Every music scene needs at least one person like Sufjan Stevens — the overachiever, the thinker, the closet cultural theorist. Over the course of 20 minutes, the soft-spoken singer/songwriter has expounded on the state of modern culture in the U.S. and the destructive force of capitalism. And he’s done it all while almost completely avoiding talking about his own music.
It’s not surprising, then, that Stevens makes music that is even more complex than his trains of thought. Over an eclectic array of instruments that includes banjo, glockenspiel, string quartets and trumpet, he and his occasional chorus of back-up singers evoke themes that might seem better off nestled into the pages of a book—the uncomfortable situations that happen between two people in love, fear of the unknown, the confusing realities of trying to maintain faith in the modern world. He’s a practicing Episcopalian, and each song seems to approach religion from a unique angle, none of which have anything to do with trying to convert his audience.
Stevens is perhaps best known for his “States Project,” a grand concept album scheme that will have him creating a recording for each of the 50 states, proportional to the size and population of the state. The first installment, Greetings from Michigan, The Great Lake State, appeared in 2003,and he’s just released the second, Come on Feel the Illinoise (both are on Stevens’ label Asthmatic Kitty). Illinoise follows the same baroque, intricate patterns as past releases, with ornate lyrics that often devolve into cheerleader choruses (“I-L-L-I-N-O-I-S!” he sings on “They Are Night Zombies!!”)
Glide had the chance to catch up with Stevens at his home in Brooklyn, where he chatted about the daunting task of recording an album for each state and what it means to get up close and personal to the geography of the U.S.
How do you feel now that you’ve put out the second major piece in the States Project?
I’m very near-sighted. I like to focus on the task at hand. For me, the project was a challenge. It’s an exercise in extrapolating research, collecting data and interpreting it into narrative songs and evocative songs that had a Broadway musical fanfare.
How did Illinois differ from Michigan in terms of that process?
Michigan was trial and error, recorded all over the place. I didn’t have a real concept. But with Illinois, I had a vision to work with. I alsohad an emotional objectivity that I didn’t have with Michigan. Because I’m from Detroit and I grew up in Michigan, I think that record suffers from an emotional or psychological burden, and maybe a little bit of sentimentality.
Do you mean that your connection to the landscape and the culture there was more important than the narrative of the songs?
Yeah, it was like a psychological therapy. That’s very exciting, but it can also be limiting in terms of the writing and the craft. With Illinois, it was similar to meeting someone for the first time.
In the process of recording Illinois, you got to know the state of Illinois.
It’s like starting a relationship. It’s very visual and superficial at the start. There’s infatuation, body language and small talk. You get to know each other and start asking questions. You look at photo albums and speak to family members, you go on a couple of dates, you go families for Thanksgiving. Eventually you move in together, and that’s a traumatic experience as you go through the process of demystification.
Did you hit a point where you knew too much about Illinois?
Actually, I’m flattering myself. We never moved in together. It was a series of one-night stands.
You have to mythologize these states to write about them. What are you discovering about their actual reality as you tour through them?
I work to celebrate and uncover the supernatural and the divine in very mundane circumstances. I’m obsessed with everyday objects— doors ceiling fans, air conditioners, window screens. These particular objects have tremendous meaning to me. I think that’s true for no-name Midwestern post-industrial towns and cornfields. I think I’m really interested in idiosyncrasies of regional places.
So those mundane pieces of existence are the things that define a place rather than the major landmarks?
You still have to reckon with the archetypes. The major cities pervade myth and tradition. But sometimes, those things have been celebrated to death. I have nothing to say about them. That’s why I’m more infatuated with small towns and the working class. I’m from the rural areas, but I was born in Detroit so I have an understanding of the industrial city too.
We have a huge range of geographies in the U.S. Do you think that environment shapes how we perceive ourselves?
Yes. In some ways, it’s hard to summarize the American experience. I think capitalism, commercialism and the incorporation of the U.S. has taken over and pervaded the local understanding of who we are. It’s at a real disadvantage because there’s so much more beyond that fabric. If you think about the Everglades and the Mississippi Delta compared to the Northeast corridor and the Rocky Mountains and the Great Lakes, there is diversity in the landscape.
What have you discovered about cultural identity as you’ve been working on these albums?
Something I’m realizing is that because we’re a culture of immigration, we kind of all suffer from multiple personality disorder. I think capitalism and advertising are so successful here because they’re the one unifying character. An immigrant from Bangladesh and an immigrant from Ireland all have different homelands and cultures and sensibilities, but in the U.S., they all have equal marketing power.
Do you have difficulties reconciling capitalism and its effects with being an artist and trying to sell your art and commodifying these places?
Yeah. There’s a real irony in criticizing capitalism and also being entrenched in it. For me personally, it’s difficult to think about all of that and be responsible at every level. For me, I think it was important to stay with Asthmatic Kitty because it was the label that I started with my friends and family. I wanted to make sure that my decisions were based on relationships and not on commerce. We want to keep things very cooperative so that we’re all working and sharing and contributing to each other and all artists are given access to the same resources and promotion. I want to keep control of everything I do so I’m not developing beyond my means. I like to monitor where things are manufactured. Where are the CDs made? Where are the t-shirts made? These things I’m starting to obsess over. It can be terrifying once you start thinking about all of that.
As you’re working on different states, do you to take into account the economic realities of each state?
Yes. I have to deal with the ridiculous American fanfare that we can all achieve our goals because it’s not really true. Just ask any person of color in the South. But this discussion is getting beyond me because I’m not really a cultural theorist.
But it seems like you do have a lot of cultural criticism in your work. And you are running counter to the idea that rock ‘n’ roll should be frivolous.
I feel like what I’m doing is a lot to manage, and it overwhelms the listener. And I think it borders on pretentious. I don’t really want to come across as being a philosopher or a social critic because really my work is in observations and storytelling. My technical work in perceiving and seeing and then transcribing all of that in a way that’s fair to my subject and fair to my heart.
But storytellers have such power.
Yeah, they do. It’s an old classical form that still exists wherever you go. You have oral narratives, now reduced to anecdotes.
How do you feel about being part of such a long tradition?
Excited. Sometimes I feel like I have nothing new to say. Flannery O’Connor said, “Anyone who has survived the trauma of childhood has enough material to write for the rest of his or her life,” and I think she’s right. Each of us has a tremendous story to tell. We are all very unique and have our own vision and way of saying things, and we have the same story to tell over and over again.
