this pretty much sums up my feelings about this 'artist':
If there's one artist this year, whose music more than any other, has made me want to spend even less time with my indie listening friends, for dread that they'll somehow end up listening to that artist's music, it's this man.
Recognizable, in image, for doing retarded things like habitually wearing a dumb pair of wings during his concerts, and taking irritating press photos involving himself wearing a boy scout uniform, in what one assumes is supposed to make him look candidly dorky, quirky, earnest, and possibly a little ironic, but instead comes off looking either as if he's some sort of awkward, autistic man-boy, or a creepy, deranged member of the National Man Boy Love Associating, waiting at a troupe meeting for new victims.
He is hailed by his fans for his prolific work, here meaning Sufjan Stevens has the intention of recording 50 albums, one dedicated to each of the states in the US. Listening to just one of these records, with its insidiously precious-to-the-point-of-making-me-want-to-vomit, sugary, pseudo-pop bullshit, and knowing that there are at least 48 albums this fucker has left is enough to make me want to put on a baby blue sweater vest, and, grinning with his music's nauseatingly safe warmth, grab a kitten, the CD player and a toaster for good measure, and take a nice hot bubble bath, as I " Feel The Illinois", as the cover of one of his albums encourages me to do ( another hint that he might either be touched in the head or a pedophile).
