A narrative of one music lover’s journey to Brooklyn to experience Sufjan Stevens in concert.

Preparation, a cautionary omen, and finally departing Chicago

Even the week before, I hesitated to mention anything about my weekend. Everything was set up, but there still was a looming sentiment of “this ain’t gonna happen.”

I sat in 1835 Hinman to enjoy my Friday night dinner. I saved the fortune cookie for last, partly because it was like a dessert. Partly because of superstition.

Soon you will be sitting on top of the world.

Initially, this seemed a little excessive. On top of the world? That sounded like some sort of ego trip. Then, I thought about its physical implications. Sure, it meant great and amazing success, but it could also mean flying at forty thousand feet, higher than anything else.

Suddenly, my fortune cookie was speaking to me in a clear voice. Soon you will be flying in an airplane, literally on top of the world, with the clouds like snow below you, and the infinite blue of sky above, moving forward in adventure.

A day before my trip, I was seeing this fortune as it came to pass, just the way I would see the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway, the 11.7-mile blemish of a roadway cutting through its titular boroughs, through the context of music and film (and hula hoopers) the following day. Because I was soon to be flying on an airplane, to a place where I’d never been, I saw the fortune speaking to me that way. If I were a mountain climber, the fortune would have meant something different. Or if I were an investment banker. Or a fiction writer.

It was when the momentum of Summer 2007 slowed so nearly to a stop that I decided that I would make a trip to Brooklyn to see a concert titled “The BQE” by Sufjan Stevens. I made the decision nearly four months before the night of the show.The airfare was so cheap it was like Southwest Airlines was begging me to go. I knew that November meant the beginning of the cold season, that it would be the time of the quarter when I would need an adventure most.

Very early in the morning on November 3rd, riding the El from the Davis station, I noticed that Orion was in a part of the sky I had never seen it before. I thought about the music, about this article. I was at the beginning of my adventure, going somewhere I had never been. It all was potentially disastrous, and it was exciting. The streets were empty, as was my car. Orion was in a different place in the sky.

At Washington and Wells, I was cold, and the sun was rising at the end of Madison Street. In the air was a very strong aroma of chocolate. It lingered in my senses until Midway, where I departed for Long Island. I took a seat by the window to see the view of New York City below, but the plane became lost in the clouds and shook. I couldn’t see the city or Long Island, but I knew they were there.

Brooklyn

Walking along Flatbush Avenue, I wondered about place. Many of the songs on Sufjan Stevens’ albums Illinois and Michigan recall story embedded in place, and when looked at as a whole, the albums evoke transit between places. I crossed the streets, which intersected at odd angles, and I wondered what my story was in Brooklyn.

Along the paths of Prospect Park, I watched the games played. I took a rest from walking the winding paths through the urban thicket and sat on a bench. I had landed at the Islip Airport and then taken the LIRR to Flatbush Avenue. Brooklyn. Here. I listened to the sounds from the surrounding streets and ate my meager lunch. I hadn’t stopped moving since I woke up. I felt a sensation, and only now, as I look back on the memory, do I know what it was.

I was an outsider. I wasn’t Park Slope’s brownstones, the stores on Flatbush, the public library, or the insane Target store. I wasn’t playing soccer or mingling with kite flyers. I wasn’t Brooklyn. I was a traveler without a sense of place. I meandered, just absorbing everything. I needed some ground.

“The BQE” by Sufjan Stevens at the Brooklyn Academy of Music, 03 November 2007, and Conclusion

The Peter Jay Sharp Building of the Brooklyn Academy of Music was filled. There were the ones who exclaimed, “I’ve never seen it this packed before!” and, “I really don’t know that much about Sufjan. I’m a Member and my husband and I come here all the time.” Then there were the ones who didn’t say any of this, who just talked to their friends about music and other shows. One group came to the place and would discover the music. The other came for the music and would discover the place.

By then, I had walked up and down, in and around Park Slope, and had gathered a better sense of the angular structure of the neighborhood. I was very quiet and waited very patiently, letting Brooklyn into me and not me into Brooklyn.

