Sufjan Stevens and the Birth of a True Classical-Rock Hybrid

Following is an essay I’d like to share about a potentially exciting way forward for a music form I love—rock and roll—that, in my view, has gone stagnant. I apologize up front for the fact that this piece fits neither the length nor informality of a typical Forum posting. But I hope readers will nonetheless consider its propositions, check out its examples, and give feedback.

From its inception, rock has engaged in promiscuous gene splicing as a means of evolution. A child of R&B and the blues, rock has ever since been appropriating DNA from a broad swath of donors, giving birth to folk-rock, blues-rock, rockabilly, country-rock and countless other cross species. Rock then turned from genres to geography for inspiration. Paul Simon, for example, famously co-opted South African rhythms and instruments for his album Graceland, which initiated a string of similar experiments and led to the advent of world music.
Yet notably absent from this chronicle of free-flowing genetics is much influence from classical music. Perhaps this is not surprising; after all, the two genres utilize completely different instrumentation, and their works take radically different forms in terms of length and structure. Beneath the surface, the differences are even greater. Rock songs are typically based on two repeated melodic lines (the verse and the chorus) over a chord progression, plus lyrics. This means that songwriters must excel in crafting memorable melodies and as wordsmiths. In contrast, classical music is usually built on a larger scale that precludes rock’s repetitious format. Instead, classical composers fill their expanded canvas with themes that are developed, varied, and often intertwined. The composer’s craft, then, is in thematic development (as opposed to conception) and orchestration.
Given their manifold dissimilarities, it is no wonder that rock and classical music have largely gone their own ways. Yet despite—or perhaps because of—the chasm between them, a merger between rock and classical music has the potential for great synergy. Classical music offers sweep, a broad tonal palette, and compositional techniques that can imbue music with a profundity proven to deliver long-term listening rewards. Rock affords broad musical and lyrical accessibility, and a visceral emotional impact within a succinct format. A hybrid of the two would, in theory, offer the best of both worlds.
Due to its potential, the combination has been tried. Not surprisingly, given their inveterately experimental nature, the Beatles were among the first to do so. From “This Boy” to “Because”, they infused many songs with intricate multi-part vocal arrangements—dazzling even today—far closer to classical chorales than to rock’s characteristically simple backup harmonies. And even early Beatle songs featured classical instruments played in a classical manner. Consider, for example, the partita-like harpsichord solo in the middle of John Lennon’s “In My Life”. Later, entire Beatles songs would revolve around classical instruments, such as the string quartet that comprises the sole accompaniment to “Eleanor Rigby”. By Sgt. Pepper the group was relying heavily on the power of a full orchestra to achieve grand effects like those in “A Day in the Life”. Finally, on Abbey Road’s second side, Paul McCartney explicitly strove to stretch rock’s normally concise scale into something more “symphonic” by treating songs and song fragments as short, interconnected movements.
The Seventies saw the rise of many bands like Yes, and Emerson, Lake and Palmer that continued to incorporate classical’s sounds and scale. Unfortunately, virtually none of these groups expounded upon the Beatles’ groundwork in incorporating classical’s compositional principles. Indeed, quite a bit of the “classically-influenced” music of this era (think ELP) was indulgent bombast wholly at odds with classical’s elegant economy. In the Eighties and Nineties, several bands translated the sound of the orchestra into a more modern, electronic medium and combined this new sound with those of traditional rock. The result could be sonically engaging, as on Depeche Mode’s Violator. But this approach to melding rock and classical elements was clearly still only skin deep.
Classical artists have had no better success in embracing rock while maintaining their own genre’s virtues. The highest profile attempts involve transcriptions of rock songs into the classical realm, such as Il Divo’s operatic tenors singing pop hits, or concert pianist Christopher O’Riley playing Radiohead tunes. Such efforts may succeed in exposing new audiences to classical instruments and voices, but they bring few other classical attributes to the venture. As a result, these unions, too, must be recognized as largely superficial.
