David Bazan

When clicking through my iPod, I routinely scroll right past artists that I genuinely enjoy, but for some reason the name just doesn't stick out anymore. I don't know if this is just the nature of having a chock-full iPod, because I probably used to do the same thing when scanning through stacks of CDs, but every so often I'm reminded of a band that I stopped listening to for no good reason. (Well, other than constantly having to listen to and review other albums and shows.)

I've been reading Body Piercing Saved My Life by Andrew Beaujon, a longtime Spin contributor, and it's a fascinating look at Christian rock and bands who play rock music and also happen to be Christians. Beaujon makes it clear he's not a Bible believer himself, which makes the book more intriguing to me. Anyhow, one of the best chapters so far is Beaujon's interview with David Bazan, formerly of Pedro the Lion (and electronic side project, Headphones).

Bazan's an opinionated, conflicted and endlessly interesting artist to me. He allows a time for questions at each of his shows, and someone inevitably asks him if he's a Christian, which he always responds to in the negative. Why? Beaujon quotes Bazan as saying, "I'm not equating myself with Martin Luther by any stretch--but him and people that were part of his movements just stopped calling themselves 'Catholics.' I'd rather there just be a misunderstanding--'The guy's flipped out and totally abandoned his faith'--because it's not necessary for strangers to know exactly how I feel."

Fortunately for us, that inner struggle makes for great songs. For a sampling, head here to download a solo set Bazan played back in November. I'll be listening to it, as well as rediscovering the tunes my iPod has been hiding from me right in front of my eyes.

And for some lyrics to squirm by, here's "Discretion" from Achilles Heel (whenever I hear this song now, I picture Chigurh, the killer from No Country For Old Men):

Having no idea that his youngest son was dead,
The farmer and his sweet young wife slept soundly in his bed.
In the shadow of the mountain, as the cattle hung their heads.

Grazing only feet from where the broken body lay.
It would lay undiscovered for another several days,
When the farmer would find vultures at their banquet in the hay.

The killer traveled eastbound in a golden brown sedan,
Weighing his most recent deviation from the plan.
Counting down the hours till the sun came up again.

Hired to hit the farmer, but the farmer's asshole son
Had not yet decided between poison or a gun.
Suddenly he realized he would not use either one.