Rungholt (Musik & Text Hannes Landau)

In de letzten Jahunderte söchte manny Sturmfloten de Nordseeküst heim.
Doch de schlimmste fun allen wehr de Marcellusflot.
Wie en Strof Goddes zerstörte de Grode Mandsdränke in dat Johr 1362
de ruhmvolle Stadt Rungholt und let se unnergahn. De Legende sech,
dat man be ruhige Weehr noch hüt Rungholts Glocken lüden hören kann.

My name is Jack O´Reilly, I am from Ireland´s shores,
spice trading is my job and I was witness of the following:
On the coast of Friesland they sell a special kind of salt,
so I set sails and made my way to a town called Rungholt.

„Don`t you care about your coast?“, asked a man,
„Don`t you care about your souls?“
„Your purse is full, I preach in an empty church,
please remember“, said the priest „the lord comes first!“

As I came to the harbour I asked a friendly man
where to find the next salines he showed me them and then
the carving and the ripping of the land scared me a lot.
Pub is full, church is closed, nobody thanks the lord.

Nobody knows what happened to Rungholt, just a legend of boast is told,
I saw it all, its rise and fall, pride was its fate: The end of Rungholt.

The more the priest did warn the more he was ignored,
haughty citizens derided him and the sea did roar.
So I left the market, I didn´t make a deal.
Godlessness and pride, bane of god became real.

Windswept escape, ruthless seaway,
fear on my back, gigantic waves…

Tartan Pants

Tartan pants (Musik: Markus Blumberg, Text: Tim Roderwieser)

I first saw your eyes shining through the crowd, you wore your tartan pants.
You always said the right thing and you did it, but around me was a fence.
You carried me a while, I carried you a while, you carried me a while

You first flashed me in a peanut covered gramophone, with that biker through the wall,
Not every great love has a happy end, ours could have had, but my courage was too small
You carried me a while, I carried you a while, you carried me a while, we carried each
other for a while

You are more than just a glimpse or a hidden sound in the attic of my memory
You will always be a part of my life and I hope you feel the same when you think of me


Atlanterra (Musik & Text: Tim Roderwieser)

Do you feel that time is running out and your thoughts are filled with fog,
there´s no music and the only sound is the ticking of the clock,
wipe this all away, listen what I say, get your things together turn your mind on purple heather.
We will pack the busses with the boys and we make some noise
and we let our spirits fly to the western coast again.

Take me back home to the breaking waves on the shores of Atlanterra.
Seems to me like we´ve never been apart.
Deep in our soul is a well known place and the sound of Atlanterra,
here you will find the freedom for your heart.

We have seen the force awakening, on the Skelligs we stood like Jedi Lords,
won the Durness football championship, danced on the Muir of Ord.
Midges in the port, everyday we got on board of another Cal Mac Ferry, made it home to Scott and Mairi,
sailors of the Oich and the Ness, winding up to Healy´s Pass,
now the time has come for the knights of Patsy Dan!

You´re divided though you share legends from both sides of the great divide.
A stormy danger but we dare to take this final boat to the other side.


Flowers of Glen Coe

Flowers of Glen Coe (Musik & Text: Hannes Landau)

On a bright summer morning me and my son walked through MacDonalds Glen Coe.
We talked about freedom, friendship and love but something happened here years ago.

The wounds of the past take a long time to heal and their roots are strong and deep.
Summer comes and winter goes here in my lovely Glen Coe.

It’s the ground that you walk and the air that you breathe,
smell the flowers that grow in the sun.
Let the story they tell never let fade away
and remember how it all begun.

We sat down on a stone, kept silence for a while. “For what reason is war?” asked my son.
A tear dropped down and I shook my head. “I don´t know…” was all that I said.

It’s the ground that you walk and the air that you breathe,
smell the flowers that grow in the sun.
Let´s the story they tell keep in mind every day
and remember how it all begun.

It’s the burden of every nation, it’s the question of every child,
the duty of every chieftain, the future of mankind.

It’s the ground that you walk and the air that you breathe,
they tell stories of blood, hate and war.
Let the wounds of the land and men who can´t be friends
heal through the flowers of Glen Coe.