I’ve been writing about the 2016 election for a year now. The experience has varied over time. Interesting to surprising to depressing to terrifying.
But right now, I’d sum up my feeling toward this political season as: exhaustion.
I’m tired of the drama, the selling out, the endless scandals, the continuing proof that too few voters care about whether or not their government leaders are liars, or racists, or incompetent, or ignorant, or violent, or whatever.
Politics is a pig sty, and at some point in the last week, I looked down and found I was marinating waist-deep in the muck.
And I realized I’ve been subconsciously wondering: Is anyone in this mess good anymore? Does anyone care that our political choices don’t affect only us, but the world? Is everyone a cynical, career-oriented goon with no loyalty towards anything or anyone save Number One?
The answer, blessed may it be, is yes.
But those people probably aren’t on your November ballot.
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On Monday night, I went to my third Sufjan Stevens concert. I’m here visiting family in Denver, and so my sister and I drove to see him perform at Red Rocks.
Though I’ve seen loads of shows there over the years, my first association with Colorado’s world-famous outdoor amphitheater is always high school track practice. This is because workouts there were traumatic. Borderline abusive, even. We’d start below the main stage, running up hundreds of small steps before reaching the main level, another hundred fat rows ahead, cascading up into the foothills.
I’ve been experiencing some anxiety lately, and I think it is in large part from soaking in politics all the time. A friend recently asked how I’d lost weight, and I replied truthfully: The Donald Trump Diet.
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So fat, to take them one at a time required great, goliath-sized leaps. Our coaches were a married pair of spindly 20-somethings, born with some kind of cardiac super powers. As this was a small, Christian school, biblical exhortations were regularly brought to bear on our athletic plights, and I remember Coach M_ once saying that if Jesus could die on a cross, we could run up some concrete concert rows.
“Yes.” I thought. “But Jesus was, literally, divine. Plus, He did die on that cross… Are we sure we want to run up these for the SEVENTH TIME?”
My musings remained unspoken. They would have been ignored anyway. And yes, we did go up a seventh time.
Watching a concert should be, comparatively, easy. But I’m not in the shape I was back in high school, and so I found myself huffing and puffing Monday night, as my sister and I trekked the long walk up from Red Rocks’ dirt parking lot (I’m not used to the altitude anymore, either).
I should note that I’ve been experiencing anxiety lately, and I think it’s in part from soaking in politics all the time. A friend recently asked how I’d grown so thin, and I answered truthfully: the Donald Trump diet.
Crowds aren’t ideal for people already on edge. So instead of taking our assigned seats, down on beautifully-placed Row 28, my sister graciously agreed to stand up at the tippy-top, where a large open area backs up to the foothills. Room to move gave me a little peace, but breathing conditions were not ideal.
We arrived after the opening act had wrapped up, so it wasn’t too long before Sufjan Stevens came out to play.
It is difficult to write about concerts without it coming out in one of two barf-y ways. Either you sound too fangirl, geeking out over every little AMAZING, OMG FOR REALS moment. Or, the more usual alternative: one grows hyper analytical, detaches emotionally, and writes in pseudo-intellectual gobbledy-goop that no one without a Pitchfork subscription can tolerate for more than two sentences.
Neither is possible, much less worthy, of a Sufjan show.
So I’ll try a different way. I’ll try writing from the heart.
Because Stevens’ music is, for me, spiritual. I stumbled upon him out of the thin blue sky of Internet luck, shortly after college. I had graduated from the friend- and routine-safety of university life, into the lonely world of adult apartment and office living. I’d had my heart recently broken… and it had been somewhat of my own doing.
I was an emotional heap of unhealthy.
One day, whilst reading a blog post by Mike Doughty, I wrote down some names of artists he mentioned, and then perused through their (flashback alert!) MySpace profiles.
