The music is amazing, with boundless drums that accompany piano movements Brubeck would have killed for. And that voice, something akin to Belle and Sebastian in a champagne jam with Sparklehorse and Burt Bacharach. The production is flawless. You overhear that the compositions were inspired by the state of Michigan and that the songwriter, a Detroit native, intends to make a record for each American puzzle piece. That would explain song titles like "Oh, Detroit!" and "Flint." It would also explain the pure celebration in the music, the revelry of Copland and Gershwin, Max Roach gliding over the kit, Ornette Coleman sneaking in from time to time to check on things, and CSN&Y held prisoner inside his voice box.
You finally ask God, "What am I listening to?" He says (in a voice not unlike a shopping-mall Santa) "Why, it's Sufjan Stevens. I haven't taken it out of the player for weeks." He then goes on to explain that you weren't supposed to be in heaven, that it was all a big mistake. The breakfast was meant to smooth things over, and a cash settlement is a possibility. You take the Sufjan Stevens CD instead and wave goodbye as you return to Earth, doggy bag in hand, God's wallet inside. When you get home, you find a note inside the bag: "That Stevens boy has a new record coming out called Seven Swans. Don't download it or I'll do that plague thing again. If you like wine, then it'll be a real bitch."
