REVIEW: Sufjan Stevens – ‘Carrie & Lowell’

Not to be the bearer of bad news, but, if you haven’t already, at some point in life you’re going to go to a funeral (unless everybody you know outlives you, which is, I think, a bittersweet victory at best). The chances are that at least one of these funerals will feature a reading of Christina Rosetti’s sonnet Remember. The prevalence of this 19th Century poem is most likely due to its closing lines, which reassure the listener/reader that, of the dead, it’s “Better by far you should forget and smile/Than that you should remember and be sad.”

Depending on whom you ask, Rosetti’s sentiment can be interpreted as either “move on” or “live in denial.” Either way, luckily for 2015’s cultural landscape these popular modes of mourning don’t figure in the vocabulary of Sufjan Stevens, who has produced perhaps the finest musical meditation on loss you will hear, for this year at least.
Now, you might be slightly uncomfortable with this reviewer’s apparent gratitude for the artist’s inability to immediately achieve closure. If so, then you’ve pretty much felt the discomfort central to Carrie & Lowell.

The album is mainly focussed, or at least inspired, by the death of the titular Carrie, Stevens’ mother, who figured only sporadically in his life after she abandoned him and their family when he was 12 months old.

Listening to Stevens’ dissection of this complicated relationship and his subsequent grief is comparable to stumbling on a loved one’s diary. You find it full of pained and alarmingly depressed introspections, yet it is written so poetically and with such graceful subtlety that you read on for the pure beauty of the language and expression of sentiment. But no matter how beautiful a work of art Carrie & Lowell might be, nor how universal its themes, the listener feels uncomfortably privy to something intensely private.

That said, critical discussion of this album has hitherto placed so much emphasis on death and mourning that the uninitiated would be forgiven for assuming the record is a complete dirge, all minor chords and gloom. In truth, this album is made of songs in the key of life, the majors and the minors, always together.

There are bright and tender melodies, but they are often juxtaposed with lyrics about burying the dead. Even then, there are unadulterated moments of pure hopefulness, such as the ending of ‘Drawn to the Blood’, the reverberating strings of which would comfortably soundtrack the implicated new beginnings at the close of a heart-warming movie.
Even in the regret-laden ‘Should Have Known Better‘, Stevens repeats the mantra: “My brother had a daughter” as if to remind himself that there is always birth amongst death. Still, this is undercut by the other mantra-like certainty of ‘Fourth of July’, in which Stevens constantly reminds the listener: “We’re all gonna’die.”

Yet for all these confident assertions, the album is characterised by its uncertainties. The opener, ‘Death with Dignity’, begins confidently with pealing strings, yet Stevens repeatedly states “I don’t know where to begin.” Moments later he asks: “What is that song you sing for the dead?”

Stevens has a habit for these meta-like references to the act of songwriting, but whereas this device is typically used for showing off his literary skills, these clever lines demonstrate how even music has left a master songwriter without his coping mechanism. Religion, his other great source of strength, too cannot help him, since there is “no shade in the shadow of the cross.”

Carrie & Lowell’s music is characterised by gentle guitars, ghostly reverberations, and delicate synths. Even so, when Sufjan released several of the album’s tracks in the lead up to official release, too much was – and still is – made of his supposed “return to his folk roots.” True, this album has far more in common with the delicate acoustics of Seven Swan than the bombastic Illinois or the schizophrenic electronica of The Age of Adz; however, there’s a danger of overlooking some subtle changes, perhaps even progressions.

Of Stevens’ albums, this is easily the finest in terms of production. Light years away from the quasi-lo-fi of Michigan and Seven Swans, the instrumentation here is crystalline, and the attention to sonic detail makes this an immersive experience when listened to through headphones (which I urge you to do).

Though there’s little change in Steven’s half whispered singing style – arguably the most divisive aspect of his work – Stevens seems to be recognising the powerful instrument he possesses in his voice. The haunting falsetto in ‘Death with Dignity’ is amongst his most chilling performances, and it is used again to tragic effect in ‘Fourth of July’, where Stevens takes us to the most private of scenes – the deathbed.

Being privy to a musician’s most private and unguarded emotions is certainly not a new phenomenon, but it is rare to find an album that leaves the listener so completely unguarded too. Opening yourself up to Carrie & Lowell – like all great music – is to hold a conversation with its creator. Stevens and the listener tackle the stuff of living and dying head on. When he tells us “We’re all gonna die”, it’s both unspeakably tragic and life-affirming. Like life, the record is beautiful and it’s uncomfortable. Either way, you can’t hide from it.