Sufjan Stevens’ main musical projects come few and far between – only two appeared in the last decade: 2005’s state-centric “Illinois” and 2010’s electronically-minded “The Age of Adz.” But Stevens is no slacker, as shown by his expansive output of work in between studio albums, including rap collaborations, movie soundtracks and a few Christmas CDs. All of it, in one way or another, is beautiful.
It’s no surprise, then, that “Carrie & Lowell,” an album stripped down to the roots of folk music even farther than Stevens’ 2004 trek into folk minimalism, “Seven Swans,” is the most beautiful of his career. What may surprise one is the way that it pierces the ears, the mind and particularly the soul in its maddeningly melancholy journey through the past. “Carrie & Lowell” is near-perfect and, in a feat that one needs to hear to believe, may supersede the universally-adored “Illinois” as his best work yet.
The contrast is immediate at first glance: “Illinois” is grand in its scope, encompassing the history of the region into a folk and pop tribute that swerves from celebrational to depressing. “Carrie & Lowell” is pure heart, capturing Stevens’ youthful memories of his mother Carrie and stepfather Lowell, both of whom are referenced heavily throughout. Carrie died from stomach cancer in 2012, and “Carrie & Lowell” is the residual scar that was impressed on Stevens in the years after.
Lyrics are the driving force here. With practically no instruments to accompany him besides guitar and occasional piano, Stevens is at the most poetic point of his career. In his reflection of the past, he touches on everything from drug and alcohol abuse to suicidal thoughts and failed relationships. They hit hardest when they are presented as uncompromising fact.
“Now I’m drunk and afraid/ Wishing the world would go away/ What’s the point of singing songs/ If they’ll never even hear you,” Stevens sings in “Eugene.”
It’s strange, and almost shocking, to hear Stevens presenting his ideas so openly. His parents have always appeared as a background presence on his previous works, never named but hinted at in their influence and passion. Mentions of family trips to Oregon and his brother’s kin provide brief glimpses of pleasant experiences, quickly overshadowed by confusion and despair.
Each line that Stevens delivers can hit like a punch to the gut, independent of how bare or complicated they are. A lot of what Stevens recalls from his past isn’t pretty: Carrie leaving her children behind at a video store and Stevens finding himself comforted by a swimming teacher who couldn’t pronounce his name. But the ugliest parts are the many, many questions he poses throughout: “How did this happen?,” “Did you know me at all?,” “What did I do to deserve this?,” “Why don’t you love me?”
God and Carrie appear to share the blame almost equally throughout the record, as Stevens’ more confused queries are of his detachment from both his faith and human affection. Religious themes are one of Stevens’ countless fortes, but whereas his psalm recollections in “Seven Swans” are peaceful and hopeful, “Carrie & Lowell” leaves almost nothing but woe: “Jesus I need you, be near, come shield me/ From fossils that fall on my head/ There’s only a shadow of me; in a manner of speaking I’m dead.”
Despite what has been implied so far, “Carrie & Lowell” feels much more like an evolution of Stevens’ illustrious career than it does a harkening setback. His sound has changed on every work that he has put out so far, and this one is no different, as evocative and ethereal as it is. This album isn’t a return to the same folk roots that Stevens’ career started off with. Like his childhood, Stevens cannot simply circle back around to what once was.
A musical memory as much as it is a personal memory, “Carrie & Lowell” is a collection of fundamentals pushed to new limits. It’s a new type of beauty, a new type of prayer and a new type of life that, with or without the painful resolution he so dearly wishes for, carries Stevens forward.
– Sebastian Torrelio