- Music
- 20 Dec 12
Sufjan’s annual Sonic Santa stop-offs under one tree...
It was over a decade ago that Detroit songsmith Sufjan Stevens began his yearly tradition of getting into the season of goodwill, donning a Santa hat, and kicking out the Christmas jams. A century of songs later and we arrive at Silver & Gold, a boxset laden with over three hours worth of music, as well as extensive essays on the subject (sometimes whimsical, sometimes contemplative) and an assortment of collector’s tat (surreal stickers, posters...) fit to nestle amongst the tinsel on December 25.
Having collected his first five festive EPs in 2006’s Songs For Christmas, this release brings the latest five together for our listening pleasure. Over the 58 tracks, there are caroller covers of standards, Illinois-esque originals, dirge-like paeans to Jesus, glam workouts about snowmen, and sonic odysseys told from the perspective of a magical unicorn. And that’s just for starters! Pretty much the gamut run, it is a slight disappointment that, this far into such an extensive Yuletide project, Stevens has refrained from adopting a gravelly, Brummie accent and hollering “IT’S CHRRISSTMAAASSSSS!”
What we do get is every age of Sufjan. Whilst the box is a nice thing to wrap and gift, true fans will see it as a real opportunity to trace his evolution during a time of constant change. Proceedings get underway with the orthodox Sufjan of Gloria. Assembled with The National’s Dessner brothers, the likes of ‘Silent Night’ and ‘Auld Lang Syne’ are given the expected ornate instrumentation (banjos, horns, present and correct) and angelic backing vocals. It is the warmest, most familiar collection, with a sprinkling of originals that could sit without the remotest embarrassment on one of his albums proper. ‘Barcarola (You Must Be A Christmas Tree)’ is a song of great depth, snow ploughing through what is emotional terrain, touching on family, nostalgia and death. ‘Lumberjack Christmas’ carries a wink, a slow-mo, saw-mill ‘Johnny B. Goode’ that admits that “drinking makes it easy, the music’s kinda cheesy.”
This acknowledgement of the conflicting aspects of the season carries through the next four EPs, which act as the soundtrack to Sufjan’s nightmare during Christmas if you will. The artist – a Christian with a childlike love for the ridiculous and a dislike for the commercial – grapples with these themes of the religious and the secular, for the rest of the lengthy listen. 2007’s I Am Santa’s Helper has the most tracks and is the least weighty offering, cobbling together brief throwaways and sounding somewhat schizophrenic oveall. Thus ‘Jingle Bells’ is given a woozy, acid makeover; ‘Mr. Frosty Man’ is a garage rock exercies; and ‘Ah Holy Jesus’ returns frequently to bore us into a pious coma.
Christmas Infinity Voyage stirs us out of our slumber. The most intriguing EP here, it finds Sufjan beginning to experiment with his sound, exploring the electronic scapes that came to the fore on 2010’s Age Of Adz. ‘Do You Hear What I Hear?’ is reimagined with vocoders over a memorable, space-age nine minutes. ‘The Child With The Star On His Head’ slide-guitars into view magnificently, collapsing into a noisy wig-out. If a bizarre blast of Prince’s ‘Alphabet St.’ and the noodling on ‘Particle Physics’ suggests a man distracted on Christmas morning by his brand new Casio keyboard, ‘Christmas In The Room’ is the jewel in the crown, riding a chilled, soothing backing to great effect.
The final EPs continue that more creative bent, toning down the computers and reflecting the songwriter’s various styles. The fair but overly faithful likes of ‘Ave Maria’ grate, but there’s always a ‘Justice Delivers Death’ around the corner where we get a disheartened, reflective Sufjan at his lyrical best. It also captures the bittersweet essence of Silver & Gold. It isn’t perfect. A tad drawn out, it is full of little gifts that we probably don’t need. But you can always count on it to throw up a memorable moment. A lot like the season it half-celebrates...
Key track: ‘Christmas In The Room’