Harold Pinter is dead

“Harold Pinter è stato l’avanguardia del teatro politico”

“Harold Pinter è stato l’avanguardia del teatro politico… Quando lui morì sentivo che dovevo scrivere una canzone… Volevo che la mia generazione tornasse a leggerlo e vedesse cosa si può fare con una penna. Il suo humor, il suo uso del linguaggio…”

Così Kieran Leonard – il compositore e cantante irlandese conosciuto anche come Saint Leonard and Saint Leonard’s Horses – all’uscita, nel 2012, del suo singolo “Harold Pinter is dead” tratto dal suo primo album  “Out of Work Astronaut”. Chapeau.

Harold Pinter is dead by Kieran Leonard

Give me a definition of sweet redemption;
Haircuts, t-shirts, disaffected egos creeping through the discos in the corners of the scene
Greasing up the shillings, living in the seams;
Empty rooms, empty chairs, empty eyes with empty stares
But mouths keep moving, talking between cigarettes;
Trading inhibition for the benefit of student debt
Is our culture bigger than nature?
Well the girl on the steps says she needs you to taste her
And you’ve got tattoos, and Top Man shoes, twenty Marlboro Lights, and tragically nothing else to lose
This could be the death of us all
This could be the rise and the fall
Henry Thoreau and Walt Whitman, couldn’t put my soul back together again
The newspaper said “Harold Pinter is Dead”
I’ve got the homecoming blues again
The crowd starts screaming “you’re the one”, your girlfriend complains, “Are we having fun?”
All your rivals become your disciples
Taking your words for their own
Mistaking your stool for a throne;
You give them a saviour: They won’t let you live
You give them a saviour: They won’t let you live
This could be the death of us all
This could be the rise and the fall
Henry Thoreau and Walt Whitman, couldn’t put my soul back together again
The newspaper said “Harold Pinter is Dead”
I’ve got the homecoming blues again
The mob helps you to carry the cross
The little girls weep in a smear of lip gloss
Paying the father to forgive the sins
The television feed, the anchorman grins
You give them a saviour: They won’t let you live
You give them a saviour: they won’t let you live
This could be the death of us all
This could be the rise and the fall
Henry Thoreau and Walt Whitman, couldn’t put my soul back together again
The newspaper said “Harold Pinter is Dead”
I’ve got the homecoming blues again
So ban the bombs and ban the dogs
Ban the lovers, ban the thugs
Ban the reasons, ban the choices
Ban the weather, ban the voices
Ban the booze, ban the drugs
Ban the birds and ban the bees
Ban the colours and ban the trees
Ban the boys down on their knees
We all go on like before