Sufjan Stevens isn’t afraid of a concept album. Accompanying the release of Michigan in 2003, an evocative, almost breathy love letter to the artist’s home state, Stevens infamously announced the undertaking of a fifty-state project, each record an intimate homage to the cultural landscape of the United States. In 2003, he told of Flint and Holland and Detroit, highlighting the eccentricities of his home state; why not do the same for Rhode Island, or Alabama, or Utah?
But the monumental fifty-record promise, later revealed to be a PR stunt (and a pretty good one at that), never came to fruition. Regardless, on July 4, 2005, Illinois was brought into the world, a twenty-two track marvel, appropriately fitted with an illustration of the Chicago skyline and a likeness of Al Capone. The cover invites you to “Come On, Feel the Illinoise!”. And so you shall.
To prepare for the album’s production, Stevens did his due diligence, traveling through pockets of the state and reading the works of Illinois authors Carl Sandburg and Saul Bellow. He even turned to users of Internet chat rooms, asking for stories of life and culture in the state. In the process, he wrote four eulogies for Abraham Lincoln, a song about Springfield, the state’s capital, and a song about Adlai Stevenson, a former governor — most of which were released a year later in The Avalanche, a collection of outtakes and alternate versions from the record at hand.
As a musician, Stevens is notoriously ambitious; from the flurried, tangential orchestrations of Michigan to the electronic, apocalyptic soundscapes permeating the controversial Age of Adz (2010), the artist creates entire worlds, each body of work its own house in which to wander, to explore and understand, every room its own, every tile and floorboard immovable in its place.
Illinois is no exception, perhaps instead a perfectly adept demonstration of Stevens’ many talents. It’s deliciously orchestral, a storm of brass, percussion, and string, many of which were performed by Stevens himself. The use of the five-person Illinoisemaker Choir, as heard on “Chicago”, “They Are Night Zombies!! They Are Neighbors!! They Have Come Back from the Dead!! Ahhh!”, and more, serves the record’s biblical, almost haunting feel.
This scriptural energy is no mistake; Stevens has denied any assumed role as a Christian musician, once vehemently dismissing mainstream Christian music as “didactic crap”, instead choosing to gingerly infuse his faith into the stories chronicled in Illinois. And, truthfully, the record is a true concept album, rife with narrative, often aided by religious undertone. In “Casimir Pulaski Day”, aptly named after a state holiday, he tells of the death of a friend from bone cancer and a resulting crisis of faith: “All the glory when He took our place / but He took my shoulders and He shook my face / and He takes and He takes and He takes”.
And then there is “John Wayne Gacy Jr.”, concerning the life of the infamous serial killer from Illinois. The track is a standout among the myriad chronicles in the record, intimate and curious and almost sympathetic. Atop plucked acoustic guitar and erratic piano notes, he plainly tells of ritualistic, calculated violence: “He dressed up like a clown for them / with his face paint white and red / and on his best behavior / in a dark room on the bed / he kissed them all”.
But through every story, there is none quite like “Chicago”. The song is the album’s powerhouse, the emotional center of Steven’s epic tale, much like the city’s role in the state itself (sorry, Springfield). Stevens sings over hurried violin and crashing hi-hats: “You came to take us / all things go, all things go / to recreate us / all things grow, all things grow / we had our mindset / all things know, all things know / you had to find it / all things go, all things go”.
There is little I can say about Stevens’ masterpiece that hasn’t already been said — since its release, the record has long been lauded as one of the best works of its decade, an irrefutable cornerstone of the early-21st century indie landscape. But, in writing this, I would be remiss to evade my personal connection to Illinois and its significance in my life.
I was born and raised in Evanston, IL, a college town bordering the northernmost side of Chicago. It’s easy to think of suburban border towns as communities in the shadow of its neighbor, certainly in the case of a place like Chicago, but to claim such an identity for Evanston would be disingenuous. All who pass through Evanston understand it as a city with its own life, its own heartbeat and ecosystem and camaraderie. There exists a collective pride among its citizens, an energy I’ve yet to find anywhere else on this earth.
Growing up, I hated it. I wanted to be anywhere but where I was, away from the Midwest, away from the punitive, perpetual winters and the passive-aggressive politesse. I spent eighteen years planning my escape; I’d sit at South Boulevard Beach and conceive entirely different lives for myself, ones where I fled to San Francisco or Manhattan or Auckland, places I’d yet to step foot in but revered, simply because they were not my hometown. I wanted anything but the life I had.
