Across a long arc of folk-infused exploration, Sufjan Stevens has fine-tuned a shifting vocal color and a mutable sonic palette. Fans have tracked his progress through the luminous landmark Illinois (2005), the psychedelic sweep of Adz (2010), and the stark, intimate Carrie & Lowell (2015). Whether the arrangements lean leafy and acoustic, lean electronic, or stay stark and naked, Stevens remains unmistakably himself. The latest show unfolds in a skeletal cathedral pitched from simple materials, a Javelin that feels both fragile and ambitious, a vessel for what follows.
After the expansive five-part Convocations project released in 2021, which dissolved electronic digressions into space, listeners are invited to rediscover Stevens as a songwriter who favors clarity and restraint. Javelin presents ten tracks that read like a concise survey of his art, anchored by texts that contemplate life’s transience and the idea that love is the force that gives meaning to everything. A centerpiece is Will Any Ever Love Me, which dissolves fragility into resolve in a journey from dreamy arpeggios on the guitalin—an American folk instrument related to the oud—to a swell of choral voices. The refrain asks a plain, piercing question about the motives of love, asking if the beloved will love with pure, unselfconscious intent.
forces of nature
Most of the material on Javelin is Stevens’s own creation, with the notable exception of the vocal harmonies that fill the songs with a celestial glow. They arrive most prominently at the opening track Farewell Evergreen, which begins with a sense of cosmic farewell and grand orchestration. The sense of defeat soon makes way for a soaring, triumphant lift. The same arc recurs in A Running Start and My Red Little Fox, where whispered vocals mingle with guitar or piano to drive a dynamic ascent into a climactic choral crescendo. The music carries a tidal momentum, a progression from delicacy to a sweeping, inevitable completion. The mood remains gentle even as it builds, a quiet, almost ancestral force guiding the listener through the landscape.
Stevens forges a universal subject like love with a voice and language that feel singular, avoiding the trap of repetition. The closing stretch offers Shit Talk, a long eight-minute excursion shaped by the wavering guitar of Bryce Dessner from The National. A final spoken memory from the past lingers in the air, echoing Neil Young’s sentiment that a life lived with awareness and courage holds the line against the smallest temptations toward cynicism. The record invites contemplation of a world that values presence over performance and depth over surface polish. It is a thoughtful reminder that human connection remains the central thread through which meaning is found, even when it is tested by time and distance.