. “Because he is Lord”. The mesh screen lifted, removing the barrier, uniting the room. “Because he is Lord”. The song amplified to an erratic peak and abruptly ended.
Everyone on stage looked as if an intergalactic costume party had throw up on them. There was no apparent consistency except that the two drummers, two backup singer-dancers, the smattering of guitarists, the bassist, and the horn section that made up the band were all sporting some sort of crazy hat or accessory. Even DM Stith, the now keyboardist had changed from his previously casual outfit into a skeleton costume. The only explanation given was that it was November first and the band hadn't quite gotten over Halloween yet. Fair enough. Little did I know that costumes were going to be the least eccentric thing seen that night.
The closed-minded-technique-perfecting side of me pushed back. You probably shouldn't accept this silliness, it said to me, and it tried to justify it away as contrived hipster drivel. It wasn't even ironic, they just looked ridiculous. This band I was watching was being that weird band at that weird underground bar in a scene from that kind of movie in which someone is very out of their element. But the creative side, like the angel on my other shoulder, sweetly chimed in and nudged me to gave it a chance. Once I did, it didn't take long to recognize the thing that had been on my mind recently, so much even that it was the very topic of conversation on the drive up to the concert.
Creative honesty.
Everything I was watching became infinitely more important. The costumes weren't there for shock value or to make a crazy statement, they represented the artistic integrity Sufjan radiates. It was as if the crazy accessories were to tell the audience that he didn't want anyone to take him too seriously that they couldn't have fun anymore. Too many people want their artists placed on an unattainable pedestal to be their beacon of misunderstood creative genius for the flock to follow; and many artist readily keep themselves there in that cloak of mystery for their ego's sake. The longer the concert went on, the more I knew I wasn't blindly accepting what was being fed to me for fear of being left out. Sufjan, just as his music reflects, is uncomfortably honest. Even to the point of looking downright stupid. Take his Elaine Benes-like dance moves, or soft and apologetic small talk with the audience for example, not even his devastatingly good looks help him there. All of his quirky idiosyncratic gestures and modest words were not done to keep up a flattering or abstruse facade, nor were they born out of an unacquainted identity for one could not write his poetry without an achingly acute sense of self. It was simply stark raving honesty. To be able to recognize it was to feel relevant. With my eyes filled with tears, I hung on to every sensory experience of the performance. My world melted away as Sufjan led me into his universe.
I observed that they weren't merely songs, but rather experiments with sound. His voice was often times just another instrument, and not necessarily the dominating focus like it normally was in earlier albums. This perception became truth nearing the end of the concert when Sufjan took time to explain his inspiration for his new albums. This explanation above anything else was the most profound experience of the evening for me. Not only was he describing what I had already assumed about his music but more importantly he also went into depth about his creative process. I found myself going through a significant creative rebirth with my own art and to hear his description was like hearing a friend describe how they find the same satisfaction in popping a giant pimple as you do. A ritual probably everyone finds rewarding, but few might fess up to for fear of looking human. Sufjan expressed that his growing dissatisfaction with his usual voice led him to start experiments in sculpting soundscapes. Although a good exercise, this didn't really produce anything beyond a cosmic catalogue of noises and tones. It wasn't until he came across the eccentric artwork of a late schizophrenic named Royal Robertson that he got his companion to create music again. I myself had been feeling that same discomfort with my regular style, and although that style pleased everyone around me, I was going back to the basics of my medium to experiment and started finding inspiration in the most unlikely of places. To face the disapproval of your audience when you embark on a creative process like that takes bravery, they beg you to return to what they find comfortable. I was very familiar with the displeasure from former admirers in my own career and I knew there were many in the audience at Kingsbury Hall that felt this way toward Sufjan. The three women sitting directly in front of us were obviously unimpressed with this new sound, casually texting and refusing to applaud anything except the expected acoustically toned songs. As I mentioned before, I was also expecting that raw goodness but was met with quite the unexpected. It would have been easy to brush the unknown aside like those sitting in front of me, but that would have defeated everything I had been analyzing in my own creative progression. Sufjan could have proudly sat upon the pedestal of which he was placed by the hundreds of people in attendance at the beginning of the show, but instead he came down to ground level and freely, honestly, exposed his flaws, dreams, humor, and creativity. It's true, this was by far his most electronic and synthesized music to date, but Sufjan still has an acoustic soul that by any other sound still smells as sweet.
The song that epitomizes the incredible journey regarding myself and Sufjan, Sufjan and himself, the audience and Sufjan, myself and the audience, et cetera, is Impossible Soul. The nearly thirty minute anthem finale is quite the experience. The five part concerto starts with a simple pulsating piano setting a soft adagio tempo. Sufjan's beautiful vocals slide into place after a few measures. Oh, woman, tell me what you want and I'll calm down without bleeding out with a broken heart that you stabbed for an hour. Woman, I was freaking out because I want you to know, my beloved, you are the lover of my impossible soul... The subtle percussion joins in and starts to build, inviting the horns and backup singers to join. Together they work there way through the next few stanzas, progressing and becoming less precise until the second of the five parts startlingly begins. Do you want to be afraid...The backup singers are now highlighted above a continuously pulsating beat that transforms into a swirling textures of trumpets and synthesizers that are reminiscent of a groovy cop movie from the late 1970s. This tapers off into a more whimsical and haunting polyphonic “sex scene” until Sufjan once agains joins the soundscape with an auto-tuned microphone for the third, and shortest, movement. Stupid man in the window, I couldn't be at rest... The metallic noise rang through the venue until the erratic instruments engulfed it at which the song nearly stops and restarts into a more complete structure. The tone shifts into impossibly catchy and upbeat. It's a long life, better pinch yourself, put your face together, better get it right... The musicians chant the same few verses over the next ten minutes and provoke a dance party on stage and in the audience. The music is at it's highest point. Boy, we can do much more together, it's not so impossible... The auto-tuner makes a return and the rhythm starts slowing back down as the phrase is repeated several times. The random pacing swells again until everything stops for a moment and the final stage of the chronicle begins. The focus is on Sufjan who enters into a more melancholy and acoustic realm. I never meant to cause you pain my burden is the weight of a feather. I never meant to lead you on I only meant to please me, however. And then you tell me, boy, we an do much more, boy, we can do much more, boy, we can do much more together... The lyrics like an apology of someone who has accepted who they are and consequences that come with them. The energy is again caged into the thoughtful coda reflecting the beginning of the song. The song fades out in familiar lyrics with a lamentable twist; Boy, we made such a mess together.
Sufjan did end up playing John Wayne Gacy Jr. for his final encore which seemed like the perfect fit to end such an emotionally vulnerable night. I walked out of Kingsbury Hall with a renewed sense of strength to explore my own creativity; to wear my figurative white angel wings and silver pants without shame. What a beautiful experience.
peace,
k.
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