Sorry, there are no Pedro The Lion dates.
Pedro the Lion has always been David Bazan, but it took a long time to get back there.
In August 2016, during what he now recognizes as his lowest point, Bazan was touring the
country alone in an aging minivan and found himself in his hometown of Phoenix, AZ. In need of
a break from the road, he spent a night off at his grandparents’ house instead of driving on to
San Diego. Before leaving town the next morning, after realizing that even the most familiar
places can become unrecognizable, Bazan gave himself the gift of a quick detour past the
house he grew up in, and on the way, experienced a breakthrough - one that would lead him
both forward and back to another home he had built many years before.
From the beginning, Pedro the Lion didn’t work like the bands Bazan had played drums in,
where each player came up with their own parts. Instead, like scripting scenes of dialogue for
actors to play with, Bazan recorded and arranged all of the skeletal accompaniments for his
obsessively introspective lyrics and spare melodies. Each player would then learn their parts
and, together as a band, they brought the skeleton to life. While bandmates played on a few
recordings, Bazan often played all or most of the instruments himself.
“I found so much joy working this way,” Bazan remembers. “It came naturally and yielded a
feeling and a sound that couldn’t have existed by any other process. At the same time, I was
also aware that not everyone wanted to play in a band where the singer wrote all the parts and
might perform them on the record. Someone even suggested it might not be a valid approach
to having a band in the first place. Being insecure and wanting to find camaraderie, I became
conflicted about my natural process.”
By 2002, after recording Control , the high rate of turnover in the band finally caused Bazan to
ditch his “natural process” in favor of a collaborative writing process. When, after a couple more
years, this move did nothing to stabilize turnover, Bazan was perplexed. In November 2005,
Bazan decided to stop doing Pedro the Lion altogether.
Ironically, Bazan didn’t see “going solo” as a chance to revert back to his original process of
writing and playing all the parts. For the next decade Pedro the Lion felt off limits, even
forgotten, like a childhood home Bazan had moved out of. He pushed forward with releasing
solo albums & relentless touring in living rooms and clubs, through every part of the US and
beyond, sometimes with a band, but mostly on his own. It took a toll on his family and more
acutely on himself. By the summer of 2016, he still hadn’t found the personal clarity or the
steady collaboration he’d been seeking and was at the end of his rope.
“I had abandoned my natural way of working in the hopes of creating space for a consistent
band to write with...and it hadn’t worked. So I got a rehearsal space, mic’d up drums, bass, and
guitar, and really leaned into my original process again. It immediately felt like like home.
Before long I realized it also felt like Pedro the Lion.”
In June 2018, with Bazan on bass, vocals, and arrangement writing, Erik Walters on guitar and
backing vocals, and Sean Lane on drums, Pedro the Lion went into Studio X and Hall of Justice
with producer Andy Park to create Phoenix , the first new Pedro album in 15 years.
The songs themselves are the result of mining your past for who you are now. On opening
track “Yellow Bike,” Bazan encapsulates a core ache he’s been exploring since 1998’s It’s Hard
to Find a Friend with the line:
For someone to ride with
Phoenix also deals with having to be better to yourself in order to be better to others on
“Quietest Friend,” and harkens back to Control ’s “Priests and Paramedics” with a story about
EMTs facing a gruesome scene, and storytelling as coping mechanism, on “Black Canyon.” It
bears witness to both what was around and what was inside, with the signature kindness and
forgiveness that lightens Pedro the Lion’s darkest notes.
The result is a twisting, darkly hopeful introspection into home and what it means to go back, if
you ever can. It is rock and roll wrapped in tissue paper, its hard edges made barely soft. Every
melody is careful, a delicate upswing buoyed by guitar lines that hold each tender feeling
together like string before ripping them apart to see what’s inside. It is an ode to the place he
still loves despite how alien it can appear to him now. It is the story of a life from the beginning,
but not a linear one. This life is a circle, and Phoenix goes back to that first point, to show that
when we are looking for home we’ll eventually run into it again, whether it’s in the desert, in a
rehearsal space, or on a stage.