“What have we become, America?” It’s almost quaint to imagine asking that question 20 years ago.
“What have we become, America?” is a question posed in the third-to-last song of an album I really love. The song is called “The Tallest Man, the Broadest Shoulders,” and it was written by Sufjan Stevens, who spent a lot of time thinking about America. At the time of its writing, Stevens had claimed publicly he was on a quest to tell the story of each tessera of the American mosaic—that is, an album for each of the 50 United States. He later said that entire quest was a joke and a promotional gimmick. For what it’s worth, I think it is hilarious to announce plans for all these distinct, intricate concept albums and then only make two of them. And he didn’t even try to branch out beyond the Midwest. (Which, as a Notre Dame grad and current Midwesterner, I’m totally on board with!)
Still, it’s unfortunate we may never get to see Stevens apply his deeply spiritual and heart-rending creative talents to the story of, like, Wyoming. Or Hawaii. But two decades after its release, I am convinced that Stevens captured the story of America more completely on one album about one state than he could have with dozens of additions.
Stevens dropped “Illinois” on July 4, 2005, to immediate and gushing acclaim by music critics.
The triumph of the album wouldn’t be diminished even if Stevens had enlisted scores of collaborators. Instead it’s magnified by the fact he wrote, recorded, engineered and produced it himself. The liner notes outline more than 20 instruments he played on the album.
In 10 albums over the last 25 years, the Michigan-born indie musician has never settled into one sound long enough to fit into a genre. He’s drawn comparisons to the late, great Brian Wilson for his rich arrangements and vast array of influences. His Christian faith imbues every single song he writes. But he pointedly avoids talking about that faith in interviews with the media, daring each listener to grapple with these lofty ideas themselves.
Stevens had introduced himself as America’s 21st-century bard in 2003 with the youthful “Michigan,” which I wrote about two years ago. “Illinois” exhibited that same style but sharpened with the expertise and precision of a surgeon—a softspoken, banjo-plucking surgeon. Stevens’ lyrics are a 74-minute tour of every crevice of the human soul, and he set them to stunningly rich, textured orchestrations that have no business being so catchy and accessible.
Stevens wrote “Illinois” for an ensemble cast, with characters from the state’s mythos as well as its everyday residents. That’s probably one reason it seemed especially ripe for a musical adaptation that ran on Broadway in 2024, picking up a Tony for Best Choreography during its 117-show run. The album plucks historical figures from relative obscurity—no offense to Admiral George Dewey, a pivotal figure of the Spanish-American War, but his is not really a household name these days—and sets them beside anonymous young dreamers on a journey to find themselves. It blends the historical, the fictional and the personal in a way that invites listeners to question their assumptions about those characters and themselves.
In doing so, “Illinois” describes a state and a nation in motion, full of complicated human beings who do bad things and good things. I think it’s a challenge to take collective responsibility for the horrible actions of people like us, rather than dismiss those people as villains. And I think it’s also a challenge to celebrate the way people connect with each other and rise above evil to create beauty. Those challenges are just as poignant today as they were in 2005, if not more so.
A good place to start is the sixth track, “John Wayne Gacy Jr.,” as compared to the twelfth track, “The Man of Metropolis Steals Our Hearts.” The former, about one of the most infamous sex criminals and murderers in U.S. history, is riddled with sympathetic personal details like Gacy’s own abuse as a child. It closes with the lines, “And in my best behavior/ I am really just like him/ Look beneath the floorboards/ For the secrets I have hid.”
The latter uses the idea of Superman, that quintessential American hero, to explore the vulnerabilities inherent in love. It ultimately states you can’t be any sort of white-knight savior if you don’t open yourself up to another person: “Only a steel man can be a lover/ If he had hands to tremble all over/ We celebrate our sense of each other/ We have a lot to give one another.”
Superman and John Wayne Gacy. How different could two characters be? Yet it is clear—in “Gacy,” it is actually stated—Stevens sees himself in both of them. He humanizes these two characters who seem, for very different reasons, not quite human. And I think that’s because Stevens recognizes that their shared humanity is what makes them so essential, why they loom so large in our imaginations. Gacy wouldn’t be so horrifying and Superman wouldn’t be so amazing otherwise.
The tenth track, “Casimir Pulaski Day,” a devastatingly beautiful reflection on mortality and faith, takes its name from the Polish commander remembered as a hero of the American Revolution. Pulaski was brave and decisive on the battlefield and, crucially, he is known for saving the life of George Washington. On “Casimir Pulaski Day,” Stevens recounts the cancer diagnosis, suffering and death of a childhood friend amid their blossoming romantic feelings for each other. You can feel in the lyrics that he wants to be brave. He wants to save his friend’s life. Ultimately, though, his prayers don’t result in a miracle, and he’s left crying and struggling with his relationship with God after his friend’s death.
It is far from the battlefield valor that immortalized Pulaski. On its surface, Stevens’ story could not be more different than the Polish hero’s. But at the same time, I think there’s an immense amount of bravery in a young boy’s simple act of soldiering on after watching a loved one die. Although Stevens didn’t save his friend the way Pulaski saved George Washington, I don’t think it makes him any less heroic. Maybe the events of “Casimir Pulaski Day” are a stand-in for any tragedy or loss that strikes at the spirit, and maybe the song suggests the real measure of a person’s valor is how they persist and honor that loss.
A personal favorite track is “Jacksonville,” which carries the name of the seventh U.S. president, a slave owner and the face of Native American extermination in this country. President Andrew Jackson is mentioned by name in the song, but it isn’t really about him. Instead, it describes the role of Jacksonville, Ill. in the Underground Railroad. Its slinky string arrangements and defiant horns pair perfectly with the opening words, “I’m not afraid of the Black man running/ He’s got it right, he’s got a better life coming.” In one line—“Colored preacher, nice to meet you”—Stevens nods to the local urban legend that the town was really named after its first Black alderman, preacher A. W. Jackson, rather than the divisive president. The song takes the expected narrative of the town’s namesake and flips it on its head.
There’s all sorts of these thematic juxtapositions throughout the album, even when U.S. history isn’t at the forefront. “Chicago,” arguably Stevens’ most popular and enduring song to date, is about living a bohemian life free from any baggage (including clothes, I guess?). But its mantra, repeated over and over throughout the song, is the gentle reminder that “All things go.” No matter how you live your life, change is its only permanent fixture.
Then there’s “The Predatory Wasp of the Palisades Is Out to Get Us!” which uses the idea of a wasp’s sting as a stand-in for the forbidden love of a male friend and the pain of losing it. The song very much places Stevens within the natural world, employing imagery of rivers and caves and forests, but also at odds with it, as his love results in a “terrible sting and terrible storm.”
Followed up by two instrumental tracks, “Tallest Man” is the final song with any words on the album. I think it’s fitting that the question, “What have we become, America?” is one of the last sentiments voiced on “Illinois.” To me, it feels open-ended. Stevens spent the album showing the beauty and horror written into America’s story. He’s recounted the history and the folklore. I think he wants to leave us with that question, so we can decide for ourselves what it all means about us.
Yes, the question can seem quaint. I think most people agree it’s harder to be hopeful about America these days. But maybe that’s because we’re guilty of the false nostalgia that Stevens so deftly avoids on his 20-year-old masterpiece. Isn’t division a central theme in America’s story? How divisive are “these days” as compared to slavery and the Civil War? Or the extermination of Native Americans? Maybe “Illinois” is more essential than ever in 2025, because above all else, it lends some perspective on a country and people that always seem to be navigating crisis.
