Pedro the Lion - Control | 00s Rock Revisited

It’s spring, 2002. The airwaves are buzzing with pop-punk anthems and nu-metal angst, while the indie scene offers refuge for those searching for something quieter, deeper. Bands like Death Cab for Cutie and Bright Eyes are redefining vulnerability in music, but few albums cut as close to the bone as Pedro the Lion’s Control. Released that April, Control is both a product of its time and a timeless exploration of human frailty, arriving as a stark counterpoint to the glossy polish of mainstream rock.

Pedro the Lion wasn’t so much a band as it was an alias for David Bazan, an artist whose music was as personal as it was piercing. Known for his understated vocal delivery and poignant lyrics, Bazan had carved out a niche with albums like It’s Hard to Find a Friend and Winners Never Quit. But Control was different. It wasn’t just another collection of indie rock confessionals—it was a concept album with teeth, an unflinching exploration of power, morality, and the cracks that form in the human soul under pressure.

For those who picked up the record in 2002, Control felt like a quiet revolution. It wasn’t flashy. It didn’t shout. But it demanded attention in its own haunting, deliberate way, pulling listeners into its dark world and leaving them changed.

The Soundtrack of Unease

At first listen, Control might sound like it belongs to the slowcore movement—plaintive guitars, deliberate pacing, and an almost meditative quality. But Bazan upends expectations almost immediately. Tracks like “Rapture” and “Penetration” don’t just meander—they lurch and roar, weaving in intricate drum patterns and bursts of distorted guitars. It’s not chaos, exactly—it’s tension, simmering under the surface, ready to erupt at any moment.

This unpredictability was a hallmark of Pedro the Lion’s sound, but on Control, Bazan perfected it. The instrumentation feels alive, dynamic, always in service of the album’s central narrative: the unraveling of a man who has everything, and whose choices leave him with nothing. Even in its softer moments, Control feels like a coiled spring, its energy contained but never subdued.