First record by James Curley - released in 2002

Tom's Cafe

Deep In My Bones

Because Of You

Houston

The Hunt

Time I Broke Your Heart

Western Avenue

Unknown Album

Rest Your Weary Bones

Manufactured Meaning

Ebb and Flow

Goodman’s Shoes
It’s many years since Goodman died, my hair has shaded gray. I’ve lost so many memories; I still recall that day
My father died 4 years later; the only coping tool I had was a turntable and vinyl spinning ‘My Old Man’

Even though he asked me to, I never learned to dance. With somebody else's troubles, I’d lose sleep at night
I never rode the southbound odyssey when I had the chance.
On an empty stage, no one stands in Goodman’s shoes tonight.

Penny Evans to Cindy Sheehan; history replays. The same old story - guns and glory - just a different face
A yellow coat and old love letters beneath the attic fan near a turntable and vinyl spinning ‘My Old Man’

I miss my old man tonight; I miss Goodman too. I can’t hear them anymore, despite my longing to
Polaroids and vinyl records are poor legerdemain. Goodman will not grace the stage; I’ll not see Dad again

There Used To Be A Train

Goodman's Shoes

Bonnie worked long hours on a night shift assembly line
Hands so cracked from the boxes she packed, they always smelled of Vaseline
Once home from the factory, she was socially networked online
With a romantic heroine profile photo scanned from an old magazine 
Bonnie has over 200 hundred friends, few of whom she has met
Friends of friends, some women, some men; some famous but most were unknown
Good at fantasy farming, she has livestock and a pig for a pet 
The farm’s just a game, but all the same, it keeps her from feeling alone.


Love letters unwritten, a heart so hidden it might as well be in a vault
Real friends and lovers remain undiscovered when you dance the virtual waltz

In Freddie’s employee file were written the words ‘painfully shy’
But a diligent worker who demonstrates fervor for tasks of the digital kind
Quiet, productive; not too assertive; away from his employer’s eye
He was online as Frederick, Lord of the Longbow in a war waged just in his mind.
Making his way through the levels, he’d tally the quest’s rewards
Reach Valhalla, drink from the chalice; vanquish the Princess’s guards 
With laser focused devotion he braved dragon, wizard and sword
He knows it’s only a world where the lonely retreat when life proves too hard

The magical farmer and make-believe archer are destined never to meet
Living in separate fantasy worlds, their houses are on the same street…

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The Virtual Waltz (Duet with Jenny Bienemann)

I tried to find a Townes Van Zandt song I could make my own / Play it like I meant it with an audience attentive  to its every word 

I would sing each phrase so carefully, like setting pearls in filigree To telegraph my deference to his cowboy poet cadence with perfect attitude 

I find I just can’t do it, it doesn’t come out fluid; It chokes and brakes on every take; brands me hypocrite and fake   And a traitor to the Muse

Break my heart but tell me true; help me do as lovers do
Come tomorrow, will I still be here?
Wasting breath; I’m wasting time, singing someone else’s rhymes
Come tomorrow, will I still be here?

The wires on this old guitar are rusted and corroded Over wood that’s become brittle, I’m so damn non-committal in matters of the heart

Once guarded by a simple fence now ramparts rise in its defense
I sing somebody else’s words; like some damn fool Mynah bird  
the squawking sounds so strange

I need to say things my own way, I think that’s what Townes would say
With his  telltale rustic grace; to prod me back into my place  Like a dogie off the range

A Townes Van Zandt Song

Imagine no religion; I heard John Lennon say
That sweet dream sadly seems remote as judgment day
True believers on all sides have armed for holy war
None of them can plainly say what they're fighting for

Darwin’s Tribe; that’s what we seem to be
Problems can’t be solved when we evolve so glacially
Darwin’s Tribe, little seems to change
We’re on a sinking ship with furniture to re-arrange

Imagine no possessions, he wondered if we can
Well we’re dumping them in landfills at a speed to break the bank
Hunting and gathering in primal overdrive 
Until the stuff that we accumulate buries us alive

Imagine no frontal lobe, no opposable thumb
We’d be the same as any other creature we call dumb
We’d have built no ships, sinking or otherwise
No hell below us, above us only sky

Imagine all the people, living for today
Darwin’s tribe, none the wiser, long ago and far away
Darwin’s tribe, none the wiser, long ago and far away
Darwin’s tribe, none the wiser

Darwin's Tribe

Trains have always represented something quintessentially American to me, and as I look out in to the America of 2014, I wonder, worry and wish that we retain some of the values associated with the icon of the train... here are the lyrics, enjoy the song... 

