Sufjan Stevens released what might have been the most surprising album of the year with Carrie and Lowell. Not because it's good; almost all of his music has been widely appreciated. Because it's simple, contemplative, and personal. Stevens is known for his short-run series of state-themed records, quirky Christmas albums, and kitchen-sink style baroque pop. He's stripped it down before, but this is a 40-year-old man who's been known to sport angels' wings at his live shows. Lyrically, he's always kept listeners at arm's length. Hints of his faith were about as personal as his music got, and even those were opaque. This album is essentially Stevens, quite frankly, working through his complicated relationship with his recently-deceased, estranged mother. Stevens's impersonal storytelling is gone, as is the opulent production. In their place are tastefully ethereal arrangements that exist to create space for his open-book introspection and lyrics that, at times, feel like scenes from a home movie. And those are some of the least intrusive moments. Throughout, Stevens sprinkles in moments of intense vulnerability, singing with matter-of-fact candidness about everything from sex to drug use. If that sounds a little uncomfortable, it is. But it's beautiful in equal measure. One of the most disarming lyrics comes from the tellingly titled album highlight, "There's No Shade in the Shadow of the Cross". "There's blood on this blade. Fuck me, I'm falling apart." Sheesh.
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