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The Last Pacifist

by Angelo Romano

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And I’ll be wandering around, I’ll be wandering around till I can find a good reason to surrender. And I’ll be falling down, I’ll be falling down till I can see a pair of wings to fly away with. And the ladies of the past are shadows that will last till another pill to cure me will appear in the night by the shores of Barcelona by the shores of Barcelona by the shores of those eyes catching me, fetching my soul and whatever else is left. And I’ll be hoping once again, I’ll be hoping once again till I can find another face where to get lost. And I’ll keep getting lost, I’ll keep getting lost till I can find another crack in a lonesome soul. And the lovers of the past, they’re a smile that will hurt till another smile will finally catch me up by the shores of Barcelona by the shores of Barcelona by the breaks of my daytime dreams by the shores of Barcelona, you can keep playing
Where the river comes, wires are bent over thoughts and words will fall behind the certainties we've lost Roads are behind, we run away from dirty fears and leaves still fall, a city becomes speechless soil And rain is down, to fill up the streets with its sound, the silence's come, darkness into a panic place, the chain of life has been hurted another time, but I still believe, I still want to believe at least in a better world, where peace will be the only word, and love will be the only reason to live for. The sky is there, the lights are down, it's all just pain and we're alone, with our fears and nothing more Some people say this is what we should adapt but I will say no, I will join another choir And rain is down to wash away the tears around, and we're between hidden faces and black ideas, the dream is gone, so it's time to bring it back and I'll still believe, I still need to believe in a better world, where we can hug each other and sing that love will be the only reason to live for. So I won't be the last pacifist, I won't be the last pacifist I won't be the last pacifist at all.
This is a wartime soundtrack straight from this modern age where everyone is enslaving himself again. This is a wartime soundtrack straight from the rebel firm where every brand means fire to me This is a wartime soundtrack straight from the age of media where you can die on TV: nobody would really care This is a wartime soundtrack struck by careful claims where everyone is believing every truth. This is a wartime soundtrack straight from the darkest rooms where they're hammering another nail This is a wartime soundtrack straight from the coldest town where nobody will ever listen to you, where nobody will offer you an applause. The rope is unraveling, let’s sing Feng Shui. We need another howl.
Hopeless pilgrim, stuck on his room, a fan offering some relief from the sultry sun of Spanish souls. Hopeless pilgrim on his road, all he has is memories, on the sandy shore of simple streams. Hopeless pilgrim, stormy life, haphazard straight from inside, noone sharing his destiny. Hopeless pilgrim, storming out, but it’s simply in his head laconic ladies won’t bring him hope. Burdens and honours, burdens and honours, we are surviving this atmosphere, burdens and honours, stations of hope, we are surviving political fears burdens and honours, my land of heath my bottle filled with remarkable tears. burdens and honours, your nails, my hills my glass is filled with incredible smears. [L'importante è viaggiare, non conta dove andare, basta prendere un treno e lasciarsi trasportare dal vento, dall'aria, dalla pioggia d'estate da qualsiasi cosa tra le cose sbagliate.] It was a night, a night people go get out, looking for easy happiness, cheap flies flying through the blue, killing off the weather. This orange rain shapes the shirts, he's breathing off his soul, his jacket complaining of lack of love. Loneliness is the rule when you can't stop when you keep going, hitting the road. What it's worth, it's to travel, to just float around, doesn't matter where to go, where to run: you can just follow your path.
Fussi pi mmia, m'issi a ammucciari, d'arrera li mura ca possu truvari taliannu li machini ca currunu fuoddi niscennu di sira, lu jornu è p'i morti Fussi pi mmia, ittassi a vuciari, abbanniannu pâ strada, cu m'hav a firmari?!? addumannu li luci ca vulissi accattari astutannu li cosi ca nun possu accittari Fussi pi mmia, pigghiassi stu friddu e lu jiccassi fora di li cosi ca tegnu p'i cristiani curcati, cunzati p'i feste ch'aspittanu 'u capu, 'u capu di nenti. Fussi pi mmia, rispirassi lu mari ch'u ciavuru bonu e fitusu ca tieni picchì m'arrircorda la mè isula bedda e china di cosi ca nun sacciu canciari. Fussi pi mmia, incuntrassi la genti ca veni dû mari pi sarvarsi la vita frati d'un munnu chinu d'ingiustizie megghiu sicuru di sti curna tisi ca parlanu bonu, cunzati puliti e vonnu insignari com’hamu a pinzari paroli chini di odio e lurdìa razzisti ammucciati ca nun vogghiu cu mmia E si fussi pi mmia, canciassi tutti cosi e m’arricugghissi arrera ntâ casa cu tutti i picciotti ca si n’appanu a jiri sciarriannuni cu li gran vecchi di testa ca chiantaru radici e nuddu li scuddra appattaru ‘a sittanta pi tutti l’amici astutannu la testa, astutannu i duluri e pi comu sunnu, un s’addunanu di nenti
When a country dies, nobody listens to you anymore When a country dies, everything suddenly becomes stoned When this country dies, I am here alone with no-one to blame When a country dies, my radio is shocked like in a storm When a country dies... But my country dies, oh my country dies my beloved birthplace is getting old and it's going to die, yes it's going to die I am on this borderline, I am ready for exile When a country dies, my little darling cries more and more When a country dies, my only thoughts are dust in the air When this country dies, a grievous pain grows into my brain Yes my country dies, but I don't really know where I could disappear! But my country dies, oh my country dies killed by ignorance and circumstances and my country dies with a terrific harm I think it's better to move away and my country dies, my country dies my empty hands are all my crimes my little eyes are crying hard my eyes are crying hard as my country dies (My eyes are crying as my country dies, and my country dies...)
She's Gone 04:14
I look up at a Leonard Cohen book I look up at a troubadour playing out I look up, his guitar has two holes But all I know, all I know is She’s gone, she’s gone now She’s gone, she’s gone now She’s gone where my sobs are a noise She’s gone, she’s gone now And I’m out, stuck in between states of mind I’m out, down into yet another night I’m out, my pen crying ink from destiny But all I know, all I know is She’s gone, she’s gone now, She’s gone, she’s gone now She’s gone where the echo of hers hurts She’s gone, she’s lost into my tracks She’s gone, she’s gone now, She’s gone, she’s gone now She’s gone, she’s gone now… She’s gone, I’ll never get her back
Sugnu circunnatu ri bicicletti, cristiani cummattusi e siddiati, sempre c'u tilefunu tra li mani a cuntarisi minchiati in remoto. Fimmini cu jeans spirtusati, parono nisciute di prigione, tutti fatti cu lu stampinu, tutti biunni e lastimusi. Dintra lu film ri la tò vita, pari ca u suli s’appa a curcà, dintra nu munnu di apparenze, cerchi ri nesciri di sta sucità. Ma dunni am'a jiri accussì, dunni vulemu jiri accussì, quannu la vita ca sugnasti pari fu na vita fa. E caminannu sempri qua, pi li canali e li strati allento li pinzeri niuri pi circarini di nòvi. E a scutuliari pruvulazzu, mi scurdavi d'i cosi seri, ma è accussì, suli d'invernu, n'arresta sulu d'ammucciarni. Cuntanu sulu picciuli e forme, l’anima si la vinneru, si sa, a lu mircatu dî cosi antichi, c’appizzavi la vita, mi pozzu arraggià.
Where is your cigarette, where is your cigarette? I know you need something in your hands. Where is your cigarette, where is your cigarette? I know it's a eventful life, a crazy ride. And you're asking for a coffee, and you're asking for a beer and you keep your bike so close as you do with all the things you care. So let's dance to another tune, dear chain-smoking lady, let´s dance to another song, dear chain-smoking lady, dear ruler of your dreams. Where is your cigarette, where is your cigarette? It smells like whiskey, it sounds like a good time. Where is your cigarette, where is your cigarette? Why don't you bring it forward, ready for another scene?And you're asking for a coffee, and you're asking for a beer and you keep your words around so anyone can hear. So let's read to another book, dear chain-smoking lady, let's dance to another tune, let's share our nightly talks, let's dance to another tune, dear chain-smoking lady. Let's keep our fingers crossed because the things we keep untold are the best and greatest truths because the words we keep untold after hours like that are the ones we need to pronounce now.
Windowed train, under the rain, slipping around with a sort of pain, I don't have a word to define it all, except the usual one: “Home”. I was born in a place not far from the sea where sailors came by exchanging ideas, then I went away to search for the goal of my life in this stupid world. I found hypocrisy and lack of ideas from people who cared only about themselves, so I took a train and then once again, as long as I couldn't find a smile. But I'd like to find the smell of the sea as I used to enjoy when I was a kid, but every place fails with my own beliefs, I think there's no town as it is that I could call home (at least not for me), because I am made of too many dreams, the world as it is cannot fit for me: I need a few more things, a flavour that I miss. And the train is full, that is what I need, all people around are going to somewhere, they don't speak a lot and I can't understand, I feel kind of alien when I search for my home. Another bird sitting down on the streets, a fresh drop of rain makes it fall asleep, all the windows around hiding out anyone, in a city with no secrets to share. And I am here with pain into my brown shoes, leaving out from a wet sandy dune, and I write a new poem made of words out of nothing, I know I'm already lost. Wooden chairs, fear of moving again, and the sky is smoking a cigarette, managing to get angry all at once, wintertime is approaching a new day.


