Sufjan Stevens

In a nutshell: A glob of autumnal piano dolor inches tentatively forward into a wasp’s nest of teed-off, antsy guitars, bells, and violins, emerging finally into sunlight and a fading, heavenly choir. If Stevens flipped his own script and chose to travel this mouth-agape, modern compositional route more often and relegate all of that overblown, overresearched U.S. state crap to the sidelines, it’d be so much easier to sit through his records. If only.