The question naturally arises: what has prevented a deeper and broader integration between rock and classical music, one that more fully delivers the synergies described above? Certainly, as already discussed, it is no small matter to reconcile the two forms’ disparate characteristics. But another likely factor is simply that the bulk of rock practitioners are not trained in writing classical music, and vice versa. The Beatles were no exception, but were able to realize their vision thanks to their classically-trained producer, George Martin, who composed, scored and conducted all orchestral contributions (and played the occasional harpsichord solo). For their part, classical musicians tend to look askance at rock, and therefore feel no compunction to master it.
This impasse was finally resolved in 2005 when an independent artist named Sufjan Stevens, a man accomplished in both music forms, released a seminal album named Illinois. Stevens brought to the project a lifelong love of classical music, knowledge of its compositional techniques, an ability to play virtually every orchestral instrument, an equal passion for rock, and a commensurate ability to play the latter’s full instrumental repertoire. Stevens’ background was ideally suited to creating the fullest realization yet of a classical-rock hybrid.

So how does Illinois differ from standard rock or classical recordings? On the surface, it more closely resembles a rock album. Its structure is a series of songs, most of which consist of lyrics sung over an instrumental accompaniment. All the tracks, except the slower acoustic numbers, feature a traditional rock rhythm section and a good beat. However, even a cursory listen reveals that something different is afoot. Not all the songs are of standard length; some are very short, abstract instrumental pieces that would fit comfortably on a Philip Glass CD, while others are longer than usual and contain multiple “parts” that could easily be thought of as movements. Furthermore, though the accompaniment features rock instruments, it is in no way limited to them. On most tracks they are supplemented by some combination of orchestral strings, brass, woodwinds, a backup chorus, and the occasional banjo.
So far, these deviations from the rock norm are not entirely uncommon and could well be viewed as falling into the superficial category. However, on Illinois, these characteristics are only the beginning of the integration with classical music, not the end. What truly differentiates this album is found beneath the surface, at the composition level. Here, Stevens employs classical writing techniques like polyphony and counterpoint, as well as the basic principles that have imbued classical music with such longevity: writing with economy; providing the listener with generous portions of both familiarity and variety; creating drama and resolution through musical tension and repose; and allowing the music to be perceived on multiple levels, either individually or all at once.
The classical masters maintained musical interest in part by playing upon listeners’ expectations—primarily through variations or combinations of already-presented themes (an application of the tenet of delivering both familiarity and variety). Stevens does this as well, but has the added flexibility of being able to play on rock listeners’ expectations of the genre itself. For example, as the first track enters, it gives every sign of adhering to rock’s typical 4/4 time signature. But within seconds it becomes apparent that the meter actually fluctuates with each measure (2/4, 7/8, 6/8, etc) and that none of them is 4/4. Somehow, this does nothing to impede the song’s smooth unfolding. Similarly, “Come on! Feel the Illinoise” appears to be following the standard rock song structure, right down to the requisite guitar-solo fade away. But it’s a fake-out; rather than dying off, the solo unexpectedly leads the listener to an entirely new section of the song. Meanwhile the track, which seems harmonically consonant enough, is mischievously underpinned with dissonant chords plucked straight from modern classicism. Lyrics on Illinois offer their own surprises, frequently going where least expected. Whether or not listeners are overtly aware of these curveballs, they imbue the album with a freshness that is rare in today’s rock.
Stevens also delivers musical unity and variety via the more traditional technique of variations upon themes. For example, a passage within Part I of “The Tallest Man, the Broadest Shoulders” concludes with the chorus singing a melodic phrase to the line, “How she made the nations sing!” The new theme is not dwelled upon, and the song quickly returns to earlier themes. However, as Part II begins, the melody reappears—but it has been starkly transformed. In keeping with Part II’s subject, the tragic Chicago fire of 1871, Stevens radically slows the theme down, giving it a far more somber tone. And instead of being sung, it is now played as a “Taps”-like trumpet duet. Again, listeners may not consciously recognize the theme; but sub-consciously it registers as familiar and serves to unite the song’s two sections. At the same time, reshaping the theme proves infinitely more compelling than simply repeating it would have been.
