Flannery O'Connor wrote that, "To the hard of hearing, you have to shout. To the nearly blind, you have to draw large, startling images." Pedro the Lion would agree. Dozens and dozens of bands played at Cornerstone 2002—and no band was as startling. No band was as controversial.
In April 2002, Pedro the Lion released Control, a storybook album—a rated R album—replete with intensely sexual images and verbal profanity. The record followed the moral demise of one man, from his adultery to his death. Cornerstone campers had mixed feelings toward the latest album. Ron McLaren, a long-time Cornerstoner, said, "I see what the band's trying to do. I just don't see the necessity of it." Chase Ottney, a camper from California, took a different stance, saying that the band's duty was to express themselves. They owed it to their fans. Some people called the album secular; some people called it wrong.
Most people were surprised to see the band playing main stage on the final night of the festival, and not just because of the profanity issue. David Bazan, the band's voice and lyricist, told fans last year that he would not be back to Cornerstone for a long time. He called Christian music a blender for old ideas, a genre alienated from the power of mystery. So now the band was back, playing right before Jennifer Knapp, right after the Saturday night sermon.
The preacher finished his message and a small pack of fans gathered around the stage. A perky missionary prayed for a foreign culture, threw a beach ball of the world into the crowd, and announced Pedro the Lion—as her favorite band. Bazan came onstage, slung his K-mart guitar over his shoulder, and with his dirty fingers formed the chords for one of his older songs, "June 18, 1976." He closed his eyes and sang the story of a mother's suicide.
Of the eight songs Bazan played on main stage, only two, "Indian Summer" and "Options," were from the new album. The band's second guitarist was having sound problems, so Bazan opened the show up to questions between songs. From among the hundreds of people in the amphitheater, one fan asked whether to keep his beard or shave it. Someone else asked to play the band a song after the show. Then came the question: "why all the explicit language on your new album?"
Bazan put his hand in his hair—shorter than his beard—and never broke eye contact with the questioner. "I write what's in me. That stuff's in my body. I guess that's my idea of art: do what's in you, and if the Holy Spirit's in you, you have to trust that it's good." Scattered applause came from around the stage. "My new album uses some pretty strong language and some pretty strong images. I've changed the lyrics to one of the songs I'm gonna play tonight. Some of you shouldn't buy the new album. Just don't buy it."
After "Nothing," the first song from Pedro's rookie record, someone asked why the band decided to come back to Cornerstone. With his typical honesty, Bazan said he'd changed a lot in the last year, that in 2001 he only came to the festival for the money, and he knew it. He hated being associated with the Christian music industry. He never wanted to go anywhere for money, so he never wanted to play the festival again. But he saw things different now: "Even with all its warts, I still believe in Christian culture. It's still great to hang out with people who love Jesus, dirt boogers and all."
This struggle to crack the confusion of Christian culture came out in the last song of the set, "The Bells." The song lamented believers bent by duty, witness wear as spiritual motivation, and shiny, smiley Sunday mornings. Bazan drew out the bridge, the turning point of the song, repeating, "Peace, be still. Peace, be still." And then he did what no one expected.
The song crested, and Bazan added, "And in that moment, I'm alive. And I wish it all could stop." Over and over, he sang these words, altering and augmenting the melody, until he was nearly shouting at the end. He sang of an epiphany, a moment to hold onto, a fleeting moment.
After the show, a group of press and fans found Bazan watching from the offstage wings, twenty feet above them, watching the antics of an excited preacher. "Hey David," yelled one fan. Bazan turned around and the fan told him how much the last song meant to him: how he was a musician whose least favorite part of his life was church on Sunday. At first, Bazan leaned over the side of the stage, listening, but he soon scaled down the scaffolding and spend a good half-hour talking to the small crowd.
"I think the church is at a weird point right now," he said. "Kind of like a pre-reformation time, like before Martin Luther nailed up the 95 theses. You've got this sloganized Christianity; you've got all this watered-down art. I don't know." But he told of how the Bible read different to him over the past year, and how he knew God was pursuing him, regardless of the culture. There was nothing inherently wrong with questioning the culture, he said, but he was doing something more important these days. He was questioning himself.
With the unbroken eye contact, with the painfully honest songs, and with his approachability—even during the show—David Bazan let Cornerstone 2002 know who he was. This year. This week. No apologies.
