Sufjan Stevens, ‘Javelin’ - the absence of love

Asthmatic Kitty, 2023

One of the great struggles of humankind is the conflict of our need to be loved with our fundamental isolation from others as individuals. We are cursed to be independent parts in a social machine: reliant on others to function but inherently distinct; important to the operations of others but ultimately replaceable. Is there a more universal human experience than seeking the love of another? Is there a more uniquely miserable feeling than losing it?

Sufjan Stevens knows more than most about that latter feeling. Javelin is not his first album in which he explores the absence of love; his many projects are littered with expressions of loss and grief, of isolation and loneliness, of betrayal and rejection. And after all, what categorises these feelings better than the loss of love? Arguably all of the worst experiences in life boil down to the disappearance of love, whether feeling the absence of someone you have come to love, feeling your love for someone or something dissipating, or losing someone else’s love. For Stevens, those experiences have become numerous enough to fill an album.

Javelin begins with an elegy for the cult songwriter’s partner, who passed away earlier this year, “Everything heaven sent/Must burn out in the end”. Few of us can comprehend the death of a soulmate, but Stevens is better than almost anyone at conveying emotions in his music and devastating us with his lyrics. In this instance, the absence of his partner’s love is a “poisoned pain”. To me, this conveys both the intensity and the relentlessness of his hurt. How can one recover from one’s grief when one is poisoned by loss?

But loss comes in many forms. On So You Are Tired, Stevens charts a relationship breaking down. The loss of love is less abrupt but no less impactful. It is also a lot more difficult to understand and compartmentalise. “I was the man still in love with you/When I already knew it was done.” It is all the more pitiable to think the love is still there when it has gone, or to convince yourself as such. I’m sure we can all relate to that.

The absence of love is not just felt after a loss. Stevens makes this clear on the more forthrightly named Will Anybody Ever Love Me?. One of the cruel effects of love breaking down is its undermining of our confidence and our ability to love again. Even when we do open our heart again, we can become paranoid and skeptical: “Will anybody ever love me?/For good reasons, without grievance/Not for sport”.

Of course, it wouldn’t be a Sufjan Stevens album if it didn’t also apply these themes to religion. You would expect God’s love to be a constant for Christians, but it may be difficult to feel its presence when you have experienced such mortal heartbreak. Can you withstand like Job or do you begin to lose your devotion, or even lose your love for God? “Jesus lift me up to a higher plane/Can you come round before I go insane?/Cast me not into hell, while my demons rage”.

All of this loss and desperation, and yet Stevens always makes life feel so hopeful. The cycle of losing, searching for, and finding love can be so painful, that much is made clear, and yet it is so fundamentally human. Stevens leaves us with the feeling that the quest is itself worthwhile and meaningful, like Sisyphus content in his torture. The themes are heartbreaking, but the refrains are uplifting. I can’t think of another musician that pulls that off quite so adeptly.

This is the first time since 2016’s Carrie and Lowell that Stevens has stripped down an entire project to its indie acoustic barebones, and no one wields this style and instrumentation quite as effectively as he does. While I love his expansive, ambitious projects, I can’t help but feel that this is Sufjan Stevens at his best. This is a beautiful, devastating and invigorating album.