By all accounts named for his childhood hometown of Phoenix, Arizona; David Bazan’s first album for fifteen years as Pedro the Lion’s reference to the resurrected firebird of the Greek myths can’t be lost on many, least of all Bazan himself. Inspired by an impromptu visit to the town he grew up in, Bazan finally found a reason to leave the purely David Bazan and Headphones discography of recent memory and return to the Pedro the Lion moniker he first started recording under. Never one for fanfare, the reunion was nonetheless lo-fi music to the ears of Bazan’s loyal following. Now finally here, Phoenix is “the result of mining your past for who you are now” and finds itself dwelling in the memories of its urban origins while basking in the glorious rebirth of its mythical namesake.
Writing and playing almost all parts himself before inviting Erik Walters and Sean Lane into record Bazan admits “before long it just felt like Pedro the Lion.” Indeed the lo-fi shift and churn of the guitar riffs harken to those early Pedro days and Bazan’s droning voice amidst it all feels familiar in a way his recent recordings never quite did for longtime fans. But, as always, it’s Bazan’s words that bring people to the table and keep seated. Rolling out of his mouth with no real set sense of intonation or melody, Bazan beautifully interweaves pinpoint specific tales of his churchgoing suburban youth with greater universal ideas of truth and meaning, all wrapped in his dark wit and humor. Opener ‘Yellow Bike’ revels in the freedom his first bicycle brought him, bringing forth the ache of adulthood and all its responsibilities as he laments “I’d give my kingdom for someone to ride with.”
Glimpses of the yellow bike remains throughout Phoenix, a metal and rubber artifact encapsulating that lost childhood. It makes an appearance in ‘Circle K’, a tale of spending the money saved for a skateboard on candy and soda instead (read what consumerist undertones you will into that) all while “the good Lord smiled and looked the other way”, while he later traces the streets of his city by heart on ‘Tracing the Grid’, only this time in a fancy rental car. In fits of eagle-eyed self-awareness Bazan recalls caving to peer pressure and hurting a friend in the thrum and churn of ‘Quietest Friend’, swearing to memorize the reminders and “sing them to myself and whoever’s listening, put them on a record about my hometown”. He throws a wry smile in ‘Model Homes’ at his family “never not dreaming big” as they look at model homes after church on a Sunday. A model home they eventually get on closer ‘Leaving the Valley’, but “what the Lord gives, he can take away” as Bazan leaves Phoenix in a U-Haul and “the wipers wave goodbye”.
It’s an album gentle belonging and place, struggling to come to terms with loving a childhood which you feel so simultaneously separate from. “From a disappointed son to the city that he loves, the flags you wave around have got me wondering” he sings on ‘My Phoenix’, “if my Phoenix still shines if my Phoenix will rise.” The metaphor far from lost on Bazan’s ears, this is his Phoenix – the moments, memories and trappings that framed it for him and the redemptive resurrection of its place in the present. Who knew such a series of simple stories could evoke such meaning – but in its candour, Phoenix speaks in earnest to every personal memory of the world. “How many canyons will you run before your face warms in the sun, before you’re finally home, finally done running.”
