Sydney Festival 08 - Sufjan Stevens
Sufjan Stevens, State Theatre, January 12-14 2008
Sufjan Stevens, preppy darling of the American indie scene, was Sydney Festival 2008’s Antony and the Johnsons. That is, he is the dark horse of cult stardom, known only to a handful and therefore a much-anticipated visitor.
These are the kinds of gigs that bring out the Whoopers in their droves. Whoopers are those who would have you know how familiar they are with the unfamiliar star by breaking into long, loud whoops at the first bar of each song. The whoops translate roughly as: “I know this song - wooo hooo - and you don’t - wooo hooo.” It’s really quite touching, particularly when the Whoopers fail to recognise the occasional false endings and start delirious clapping and shrieking before the song is actually over. Ooops.
There was a lot of whooping at Sufjan Stevens and he took it in a well-mannered way that went with his neat band uniforms that were a mixture of Paul Weller/Style Council and Galaxy Quest, with Minnie Mouse outfits for the two girls. Very Mod.
Stevens writes some of the more cerebral and ambitious songs around although you have to wonder at how serious he is and how much he may be poking sly fun at his more pretentious fans. Whatever his reasoning, his songs - as evidenced on his albums to date - are meant for listening and this was difficult to do at the State.
He had the misfortune to follow, a few days on, the great and glorious Brian Wilson and the comparison was not a favourable one for two reasons: first, as well as mini-masterpieces in the classic three minute genre Wilson can do high-flown too - but his sensibility is so much more refined and ultimately interesting. More than that, however, he knows about listening and sound, to the extent that he had a sound engineer constantly checking the levels and adjusting, adjusting, adjusting from various points around the auditorium.
If Stevens had employed the guy it would have made for a much better experience because the brass section (traditional musical hoons anyway) would have been put back in their aural box and not overpowered the rest of the band and the songs.
Sound engineer notwithstanding, the person Stevens really ought to employ for a few sessions is Jan van der Stool. As discerning cabaret-theatregoers know, the well known musical therapist (aka Queenie van der Zandt) is a strict and uncompromising believer in the negative effects of the big finish.
Barbra Streisand’s career - and millions of prematurely blown woofers and tweeters - would have had very different outcomes if someone had thought to consult Van der Stool early on. Similarly, Stevens’ penchant for belting the bejesus out of grand piano keyboards while building up to yet another mega-finish could yet be tempered in the interests of variety and the realisation that, if you whack someone (even a Whooper) over the head with a mallet long enough, the effect is numbing rather than exciting.
In other words, cute though he is, interesting though his songs are and endearing as are his self-confessed boring stories between those songs, Sufjan Stevens is not Antony. And that means the connection, the soul and the yearning for more weirdly wonderful magic isn’t really there. But I guess that’s my problem. The Whoopers had a wonderful time.
