Fifteen years after their last record, Achilles’ Heel (2004), Pedro the Lion make a comeback under the shape of (a) Phoenix (2019), and it’s a rebirth. The current formation is composed of David Bazan – of course – accompanied by Erik Walters on drums and Sean Lane on guitar. Bazan’s songwriting style has evolved through the years, but the core substance of his music has remained the same – and so has his concert outfit.
Walking in the dark, breezy New Parish on Tuesday, February 19th, fairy lights, the sound of Tomberlin’s soft voice and fingerpicked strings welcomed me in. She was singing songs from her debut album, At Weddings (2018), interspersing through the show snippets of life history (did you know she worked at Verizon?): stories from her past (her Oregon family) and present (dreaming of California, touring). Her singing recalls Julien Baker’s later records, as well as Adrienne Lenker’s delicate lyricism, with a touch of Aldous Harding’s vocal range and chamber-like hints. Before singing “I’m Not Scared,” she digressed on the “rough times” we are in, and exclaimed: “I am for calling the shit out of the things we see, and it all gets better when we do it.” A loud cheer filled the room, and a few words later, she began: “I am not scared of you this time / And when you pick up the phone I’ll stay on the line.”
“I am for calling the shit out of the things we see, and it all gets better when we do it.”
Filing the now-crowded room with her earnest folk sound, Tomberlin set the tone for the evening; although different from Bazan’s musical endeavours, her music did not feel out of place, but rather like a refreshing introduction to the night.
“I wanted the record to sound like the town, to me. I was hoping I could bring a taste of that place to you.”
Following “Powerful Taboo,” Bazan finally took a few minutes to pronounce the long-awaited introduction: “We’re Pedro the Lion from Seattle, Washington; it’s good to be here with you Oakland, California, mighty Bay Area.” Going on an accidental tangent on the rise of the tech industry and climate change, Bazan announced: “Here we are all in civilisation barely hanging on to a fingernail. And then the earth is changing rapidly.” Recognising his digression, he backtracked: “How are you guys, though?” The first chords to “Model Homes” were soon strung.
Bazan’s charm lies exactly in the intimacy that he succeeds in generating between the audience and the band; like old friends reuniting after years of growing apart, the concert felt like a reunion that was a long time coming, maybe overdue. The sight of Phoenix in the background transported the crowd back to the city where Bazan lived his childhood years, and for those couple of hours it felt like our city, too. Like a walk through a city we all once knew, through a past we shared; that might be Bazan’s greatest achievement, and a reminder of what music can do, what music can be.
After “Magazine,” an old gem from the 2002 album Control, Bazan took questions from the audience. Someone asked about TW Walsh, and Bazan explained: “Seventeen different people have played in the band,” and proceeded to describe this return as “a return to the process where I make bass lines, and write for guitars, drums, and we bring it together in the end. I’m now back doing it, and I’m really glad, too.” And so are we. Another person asked about comic books, to which Bazan began to recount about his daughter’s passion for writing them, and about the one she wrote about the death of their dog, jokingly remarking: “My kids find themselves naturally making art about things that scare the shit out of them. I don’t know where they got it from.” A roar of subtle laughter filled the room; no need to answer, we all knew.
“A return to the process where I make bass lines, and write for guitars, drums, and we bring it together in the end.”
Later that night, we were graced with the chance to hear “Gas & Matches” played live, a song from Bazan’s experimental synth-rock side project Headphones (2005-2006). Without a synth, the track could have been part of any of Pedro the Lion’s earlier albums, with its decisive bassline and bitter lyrics. A fake encore prepared the room for the last few songs; Bazan gestured that they were about to head out, but never moved from his spot at the center of the stage. They went quiet for a few minutes, and then they invited the crowd to cheer as if they had just appeared again, in an unexpected twist of events.
Closing their set with “Quietest Friend,” they could not have picked a more appropriate end to the night. Singing the last few words about the writing process of the record itself and about those who would eventually listen to it, Bazan reminded us to be good to ourselves and to others, to let his music be a reminder of the good we can do once we become aware of the bad we might have done.
In the end, Bazan’s classic, harrowing lyricism is and has always been a cry for hope. It’s a homage to the past, to the past as a lesson, and to the future as an opportunity.
Article and photos by Marta Meazza
