Pitchfork

If, as Peter Guralnick concluded while writing about Jack Clement in his seminal Lost Highway, "maybe it's the journey, not the arrival, that matters", then Sufjan Stevens' free concert at Washington, D.C.'s venerable cradle of the upper-crust arts, the Kennedy Center, qualified as a landmark event even before the indie troubadour emerged from behind the velvety curtains. Stevens, assisted by members of the Opera House Orchestra, would be celebrating the 10th anniversary of the Millennium Stage concerts: Amazingly, every night for the past 10 years a free show has been offered up in the Grand Foyer of the Center. And the shows hardly ever suck-- King Sunny Ade, Konono No. 1, the Polyphonic Spree, and Patti Smith are counted among the 4,000 artists who've thrown down for free.

Would-be concertgoers began lining up as early as 26 hours in advance of the January 27 Sufjan handout, when virtually all of the event's 2,300 tickets were given to the public. As it turned out, anyone who set foot on the KC's marbled terraces after sunup that Saturday morning-- roughly three hours before the announced start time-- ended up out in the cold, literally and figuratively. Scores of folks went away Sufjan-less, which stirred up the local blogsphere-- as well as stoking the engines of capitalism. Happy ticket-holders spun tales of line-sitting camaraderie, drunken sing-alongs, babies being born, bad acid, etc., while the ticketless raged at the naked greed of eBay re-salers (most asking around 80 bucks per), and engaged in furious rounds of Craigslist scalper flagging. There was clever opportunism as well-- offers to trade "good karma and cookies" or "Bright Eyes tix and a Wii" for a pair of seats, as well as a few social/philosophical ponderances along the lines of do i give my extra ticket to my friend who got cold and went home, or to you, nice boy with good taste in music? You wanna come along? Send a pic and tell me something about yourself that no one else knows. It hardly mattered to the excluded that the Millennium Stage folks are true altruists: The whole shebang would be simulcast on big screens in the massive Grand Foyer.

Flash forward to Monday night and based on buildup alone, Stevens was already victorious. He had upped his momentum another notch, stitched another unique square onto his increasingly impressive, almost-unblemished career quilt. But would the nuevo hippies, fresh-scrubbed believers, freak-folkers, and well-connected indie cognoscenti (plus dates!) who shuffled along the red-carpeted Kennedy Center halls, sipping a free glass of champagne courtesy of Target, be rewarded and redeemed by a once-in-a-lifetime performance?

The thunderous roar as Stevens appeared was one decisive answer. The crowd was ready to swoon. But it was a bearded, demure, and deliberate Stevens who took a seat at the center-stage grand piano. There were no butterfly wings or letterman sweaters. Just a suit and non-whimsical tie and a launch into "The UFO Sighting", which unfolded as a delicate voice-and-piano pairing until the dozen-or-so orchestra members, in a surge of strings and winds, shoved the song to a close. It was an off-kilter beginning, and a better balance-- one that allowed Stevens' band into the fold-- was quickly struck on "Detroit, Lift Up Your Weary Head!". The orchestra took up the punchy Reich-ian pulse, raised it to an urgent throb, and then receded. Stevens' weary, evocative melody sauntered in, and the massed hum of instruments swamped it moments later. It was in this judicious give and take between the often shrill orchestral fly-overs and Stevens' distinctive voice and melodies that the remainder of the hour played itself out.

Passes at more direct material-- "Casimir Pulaski Day" and a compact arrangement on first-ever live performance of "Sleeping Bear, Sault Saint Marie"-- were fine, but the requisite swipe at "Chicago" simply sounded tired. Instead, it was the hefty, tempestuous stuff that really connected. When the orchestra players and Sufjan's own rock ensemble revved together on "The Predatory Wasp of the Palisades Is Out to Get Us!", the effect was revelatory, a few minutes worth a wait in the cold. And though the sheer sonic weight occasionally threatened to overpower Stevens' vocals, he rose to the challenge on both "Seven Swans", which built from his celesta/vocal intro into a resplendent crescendo that was the show's highlight, and the closing "Majesty Snowbird", whose shuddering sweep truly evoked its title. It was on those two that the arrangements and orchestra voicings-- credited to Stevens, conductor Rob Moose, and french horn man Michael Atkinson-- made the most sense. And at the crest of that wave, as "Snowbird" began to alight and it seemed the mass of players had really hit a groove, Stevens left the stage. Then, amid a resounding ovation and the confused looks of the Opera House Orchestra, who remained on stage, it seemed that Stevens might be able to pull one more minor miracle and somehow flout the Kennedy Center's rigid time restrictions. It actually felt as it he might return for an encore. That's when the house lights came up and the curtain began a slow fall and the moment was gone. Which, ultimately, was just as well. Because that impossibly austere curtain's slow descent was really an apt sight, a reminder that journeys, no matter how brief or unique, almost always screw up the fun by ending.