Hope And Doubt: My Evening With David Bazan

“You must be Michael.” He notices me standing just beyond the crowd of people asking for autographs and just for the chance to shake his hand and say good show. David Bazan grabs the one guitar that he came with and checks his pockets for his keys in his corduroy jacket as we walk from the Fremont Abbey and out into the cold Seattle night.

This is my chance to find out about the man that I feel as though I already know. I’ve been listening to his struggle since I was a sophomore in high school. I’ve heard his struggle to find God in the midst of broken relationships, alcoholism, and the common pain of being alive.

He checks his pockets, “I got my keys, a couple of CDs, and a pick, good to go,” and we get to ready to head down to Dad Watson’s in Fremont to meet up with the other performers of the evening. He does not drive the car of a rock star. He unlocks the doors of a Mazda minivan, complete with French fries and dried-up soda in the cup holders, two car seats in the back on which he places his guitar case. David Bazan is immersed in fatherhood. I cannot help but ask if this relatively new lifestyle shift.
“There are times when my chest hurts, I miss her so much when I’m on tour. And she’s honest and getting even more as she gets older and contributes more to the family. But having Eleanor makes me want to figure stuff out before she gets old enough when I have to tell her things. Figure things out to have something to teach her.”

This seems to be the ultimate goal of his music, figuring things out. The new album, most likely entitled Curse Your Branches is about a journey, a overcoming a doubt, he says as we sit down and both order a wheat beer from the over-excited waiter. But when did this need come, when did the unraveling begin?

Bazan grew up in the church and was saturated in its conservative and mostly Republican values. At first, he tried to make music as part of a ministry, but he couldn’t hold that up for very long.

“When I was 22, I had a political awakening. There was no huge event or tragedy that caused me to slip away, it sort of just happened. And it has been a long process–my unraveling has. To me, Jesus and the Republicans didn’t jibe. There’s party manipulation, people searching for more and more power. With my new found idealism, the only place remaining was far left politics”

Like we all do, Bazan saw that the God he grew up with, a polished, shirt-and-tie savior didn’t match up with the reality he saw around him. And, more importantly, he noticed that the church did not match up to its initial Biblical purpose.

“The church, to me, didn’t look like the Bible. In the beginning, I was interested in reform. Make the church more like the Bible that I was reading. But, in the end, everything just started to slide. When the church looks like the Bible, it is an exemption to the rule, and historically this is very rare.”

All this talk about the brutality of Christianity in the history of the world makes me think that the man drinking his wheat beer and eating his Caesar salad has given up on the idea of God altogether. We may not be able to really call him a Christian, but can we call him an atheist? And it is lines from his new EP, Fewer Moving Parts, where he bellows, “What a cruel God we’ve got. Right on. Right on.” Does he really believe this to be true?

“No. I don’t believe that to be true. That line was more of a joke for myself. You know, people, especially after 9/11, really thought that they knew what were God’s actions and ready to pass judgment. In the song, nothing but a bunch of cars gets burned. I guess I was just playing around with the idea of innocence.”

Bazan orders his second beer–an IPA and quickly finishes his first. I think about all the references to alcohol in his music, especially his newer material. It first started to appear in Achilles Heel, and has increased in new, autobiographical songs like “Please Baby Please” and “How I Remember.” He says the appearances correspond with his own drinking, starting when he was 23, the same time as his religious unraveling. This is my first interaction with Bazan, face-to-face, and even I can tell that he may have a problem, that alcohol plays some kind of role in his life.

“I’ve always been bad as being vague or mysterious in my songwriting. It makes sense that people would feel intimate with me. More than other albums, this one is going to be strictly autobiographical.”

Besides being autobiographical, his new material is his chance to be obviously topical. “Backwoods Nation” from the Moving Parts EP is a strong protest against jingoistic right-winged politics, as well as “American Flags” which will appeal on the new album. He may not be able to say anything definite about the image of God, but he knows his political stance.

“Anyone who’s trying to do right by the government is going to do a better job. It has nothing to do with politics. Bush made a lot of blunders and they may have been honest mistakes, but how many honest mistakes can one man get. Never would I have dreamed that two years ago I would have been enthusiastic about a candidate. And maybe I am just a big enough boob to fall for it, but I’ve fallen for it.”

For all of his sad bastard lyrics, I was partly expecting that he would be a cheerless as his songs. I thought he would slack in his seat and give me middle-school yes or no answers. But he is lively and optimistic. He shakes hands with every person that tells him good show and talks to them about his plans for tours and the new album. Maybe he is just used to talking to people he’s never met before, but I sense a genuine concern for this young man in a flannel shirt who has dreams of being a serious writer, who doesn’t know what God is like either and has felt just as confused about what truth really is. It feels as though we have known each other for a long time, he makes me feel as though we were friends.

I’ve been curious and idolizing of this man for years. I even grew out a beard and starting playing guitar. But, I see that there nothing all that special about him–he’s a thirty-something man with a wife and kid, driving a minivan with car seats and Lego pieces, doing what he loves to do to try to make ends meet. But he is still worth my admiration and interest speaking plainly about things that others might shy away from without garnishing the difficulties of life with flowers and sugarplums. If it’s drinking, sing about it. Pain, doubt, love, fear, triumph. Because it is not until we name our problems that we can begin to solve them and it is not until we doubt something that it can made true. Hope is not assurance.

“If I find hope anything, I find it in empathy. Absolutely. When I see people empathizing with other, I think, that what God must be like. When I feel empathy and see empathy, that when I feel He must be.”

We finish our beer and talk about careers and books and Sense and Sensibility (one of his favorite movies).

“In the end you have to do something that you can be proud of–something you can show your grandkids. You have to be honest and express yourself like you want to. I’m just excited that I have a career right now. That I get to play shows and have fun doing it. Who knows how long it will last, but I’ll take advantage of every opportunity I have.”

We split the check and head back into the cold night. I tell him how I’m having to crash on my buddy’s couch and he tells me he has trouble falling asleep on a couch, no matter how drunk he gets. He drives me across the Fremont Bridge and towards Queen Anne hill. He drops me off at the house I’m staying at and stays in the driveway until I figure out the lock.