Sufjan Stevens was one of them, and though his MySpace page was not “official,” whoever put it together had nevertheless uploaded four songs onto that shifty little media player, and the first one I heard was “For the Widows in Paradise…”
The first song I heard was “For the Widows in Paradise…” I felt immediately transported. Out of the muted office desk behind which I sat, into the unseen plane of stripped-down spirit. Banjo strings hit me hard, right in the heart, and the physical world sort of pulled back, and I saw, for a second, how imminently important love was, how not at all important anything else.
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I felt immediately transported. Out of the muted office front desk behind which I sat, into the unseen plane of stripped down spirit. The banjo strings hit my heart, hard, and the physical world sort of pulled back, and I saw, for a second, how important love was.
And pretty soon I was crying.
And here’s the weird thing (another weird thing, to be precise): the tears came out of sadness, but a kind of joyful sadness, like someone had put pure feeling into sound, and now I could at last release the pain and, maybe, perhaps someday, move on.
I bought the two Sufjan Stevens CDs I could get my hands on (Come on Feel the Illinoise, and Michigan), speed walking down to the Virgin megastore that used to stand, a big hulking concrete block, in downtown Denver.
Shortly thereafter, I moved to Waco, Texas to attend Baylor for a Master’s program. I didn’t know anyone there, and I had to get a full-time teaching job as part of my degree, and in order to get that job, I had to agree to coach two sports I’d never played at a rural middle school roughly one hour’s drive northwest of campus.
Of course, I was busy. But the loneliness was what killed me. I had one good friend, and a handful (literally, five) of acquaintances, and otherwise I was alone in a smallish town that made no sense to me, culturally speaking.
It was a rough twelve months.
I had this little alarm clock back then, and I had a Sufjan cd in there that woke me up every day at 5:00 AM, with the song “Concerning the UFO Sighting.” It’s a piano piece, and the beauty of the chords and the softness of Sufjan’s voice gave this gorgeous calm to every morning.
And I wonder: would I have survived without that?
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So there’s the emotional backstory to my introduction to Sufjan Stevens, and I hope you’ve stayed with me, because I know it got really weepy in there, but hey…
Weepy is a part of life, sometimes.
At any rate, I consider Sufjan Stevens’ music to be spiritual, and Monday night, you know what?
It was.
We were out there, under a black, cloudy sky, with a lightning storm out over the eastern plain, somewhere towards Kansas, and way down on the stage below, there was a man singing about movement and life and love and death and hope, and the music was, OF COURSE, magnificent.
But I think it was the message that stood out the most, because here was someone freely creating. There were balloon capes, and wings, and a chaotic light show, and neon face paint, and an all-out dance party at one point, and I’ve gotta say:
It takes balls to put on a production like that.
And to witness it, somehow, working… that’s inspirational. It brings that Emily Dickenson “thing with feathers” all up into one’s heart, and I looked out across the plains, towards that lightning storm, and thought of Cleveland, Ohio, and all the shenanigans, and nonsense, and hatefulness happening there, and just said in my own heart:
Enough.
There’s more. There’s more to life, and the reality that changes people – that actually breaks into their hearts and moves them – doesn’t go down on a political podium.
Not to put too great an expectation on it or anything, but…
That, my friends, was spiritual healing.
So thank you, of course, to Sufjan Stevens. But thank you, too, to Lin-Manuel Miranda. And to my sister. And to all the musicians and artists out there who dedicate their talents to reminding us that it’s a long life. That the impossible is possible. That there’s beauty, even in pain.
That we can be better, if we want to be.
Great review, great show, great man, best I’ve seen in 56 years years on this ole blue orb, and believe me, i’ve been to hundreds. I attended with my 19 year old son who had turned me on to this most amazing man. I stood in awe that night as the music ended and I was still in awe for weeks after, I hope I this beautiful memory never fades. Thank you Sufjan Stevens.
Hey there, and thanks for reading! What a cool experience for you and your son. If only I could convince my own parents to see a show… 😉