The Meaning of “Fourth of July” by Sufjan Stevens

To say Sufjan Stevens’ 2015 album, Carrie & Lowell, is his best might be an invitation for argument. But the opposing argument would lose. And the standout song on that record collapses the album’s main narrative into a single, confessional, and existential truth. Let’s take in the meaning of “Fourth of July” by Sufjan Stevens.

Here, Stevens returns to his natural state: a voice, a guitar, a piano, and ghosts of sound. He whispers beautifully crafted words over minimalist production, leaving behind, for a moment, the multi-part suites and elaborate orchestrations he sometimes diverts to. 

His previous masterpieces—Illinois and Seven Swans—are road maps to the destination of Carrie & Lowell. The abstractions from those albums take the form of fully revealed narratives present in Carrie & Lowell. 

Stevens’ mother, Carrie, died in 2012. She had bipolar disorder and abandoned him at a young age. His stepfather, Lowell Brams, who co-runs Stevens’ record label, Asthmatic Kitty, played a crucial role in Stevens’ life. Carrie and Lowell’s marriage lasted five years. Stevens’ time in Oregon profoundly affected him as a child.

[RELATED: Sufjan Stevens: Carrie & Lowell]

All Paths Lead to Oregon

A tender song about his mother’s death, “Fourth of July” reflects Stevens’ tragic loss with the innocence and life lessons of a children’s book. 

The evil it spread like a fever ahead
It was night when you died, my firefly
What could I have said to raise you from the dead?
Oh, could I be the sky on the Fourth of July?

The sorrow he feels from lost years of abandonment and detachment doesn’t turn into anger or fault. He attaches endearing nicknames (my little dove) to his mother, reaching for the supernatural ability to raise her from the dead. Stevens’ Christian faith is central to his biography, and religious imagery is one of his primary tools. 

Well, you do enough talk
My little hawk, why do you cry?
Tell me what did you learn from the Tillamook burn?
Or the Fourth of July?
We’re all gonna die

Forest fires raged the northern Oregon Coast Range mountains in 1933 and continued in six-year intervals into 1951. The Tillamook Burn, or The Burn as locals call it, became a destination. 

“Fourth of July” is Stevens’ destination, dealing with the sadness of his mother’s absence, both before and after her death. Even when physically present, Stevens felt Carrie’s emotional distance. A song called “Romulus” from his album Michigan recounts a story where Stevens’ mother visits from Oregon, but her car breaks down. Desperate for her to stay, Stevens prays the car can’t be fixed or found. 

Fireworks and Fireflies

Stevens’ birthday is July 1st and the Fourth of July is significant for more than the American celebration of independence. His metaphor ties fireworks and fireflies to the stardust we all become when we die, like the morning after a Fourth of July celebration when we clean up the party’s mess, and the daylight reveals burned paper and remnants of what once was. 

The song ends soberly with Stevens repeating We’re all gonna die. Religion is the first attempt at philosophy and science and persists, partly because humans are the only species that know everything, and everyone dies. Even with Stevens’ long-held faith, he’s resigned to a humanist reality, and he repeats it humbly over a muted piano and what sounds like the vast, empty sounds of an indifferent universe. 

Rebirth or Life After Death

Carrie & Lowell is haunting and beautiful. If you’ve never listened to Sufjan Stevens, it’s OK to begin here. It feels like meeting him for the first time for those who’ve followed his career. His body of work is sprawling and complex, but this album is a little like Oregonians visiting The Burn. Maybe they’ll spot a deer or talk about what once lived here before the fires. 

Stevens’ “Fourth of July” is both the profound loss of The Tillamook Burn and the destination it shaped. His mother, Carrie, created the chaos and spark of Stevens’ life. His firefly. His crying dove, echoing Prince. 

Returning to the opening argument for this being his finest work, Carrie & Lowell demands repeated listens. Not only to unwrap the mysteries of a generational writer but to reveal something in the listener. The album is personal and confessional, and though it documents Stevens’ life experiences, its real power lies in the existential sadness of life’s fragility. 

In The Ancestor’s Tale, evolutionary biologist Richard Dawkins wrote that the number of unborn souls exceeds the grains of sand in the Sahara. Being born is the result of good dumb luck, but the precious beauty of it all still isn’t a cure for the sadness of loss. 

Sufjan Stevens’ Carrie & Lowell sounds like the earth meeting the sky. 

Photo by Nicholas Hunt/Getty Images