Lil Help,” the lead single from Luca Sapio’s forthcoming album Black Waves, anchors the record with its orchestral soul and unguarded emotion. Written in the aftermath of an injury, the song sets the tone for an album that reaches inward while calling outward.

On Black Waves, out July 18 via his own Blind Faith Records, the Italian singer-songwriter merges sweeping string arrangements and soul-rooted melodies with unflinching commentary on identity, community, and connection. In this interview, Luca speaks candidly about the origins of “Lil Help,” the cinematic influences behind his sound, and the convictions that shaped the record.

“Lil Help” feels both deeply personal and universally resonant. Can you talk about what inspired the song and what it means to you at this point in your life?

“Lil Help” was born from a tough moment—lying in a hospital bed after an injury from lifting the most precious thing I have, my daughter. I couldn’t walk; my legs were completely asleep. Separated from her and my family, I felt the weight of not being able to care for them. This song is my honest call for support—about finding strength in vulnerability and hope in reaching out. It’s for anyone who’s ever faced a hard climb and needed someone by their side. Singing out for help is a cathartic release—a way to process pain and search for light.

How did your appreciation for Italian soundtrack composers like Morricone and Piccioni inform the landscape of Black Waves?

The musical themes of Ennio Morricone and Piero Piccioni are truly part of our Italian DNA. Their music has told the story of an era, elevated our history, and was so powerful that it broke free from the films for which it was composed—shining with its own light and being enjoyed as music in its own right, not just as a soundtrack to images. Their influence on me has been fundamental in the way I used timbres and, above all, strings—trying to recreate that unique blend of backbeat and symphonic music that especially Piero Piccioni mastered so well. I had the invaluable support of Maestro Marco Tiso and Claudio Giusti; together we were able to weave sonic textures around my voice that really capture the spirit of that musical world.

You’ve said Black Waves confronts the clash between cultures and calls for a deeper recognition of our shared humanity. How do you approach translating such heavy themes into melody and lyric without losing their emotional weight?

By a strange twist of fate, history always ends up giving control of the world to people who seem small and ordinary at first, but whom we remember for the extraordinary harm they managed to cause. We live in different times now, where a small group of people has declared itself the majority and, whenever it suits them, labels others as minorities—discriminating against large numbers of people. It’s important to stay clear-headed when talking about these things, and to be objective—especially so we can pass down to future generations the tools for understanding and critical thinking that are getting lost in a world where the past, become ever heavier, is often reduced to memes.

Much like Marvin Gaye or Curtis Mayfield, your work sits at the intersection of music and activism. Do you see Black Waves as a protest record, a love letter, or something else entirely?

This is really a love letter to ourselves. It’s meant to reach those who don’t yet realize they can change things simply by stepping out of this digital isolation—where nothing seems to touch us, and nothing feels real, not even bombs exploding just a few miles away. We’ve completely lost our sense of real community. Today, what we call communities are just groups of followers attached to accounts managed by digital companies. These companies can delete your account or even disappear altogether, instantly dissolving these so-called communities in a moment.

When I see groups of kids in the park, talking and playing together, I imagine that in a few years, they might be the ones to tear down the foundations of this massive aberration of the Babel Tower, where real connection is just an illusion.

“Lil Help” speaks to the power of asking for support—something not always easy in a cold, hyper-independent world. Why was that message important for you to share now?

We live in a world obsessed with flaunting results. Whether real or fake, the stories in the media are always the same: there’s the guy who lost 100 kilos in three months, the one who became a millionaire through trading, the one who bought a Lamborghini with dropshipping from China, the one who has five Rolexes in his safe, and the guy who doesn’t just have a six-pack, but an eight-pack. All of this creates confusion, envy, anger, and frustration—and, most of all, unrealistic standards. Being vulnerable, making mistakes, and asking for help should be the norm. This is exactly the sense of community that we’ve lost.

You’ve shared stages with Paul Weller (The Jam is one of my favorite bands), Dap-Kings, Trombone Shorty… How have those experiences shaped your own vision, especially on a record as intentional as Black Waves?

The three artists you mentioned share a common denominator: discipline. I saw Paul Weller perform in a massive arena in front of 200 people, playing as if he were Richie Havens opening Woodstock. Sharon Jones was a warrior—a simple woman who, despite her body being ravaged by illness, would light up on stage in a sort of eruption of spirit, giving her all. Trombone Shorty is an extraordinary musician who has built, stone by stone, the fortress from which he now views the world of entertainment. If necessary, he would take the stage alone without a second thought to fulfill his role as an entertainer.

While writing and producing Black Waves, I lost and found myself dozens of times. Being your own producer is incredibly complicated, and I often felt discouraged—hundreds of puzzle pieces that didn’t fit, didn’t connect. Surely the discipline I absorbed from having the fortune to play and travel with them helped me complete it.

With your roots in Rome and your sound so steeped in American soul, do you see yourself as a bridge between musical traditions—or something more fluid altogether?

Today, the word soul has returned to its original meaning; it’s used as an intensifier to underline something authentic and heartfelt: “soul brother,” “soul food,” and of course, “soul music.” If we consider soul music as an intercultural form where one becomes fluid in musical expression, I believe I see myself in this.

In your own words, how would you describe Black Waves?

The spark of Black Waves comes from one of the greatest and oldest manipulations in history. The story in Genesis 4:15 describes how God placed a mark on Cain to prevent others from killing him, serving as a sign of protection. Historically, some believed this mark was a physical scar or tattoo, while others incorrectly thought it was a change in skin color, specifically to black. However, the main focus of the passage is God’s protection of Cain—not the specific nature of the mark. The false idea that the mark was related to skin color contributed to harmful stereotypes linking dark skin with a curse. This is just one example.

Manipulations and stereotypes have also been spread by art—starting with the parody of Jim Crow that gave rise to minstrel shows and blackface, continuing through The Birth of a Nation by Griffith, and even into Walt Disney’s early cartoons. We’ve grown up full of prejudices, taking for granted things that are not at all so. Black Waves is the urgency to shake off this dust and understand our need for each other—the richness in cultures different from our own, and above all, that this heritage is available to teach us to appreciate the powerful harmony of the world, where all things are synchronized and work perfectly together.

Pre-save Black Waves

Share.

Editor-in-Chief

Comments are closed.