Particle Physics
‘Particle Physics” is generally regarded as the worst song in the Sufjan Stevens Christmas catalog. Mark Hinog from The Verge ranked it dead last out of all 100 tracks in the discography. In fact, if someone were to ask me to recommend a Sufjan track to check out his music for the first time, I would never in a million years even think of saying “Particle Physics.” The thought of sharing this song with anyone would literally never cross my mind at all.
To be fair, this is mostly due to the fact that Particle Physics barely qualifies as a song itself. At best, we can consider it a programmatic interlude on Sufjan’s Infinity Voyage that bridges an interstellar visit to Prince on “Alphabet St.” and a cosmic, folktronica incarnation of “Joy to the World.” The track itself is an atonal conglomeration of eerie, sustained notes accompanied by lower, abrupt tones pulsating at various frequencies and speeds. Based on the title, perhaps the sounds are meant to be a brief glimpse into the chaotic noises at the sub-atomic level bouncing around the cold galactic void. There’s no discernable time signature, and the digital elements include various forms of static, shrill synthesized keys, and a twenty-five-second-long feedback loop to end it all. Essentially, it is the complete opposite of everything we consider to be music and therefore gets ranked last in the Sufjan Christmas Multiverse.
Being last is the absolute worst. I should know. Growing up with a name at the end of the alphabet meant that I was always last wherever I went. I was seated last in every classroom, called last for every team. I was at the bottom of every list and every set of forms. I know it doesn’t sound like the end of the world, but when you’re always last, and you know that you’re always going to be last, it can start to pile up on you. Honestly, you don’t even need to hear my story to know that nobody ever wants to be last. Being the last means being at the end, and we don’t like endings. We’re terrified of endings. We’re terrified of being last.
Despite this aversion, Christmas is a time when we celebrate the ‘last’ among us, the forgotten ones, the outsiders. We share the stories of Rudolph with his ridiculous red nose and his friends from the island of misfit toys who save the day. We retell the story of Tiny Tim and his little crutch who outshines the wealthy, cold-hearted Ebenezer. We remember that Charlie Brown didn’t pick the picture-perfect aluminum tree to remind himself what Christmas was all about, but rather it was the weak, slouched sapling that he chose. And if we dig into our sacred stories, we see this theme of heralding the underdogs emerge as well. We follow the story of the migrant woman in labor without even a room, the infant born in a dirty feeding trough, and the angels who announce the tremendous occasion, not to kings, but to lowly shepherds. Our shared cultural myths, stories, and songs are filled with characters on the bottom who finally get recognized that they are a part of the story too.
In this same vein, what draws me to Sufjan’s music is the sense I get that he treats each song with the care and respect that it is important. Whether it’s one of his originals or a centuries-worn melody, I hear in his breath that he is invested in bringing out the best of each one. Nothing is put on auto-pilot. He mines the canon for long-forgotten hymns, and the all-too-familiar songs too, asking if perhaps we have overlooked something special within them this whole time. As a modern-day bard, he treats each song with a holy respect, giving it maximum effort and imagination.
And I think this is why many of us return to Sufjan’s Christmas collection year after year; we’re drawn by his willingness to sense the amazing in the otherwise overlooked. Like Charlie Brown, we’ve seen the fancy aluminum trees that adorn our shopping malls and living rooms, but it’s the young sapling who can barely stand that speaks to us. We know that the high-octane holiday anthems are a part of us, but we also make room for the soft whispers of the sacred harp, the plucky banjo lines, and yes, even the digital static. From giant planets to sub-atomic particles, all of it belongs.
Justin Zarb is a stay-at-home dad who is homeschooling his two wonderful children through the current pandemic.