I was a jaded teenager, too stressed, too uptight for my age. I had a hard time connecting with kids my own age and chose seclusion most of the time. I’d successfully convinced myself I was different from everyone in my community — perhaps not smarter or better than, but irreparably different, born in the wrong place at the wrong time. By the time I was old enough to ride the El by myself, I took the Purple Line into Chicago every weekend, and when I finally earned a driver’s license, I’d beg my parents to let me take their car into the city for a few hours. I spent innumerable nights coasting through every corner of Chicago, cruising Lake Shore Drive, past the Field Museum, past the Art Institute, past Soldier Field, until there was nowhere left to go but the tollway to Indiana (seldom a good idea). The tradition meant so much to me then, an escape from the home I’d lived in for almost two decades, away to a place that was so close but felt so much bigger and brighter and louder and happier.
And then I left, simply because I could. I applied to colleges across the country and settled down in Philadelphia, somewhere new, somewhere grittier than the first and only place I’d known. I did what I set out to do; I started over. It took me quite some time to find my footing in Philadelphia — I’ve been here nearly two years now and I’ve only just begun to call it home — but I was determined to never look back.
About a year ago, my parents sold the house they’d owned for twenty years and had their own fresh start. The market was hot, and our yellow-bricked bungalow sold on its first day. After a turbulent freshman year of college, I returned home to help them pack up the house and to say goodbye. But I didn’t ever really say goodbye. I was emotionally torn then in ways I can’t imagine now, so naive, exhausted from such a tempestuous introduction to adulthood. I was resentful and unsympathetic, nearly enraged that I had to return home and pause my budding social life in Philadelphia. I spent my final months in Evanston counting down the days until it was finally over.
And then it was over, and I went back to Philadelphia. I got what I wanted. I was so hungry back then, restless and desperate for my life to move faster, to be older and wiser and more independent. I refused to be present, to sit in my feelings, to move through states as we’re meant to. I thought I could brush the first eighteen years of my life under the rug and be someone new.
These things have a way of resurfacing when we least expect it. I desperately wish I could pinpoint precisely when I started to feel it, to have circled a date on the calendar when it all started bubbling up inside. All I know is that it came to me one day, a grief so brash and fertile that it overtook my body, incapacitated me in ways I’d never known before. It felt like some unidentifiable illness working its way through me, living in every crevice of my person, snaking from my knees to my gut to my shoulders and all the way through my heart. I was ill, concurrently tense and unraveling. The home I’d known, the house with the garden my mother had carefully curated for two decades and the freezing blue bedroom I’d inherited from my older sisters, wasn’t mine anymore. I felt stranded; there was nowhere for me to go home to.
And all at once, I understood. There was so much of me I’d been denying for so long, so much that I’d become and chose to neglect. I felt my layers shedding away, peeling and peeling and peeling until there was no protection, no guard, just me. Me, the girl who had lived in that place for so long, who had never stopped to consider what she had. There were few moments I was ever grateful to live there, the place I knew (and still know) so intimately, the place that had raised me and held me and loved me, even when I didn’t love it.
There is an effervescence to Illinois I haven’t been able to find in any other work. It’s unique to me, both in artistry and essence, simply because it feels like home in a way that seems insurmountable. Stevens’ masterpiece is a technical marvel, a tour de force in its own right, but there is something there that I can’t quite numerate. There exists throughout every track, every chord progression, every instrument, an energy that brings me home. When I listen to Illinois, I get to go home. After all these years, I get to be present.
I still get homesick most days; I also listen to Illinois most days as of late. I don’t feel so ashamed of my roots anymore, I just feel grateful. I am a product of the great state of Illinois, of its flatlands and beaches and parks; I am a product of the homes I grew up in, my aunt’s house right next to the Red Line, my sister’s apartment in Avondale.
I still daydream about returning home all the time. I wonder if there’s a place for me there, if the city would still welcome me after all this time. Maybe I’d feel like a stranger, alienated from too many years of being an Eagles fan. Maybe I wouldn’t remember how to get to my high school or my grandparents’ house, or my favorite flavor of ice cream at George’s in Andersonville. But for now, I get to pretend. I listen to “Chicago” and there I am, seventeen again, driving with one arm out of the window, feeling the city air, feeling it all. All things go, all things go.
Never having heard this artist or been to this city, I think this piece of writing is so good, and I immediately think I should be like, paying for this or something. An immersive and generous piece
This was a great read! I cant explain it but, I too, find myself constantly returning to this album, as well. I've never even been to Illinois (grew up in Philly) yet the album means so much to me. Maybe it's because there is something inspiringly ethereral about the sound, specifically "Chicago". Nolstagia fuel, I guess?