THERE USED TO BE A TRAIN - James Curley

There used to be a train; ran along these tracks / Taking coal down to the mill, bringing empty rail cars back  /   Headlight in the rain, blew its whistle in the night
Rumbled through my dreams and told me everything’s all right

There used to be a train; stopped in my hometown  //  Took my cousin off to war; brought his body back around   ///  He jumped from planes into the fields of Vietnam
But died in New York City with a needle in his arm

Rusted rails and rotting ties are all that remain
To prove that once upon a time there used to be a train…   There used to be a train

There used to be a train; every hobo hitched a ride /// From job to job and town to town across the countryside  ///  Now the fruited plain offers nothing to the poor
And honest work for homeless folk has become folklore

There used to be a train that would bring the candidates /// Folk from near and far would get to hear the whistle-stop debate ///Nowadays campaigns spin every little thing So we get the kind of government a train would never bring

The Roman Empire is no more, and we will fade away / Via Salaria, Great Northern, Sante Fe…

There used to be a train far off in the night Bound for the horizon and the early morning light    The free and brave would board it with their dreams
I hope and pray that old train ain’t runnin’ out of steam

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Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum, Hoist the mainsail - here we come
Ain't no room on board for the insincere
You're my witness, I'm your mutineer

I was born to rock the boat, Some may sink but we will float
Grab your coat - let's get out of here
You're my witness, I'm your mutineer

Long ago we laughed at shadows, Lightning flashed and thunder followed 
It could never find us here
You're my witness I'm your mutineer

I was born to rock the boat, Some may sink but we will float
Grab your coat - let's get out of here
You're my witness, I'm your mutineer
You're my witness, I'm your mutineer

There Used To Be a Train

Mutineer

When the heat of last summer was finally easing and hill country evenings were cool 
I took you dancing the West Texas Waltz and we ended up shooting pool
Those crisp autumn evenings; we learned new steps; I thought a  romance would start
Nothing in Austin was frozen that winter except for the ice in your heart

I remember the last time I waltzed out your door with the tan Texas dirt on my shoes
I hear the bands in the dancehall from outside the door But lately they’re playin’ the blues

I don't know what happened those nights we went dancin' in all of them longneck saloons
One of us must have stayed tethered to earth while one of us waltzed on the moon
I flew a solo lunar excursion; touched down in the Sea of Denial
With you back in Houston at Mission Control controlling my heart all the while

The bright lights of Sixth Street are dim to me now; I can't take the crush of the crowds
The stars at night are still big and bright;  for me they're hidden by clouds
Somewhere I know a yellow rose grows by a house where true lovers dwell
Some people swear Austin's heaven on earth but as long as you’re there, it’s hell

The Blue Austin Waltz

The weekend before Thanksgiving 2012, my late wife and I stopped into an Irish pub in Chicago for a bite and a pint. It was only 3 weeks since Halloween, and my Guinness was served in a seasonal glass from Guinness with images of bats and cats and the words 'unleash the darkness'. Thinking this cool, I took a photo with my phone and went to post it on Facebook with a silly comment. When I opened Facebook, the first thing I saw was a post from an acquaintance saying that Dave Heim, the drummer in my band Radio Fade for the prior five years, had passed away suddenly the night before. I was dumbfounded with disbelief. Shocked, saddened and mystified, this 'dirge' in the Irish folk style arrived. I chose to sing it on the CD accompanied only by a bodhran, an Irish hand drum (played by Mike Austin). RIP Dave - you are missed by many. 