From the discussion so far, one might assume that Stevens’ songs follow the normal rock course of presenting one melody at a time. In fact, polyphony (the playing of multiple discreet musical lines simultaneously) and counterpoint (collectively, the techniques used to prevent multiple themes from devolving into a tangled mess) seem to have occupied Stevens as much as they did Bach. Though such methods are rare in rock, they are not unheard of. Once again the Beatles provide an elegant example of polyphony’s surprising effectiveness. At the close of “Eleanor Rigby”, McCartney brings back the introductory theme (“I look at all the lonely people”), and sings it over the song’s refrain (“All the lonely people, where do they all come from?”) to reveal that they fit together in a perfect complement.
But Stevens utilizes polyphony and counterpoint to an extent that is entirely foreign to rock. In “Night Zombies”, for instance, he juggles no less than five distinct themes—some sung, some played—in various combinations and, ultimately, all together. As for counterpoint, consider that in the above example of “The Tallest Man, the Broadest Shoulders”, the “Taps” theme merely opens Part 2. Then, as that theme cyclically repeats, a vocal line enters and begins its own cycle. To keep the two lines distinct, Stevens uses contrasting rhythms: the sung melody is steady quarter notes, whereas the trumpet theme is eighth notes followed by half notes. Furthermore, utilizing a contrapuntal technique called contrary motion, the two themes are constructed such that one ascends in pitch while the other descends. Together, as in “Eleanor Rigby”, they are a perfect complement.
However, since Stevens’ aim in this song is to create an ever-expanding emotional force, he introduces a third theme, an instrumental motif that is again rhythmically differentiated—this time via an emphasis on the off-beat. Finally, a last vocal theme appears; its syncopation easily distinguishing it from the regulated and still-ongoing original vocal. Note here also the application of the classical principle of tension and repose. All these competing rhythms create dramatic tension, but it is at once resolved by the way they integrate into a cohesive whole. The result, when everything is fully in motion, is a marvel of composition that is also supremely moving.
For those so inclined, unraveling the craft that informs Illinois can be one of the album’s great pleasures—just as it can be for a Bach fugue. That is one level on which the album can be appreciated. However, as in pure classical music, the writer’s techniques are there to confer expressivity and long-term satisfaction; being cognizant of them is not a prerequisite to reaping their benefits. Indeed, as in all art, inspiration is also a necessary element of success, and Steven’s compositional calisthenics would be for naught if they resulted in a dry, technical exercise. Fortunately, the opposite is true. Illinois is by turns ravishing and chilling, grand and intimate, uplifting and achingly sad. As with the best rock, its melodies are contagious, and its oddball rhythms are infectious. Illinois’ lyrics—the fruit of two years’ research into the state’s history and denizens—are equally beguiling and, like its music, can be heard on several levels.

The aftermath of Illinois’ release is instructive. The album sold well, despite being released without the benefit of major label distribution. It was also one of the most critically lauded albums of 2005, ranking third in the Village Voice’s annual poll of 795 jazz and pop music critics. The record’s success firmly established Stevens’ label, Asthmatic Kitty, which now boasts a full roster of artists. And Stevens himself has become an indie-rock star whose concerts, which often feature local orchestras and choirs, invariably sell out.
The reaction to Illinois is strong evidence of the artistic and commercial potential of a true classical-rock hybrid, demonstrating that a contingent of rock worshippers hungry for something new and more dimensional than rap and hip-hop will flock to it. Coincidentally, the form can also provide a sorely-needed new outlet for classical composers and musicians. Most importantly, Stevens has also helped to ensure that this time the hybrid will not wallow, as it did after the Sixties. Unlike the Beatles, who relied primarily on intuitive experimentation, Stevens has employed techniques that are consistent, repeatable, and that allow for virtually infinite variation. In effect, he has established a blueprint that others can—and hopefully will—follow.