a night at the sufjan

An elaborate story of burning garbage outside a trailer. Seven Swans. A lengthy road trip. Jacksonville. Flying Superman blow-up dolls morphed into beach balls and party favors. Psychedelic filmstrips and people running forwards and backwards. Chicago.

I witnessed Sufjan Stevens and his nine friends perform this evening (well, technically, since its past midnight, it was last night).

As I sat in my seat, I thought, “How can you share words about that which leaves you speechless?” For much of the concert, I had little to say, nothing to add, only the occasional “Wow” and clapping of hands. All I was left with was the realization that I wouldn’t be able to hack it as a member of Sufjan’s blessed-musical-OCD-wonderland, but I’m glad Sufjan and the other nine can.

Wise men tell us that there is nothing new under the sun, but Sufjan has discovered how to tell old stories in new ways. The music is unmethodically tight and complex. The storytelling is unusual and entertaining. The video is a welcome additive. The costumes are wildly eccentric. Sufjan is an experience.

However, what I love most about Sufjan is how he’s created a place where those who may have once been social outcasts—the band geeks*, the eccentric guitar player, the kid who was once afraid of everything—can be rock stars.

C’mon, feel the noise.

Sufjan = magician.

Amen.

*(Band geeks, please relax, I’m a marching band veteran: cornet class of 2000.)