Either because of this or in spite of it, Ste-
vens’s art has become less abstract. 2015’s
Carrie & Lowell processed grief from the
loss of his mother to cancer by examining
childhood memories and adult emotional
distress. Although 2017’s Planetarium—a
collaborative album with composer Nico
Muhly, drummer James McAlister, and the
National’s Bryce Dessner—deals in astron-
omy and ancient Roman myths, its pitting
of love against warfare lands on the main
theme of the year it was released.
At the top of the Fourth of July weekend,
Stevens released the 12-and-a-half-minute
epic “America,” braiding disparate threads
from earlier works into its postcard artwork
(see Michigan and Illinois), sensual faith-
fulness (see Seven Swans), winding song
lengths, and flair for synths-and-drum pro-
gramming (see The Age of Adz and Enjoy
Your Rabbit). “America” is a protest anthem
disguised as a conversation with God. The
refrain—“Don’t do to me what you did to
America”—hit hard on a weekend when
some Americans pondered sitting Inde-
pendence Day out in a year that has been a
flash point for long-simmering racial injus-
tices, while others watched the president
break social-distancing protocols during a
campaign rally at Mount Rushmore, where
he told supporters that protests around
the country against police brutality and
Confederate monuments were “designed
to overthrow the American Revolution.”
The current political moment is unique in
the speed at which schisms have become
chasms, but the nation’s triumphs have
always been undercut by a grisly capacity for
violence, one that is also present in Stevens’s
States albums, on which you’re as likely to
hear a song about a beautiful monument or
stretch of land as one about a world-famous
serial killer or an interlude memorializing
the pain of Mary Todd Lincoln, widow of
famous Abe, who was finally institutional-
ized in her grief over the loss of most of her
immediate family. “America” foregrounds a
message that has always lurked in the mar-
gins: The place may look nice, but it was
paid for in blood.
Like Carrie & Lowell, which returned
Stevens to his folk roots while presenting
a subtle shift in his approach to songwrit-
ing, this fall’s The Ascension is both a slight
return and a bit of an evolution. Shim-
mering synth tones nod to the glitchier
moments on Adz and to the focus on tasty
textures that Stevens and his stepfather,
Lowell Brams, pursued on last year’scol-
laborative instrumental album Aporia,a
move anyone who liked last year’sPride
single “Love Yourself ” or the remixes on the
201 7 mixtape The Greatest Gift could see
coming from deep. What’s different nowis
the arrangements, which are much starker
and more to the point than the artist’s earlier
forays into electronic music, andthelyrics,
which cut to the heart of his disillusionment
with the American Dream whileshaking
off his taste for subtle, referentialmessag-
ing. Sufjan calls The Ascension hisprotest
album, but it’s also the closest thingtopop
music he’s ever made. You won’t spendyears
fracking for submerged meaningin“Die
Happy,” “Video Game,” or “Run AwayWith
Me,” although on “Gilgamesh” he’sbackto
his old tricks, naming one of hishorniest
songs ever after the Mesopotamianmythi-
cal hero whom feistier scholarsbelieveto
have been in love with his male best friend,
Enkidu. In songs like this, Stevensweapon-
izes the boyishness of his voice,givingan
element of shock to the more luridlines;it’ s
a trick he picked up on the previousalbum,
where his whisper softened the harrowing
details of death and grief.
The Ascension wears simplicity and
directness well until it doesn’t. “Die
Happy” repeats its main line—“Iwanna
die happy”—enough times for thesurprise
to wear off, dropping a massive beatinthe
middle that makes the whole thingfeellike
wry gallows humor. Elsewhere, repetition
can be cloying. “Death Star” is pleasantbut
not profound; “Tell Me You Love Me”drags
on a little too long before an intense,life-
affirming coda. The highs are stratospheric
if you have the patience to wait forthepay-
off. “Landslide” takes off like spacetravelat
the chorus; “Ativan” takes four minutesto
reach a euphoric dance break. TheAscen-
sion is sort of like spending a nightoutin
a club to blow off steam after a badday;it’s
death and gloom until the rightbeat hits
and your focus shifts to finding someoneto
provide comfort through the night.Thecon-
trast suggests companionship isthesolu-
tion to fears about a fraying republicand
a planet on a low boil, but the doomsayinggothic tunes on the front end of the album
are more intriguing than most of the songs
that land after “Gilgamesh”—save for the
title track, where the faith journey that has
long animated Stevens’s art and philosophy
comes under the same nihilistic gaze the
album otherwise reserves for politics.
“The Ascension” is a moment not unlike
the chilling Andre 3000 verse on Frank
Ocean’s Blonde album (in which the
Atlanta rap veteran surveys the current
state of the culture and wonders aloud why
he ever bothered being a perfectionist)—a
moment we’re all having while watching
virtuous people suffer and die while others
party as if nothing is happening; when it
really looks like it might be less emotion-
ally expensive to just live for yourself, civic
duties be damned: “And now it frightens
me, the thought against my chest / To think
I was asking for a reason / Explaining why
everything’s a total mess.” Stevens twists the
knife further as he goes: “I thought I could
change the world around me / I thought I
could change the world for best / I thought
I was called in convocation / I thought I was
sanctified and blessed.” He finds no resolu-
tion, in the end, for these concerns, and the
song floats away on voices singing, “What
now?” But the answer to the question of
this Job-like test of faith is that goodness
isn’t transactional, a thing you stockpile in
expectation of eventual compensation, the
mistake Christian theologians make when
they sell the faith exclusively as a ticket out
of hell. You do it in hopes of making things
easier for those who come behind you, in
hopes of being remembered for what you
built while you were here. Death catches
us all eventually, but if you play your cards
right, you touch enough people so your
memory outlasts your physical form. If you
don’t believe in raptures and resurrections,
that’s a kind of immortality. ■thenewmoviefromSofiaCoppola,OntheRocks, hasthe
premiseofa mild-manneredsitcomanda heartsoincongru-
ouslywoundedthatyoumightleaveit wantingtogentlytalkupthe
benefitsoftherapy.It beginsandendspositionedasa merewispofa
thingabouta womannamedLaura (RashidaJones)wholivesina loft
inSohowithtwodaughtersandherhusband,Dean(MarlonWayans).
Laura’sstartingtosuspect that Dean,whohasbeentravelinga lotfor
thecompanyherecentlyfounded,hasbeencheatingonher, soshecallsMOVIES / ALISON WILLMORE
Daddy’s Day OutDon’t let the frivolity fool you—deeperanxieties are afoot in On the Rocks.october 12–25, 2020 | new york 91