When Carrie & Lowell released on March 31st of 2015, it was met with widespread critical acclaim. Aside from the notable context in which it was created, a new Sufjan Stevens record felt like an event worth celebrating. The album represented a sonic return to form for Sufjan, most reminiscent of his early-career acoustic work like Seven Swans and some of the more restrained tracks on Michigan. While critical praise is no consolation prize for a dead parent, it felt like with Carrie & Lowell Sufjan finally became a household name.

As the full gravity of the record’s lyrics and context began to set in over the first few weeks of its release, Carrie & Lowell almost had a delayed reaction as fans started to recognize the scope and weight of the feelings contained within it. I may just be speaking for myself, but distinctly I recall listening to the album a few times before the words really began to land. It wasn’t until I sat down for a handful of close listens that I grew to understand the severity of the emotions contained within the record. Carrie & Lowell wasn’t just another Sufjan record. It wasn’t Illinois, it wasn’t Adz, and it definitely wasn’t Songs for Christmas, this was something different entirely. Carrie & Lowell is one of the rare albums that sounds sad and also has the weight to back it up. It’s not sad for sadness’ sake. There’s plenty of sad music, and there’s plenty of folk music, but there are very few records like this.

Album opener “Death With Dignity” sets the tone immediately with a soft, finger-plucked banjo and morbid song title referencing Oregon’s assisted suicide law. Sufjan enters soon after with a soft whispered voice sounding more lost than ever as he sings, “Spirit of my silence, I can hear you / But I’m afraid to be near you / And I don’t know where to begin.” The track ends with a minute of haunting, ghost-like hums that reverberate around the speakers, solidifying the album’s mood for the remaining 39-minutes.

“Should Have Known Better” is the closest thing the record has to a “catchy” song, placed second in the tracklist presumably to soften the blow of the opening track while also prepping the listener for what’s to come. This song introduces us to the record’s cast of characters, and it’s setting; Sufjan’s mom, brother, and extended family are all represented as well as the state of Oregon. Sufjan’s mom, Carrie, is introduced as a troubled character, establishing her with an anecdote about a time that she forgot Sufjan and his brother at the video store as a child. “When I was three, three, maybe four / She left us at that video store / Oh, be my rest, be my fantasy.” Here he depicts just one instance of her bad parenting, but also follows is up with conflicted feelings of missing her now that she’s gone.

“Should Have Known Better” ends with a message of hope as Sufjan contrasts this recent loss with a new ray of hope as he sings, “My brother had a daughter (brother had a daughter) / The beauty that she brings, illumination (illumination).” Clinging on to this one shred of optimism, Sufjan sends the listener off to wade through the darkness on the rest of the album. Now we know the stakes, we know the players, and we know how it ends. All that’s left is to fill in the blanks.

From there, the album spans from love songs on “All of Me Wants All of You” to childhood flashbacks on “Eugene.” Sufjan walks the listener through the stages of grief on “Drawn to the Blood,” and with each track, he takes the listener further down the rabbit hole of loss and confusion that comes in the wake of a loved one’s death. Each song adds another layer onto the relationship between himself and his mother, which sets us up for the heartbreaking depiction of her death beginning on the second side of the record.

Sufjan captures death rawly on “Fourth of July” as he finds himself by his mother’s bedside during her final moments. First, Sufjan sets the scene by establishing his mother’s declining health with beautiful yet pained language. “The evil, it spread like a fever ahead / It was night when you died, my firefly.” From there, he replays a conversation with each stanza trading off between the two of them. The language used is loving and forthright as his dying mother asks, “Did you get enough love, my little dove? / Why do you cry?” elaborating, “And I’m sorry I left, but it was for the best / Though it never felt right / My little Versailles.”

The use of loving pet names is punctuated immediately by post-death logistics as the hospital begins asking Sufjan about how the family would like to bury the body. This gut-punch leads to one final chorus that builds to a climactic chant of “We’re all gonna die,” which is repeated until the song fades out into darkness. It’s sublime.