"The Last Pacifist" is Angelo Romano's new album, out on 18 December 2015. Self-produced and self-recorded at his flat in Utrecht, Netherlands (converted to a small DIY recording studio for the occasion), it is his most mature release which covers the background topic of continuous quest for peace, love and happiness through different means, ranging from political discussion and the negative sides of populism in Europe during the year 2015 to simpler things, like social life in the age of media and the Internet, and more intimate approaches like travels, relocations and human relationships.

"The Last Pacifist" features also different music shapes, with a very first time for synthesizers into his albums and also the collaboration of Spanish cellist Laura Sánchez who plays on all tracks and adds a different layer to Angelo's unique and hard-to-label music style.

All photos involving the album were taken by Clio Squadroni (www.cliosquadroni.com).

The album was also promoted in Europe during the months of January and February 2016 on a small continental tour.


released December 18, 2015

All songs written by Angelo Romano.

Recorded at Angelo's basement, Utrecht, Netherlands.

Angelo Romano: lead vocals, guitars, kazoo, synthesizers and percussions.
Laura Sánchez: cello.

All photos by Clio Squadroni (www.cliosquadroni.com).

With special thanks to Laura, Clio, Oliver, Antonio and all the people who helped and supported during the preparation process to this new album.




Angelo Romano Barcelona, Spain

Born 1982 in Sicily, Angelo Romano is a singer-songwriter with a totally personal approach to music and arts. His life is kind of a weird storybook, with several cities all around where he spent some time and lived his life: from Pisa to Florence, from Ottawa to Amsterdam, from Groningen to Berlin, Utrecht and then Barcelona, where he is currently based. ... more

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