The Howard Gilman Opera House was large and elaborate, and I felt it was like other auditoriums I’ve been to in the past, like the Chicago Theatre and the Lyric Opera House. I settled in with my copy of The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay, and I took off my shoes so my feet were closer to the floor. I was cozy up in the mezzanine.

The crowd settled down, and soon after eight the orchestra began as the lights dimmed, catching me unexpected. The curtain became illuminated by the credits.

Everything I had read about the BQE told me that it was the type of structure unworthy of artistic representation. Yet, as the music started to drive forward and as the film drove on the actual expressway, there was a grandiosity to the clogged lanes and aggressive concrete. I looked around the person in front of me—I’m short; he’s tall—to see the film projected on the screen. The three sections of film together made an elaborate pattern that blended together in harmony. It flowed with exact conjunction to the constant momentum of plucked strings and repetition of phrases.

That was the hook. It took me over. I sat with my feet hiked up on the chair. I completely forgot that I was in Brooklyn. I wasn’t in Brooklyn. I was riding the BQE, through the context of the film and music. The chaotic rush of the environment, the flashing neon lights blurring past, the hula hoops that twirled along with it—there was an energetic movement to all aspects of the performance, and it was adventurous.

The projection on the curtain came to “The End.” All I could do was write wow. wow. wow. in my notebook and read a few more pages of my book before the intermission ended.

This next half was composed of Sufjan’s more popular tracks. They all incorporated visuals as well, and they were hypnotic. The nature of the songs is multidimensional, with their carefully crafted lyrics and, during this performance, orchestral arrangements. This quality was counteracted with the simplicity of the visuals, and the stories the songs told felt complete and focused. During “Casmir Pulaski Day,” there was a dark street, and little specks all chased after a bouncing moon.

I tell you this from memory. I didn’t write anything down. Right now as I write, I’m listening to “Casmir Pulaski Day,” the first song of Sufjan’s I had ever heard, to pull the event out from my memory. It was that, the dynamic of the concert, the story told through many forms working in conjunction—I was completely absorbed by it. It was mesmerizing. After flying across the states, I was finally at a place hearing stories that spoke clearly to me.

I wasn’t in Brooklyn. I wasn’t in the Howard Gilman Opera House. I was in the liminal state of music and storytelling, and I couldn’t have felt more grounded.

When I stepped outside after the concert ended, I stepped out into Brooklyn. Where was I just before? Where did I think I was before? Chicago? Home? I was exhausted. I didn’t want to talk to anybody. I didn’t even write anything down. I just floated back to the Flatbush Avenue Station.

This has happened to me before. I undergo some sort of significant experience, like a thrilling concert or a delicious meal, and after I want to be alone and talk to nobody. But usually I’m completely surrounded by people.

After I boarded the train back to Long Island, I called my parents to check in, to tell them that I’d navigated my first time to New York City successfully. Surrounding the train is the same kind of night that surrounded the Purple Line car that I took from Davis earlier that morning. I wondered if the LIRR conductors pass you by and forget to collect your ticket like some Metra conductors have done, and then I handed the man my ticket. I was happy to do so. Maybe next time, I thought as I put on my music, I’ll go to Iceland.

That next morning, after flying above clouds and under the blue sky, I am back home, back in my place, in Chicago. I ride the El towards Evanston, and I see the system map above the door, and the arrangement of the colors is pleasing. Outside is bright and morning, and I recognize the dynamics of the architecture. For the first time since the concert, I listen to Sufjan, and when the doors open in the Loop to let the familiar smell of chocolate invade, I close my eyes and allow the El to take me home.

Set list
The BQE
-intermission-
Concerning the UFO Sighting Near Highland, Illinois
Jacksonville
Detroit, Lift Up Your Weary Head! (Rebuild! Restore! Reconsider!)
Casmir Pulaski Day
John Wayne Gacy Jr.
story – “Toilet Paper Dolls by Sufjan Stevens”
The Predatory Wasp of the Palisades Is Out to Get Us!
Barn Owl, Night Killer
Majesty Snowbird
Chicago