Irony sat next to me today in a small saloon; 
I didn’t see her coming, despite the tiny room
I had found it clever my pint glass was engraved 
With the words ‘unleash the darkness’ 

On raven’s wings a herald brings the sad and shocking word: 
A comrade’s died; his loved ones cry, his friends begin to mourn
We can’t control the levers that lower to the grave, 
It's life decides when to unleash darkness 

So sing while you’re still living, exult while you can sing
Sing out with joy, shout out the noise that only living brings
Darkness surely waits for us; we never know just when
Unleash, unleash the light while you can 

It’s cliché to say that life is for the living, 
Nonetheless it’s still advice that’s worth the giving
Cherish one another; how short the dimming day
Til night has come and we succumb to darkness

Unleash The Light

A single mother of four, full time employed with a house near the cross-town express
Grace hurried home ‘cause one of her boys had gotten into a bit of a mess
With shoes made of faith and a purse full of hope she struggled to make her life better
Her friends say she’s heroic  she doesn’t notice, to her she’s just Grace  - under pressure 

Her dad is long gone; killed by stress and cigarettes: two dangers Grace will not avoid
Her mom has remarried; a fate she wishes for Grace, who can’t help but be annoyed
She wouldn’t mind having a man or having the time for sharing with somebody special
But today it’s the dentist and the school principal serve as unwitting boyfriends for Grace  - under pressure

It’s probably not all that different from the days of the pioneers
When women toiled from sunup to dusk and were the seams in the quilt of the wild frontier
Grace doesn’t feel like she’s got it bad when she looks in history to measure
How women prospered perfecting the art of exhibiting Grace under pressure

Late at night; the kids are asleep; she settles into a hot bath
Her mind wanders to when she was younger and something she thinks makes her laugh
She can’t hate him you know, this ex-husband of hers who just wasn’t able to treasure
The part of their lives that made everything worth living with Grace, 
Living with Grace
Living with Grace - under pressure

Grace Under Pressure

My mom died recently. So this is a song for an audience of one - my mom. She was as Irish as a daughter of Irish immigrants could be, and we grew up internalizing that to a large degree. I think she would have liked it. 

For those of you unfamiliar, there are just a few Irish Gaelic words in the song. Tír Na Nóg was the world after death to the pre-Christian Irish, and it still has a cultural meaning, if not a spiritual one. 'Mavourneen' is a term of endearment usually translated as 'my darling' but it is used in more than a romantic context. It's more like 'dear one' in usage in my experience. And 'keens' were the songs written and sung by bards to lament the death of loved ones. 'Keening' also meant the natural expression of grief (crying, wailing, hyperventilating). Until the early 1900's, when more 'formal' keens were banned by the Catholic Church, they were part of Irish funerals, and often were songs that existed for centuries as part of  Irish funeral rituals. Many Irish continue to have keens sung at funerals.

The wind whispers through the barley beneath a rising moon
Waves kiss the emerald shore to a distant piper’s tune
It’s evening over Ireland but here it’s barely noon.
And my mother has departed from the world.

Her father was an Antrim lad, her mom a Limerick lass. 
Sailed to far America with just the garments on their backs 
In the 1920s came four children: Mary, Nora, Jack
And my mother Betty, the youngest girl 

Chorus
Beyond this life, and beyond death, lies Tír Na Nóg
Where sunlight shines forever on the valleys and the loughs 
Where the grass is ever green; the trees are never bare.
Come home to Tír Na Nóg, all the clan is gathered there. 

In Tír Na Nóg there is no illness, suffering or pain.
Nor poverty nor famine, nor struggles that remain.
The harp is by the hearthside, all the songs are sung again.
The voices once again are clear and strong.

Come home to Tír Na Nóg, Mavourneen, Mavourneen
The feast is on the table, fit for kings and queens
All grief and sadness banished, the bards sing no more keens
Raise a glass and lift your voice in song.

Come Home To Tír Na Nóg

My song about the events of 9/11 - from my 2007 record 'Manufactured Meaning'

500 miles an hour; not quite the speed of sound 
Two residential Molotovs 800 feet above the ground 
Below the dragons over Dresden 
When the firestorms touched down

Hiroshima and Nagasaki with their world-changing report 
Bore unwitting witness to that morning in New York
One more bastard testament to human handiwork

Where’s our poet laureate? Where’s our burnished bard? 
Who can manufacture meaning From circumstance so hard?
Who will weave together The blood and bone and tears?
Into myths we tell our children That make hatreds disappear?

A jingo junkie shakes a fist; swears jackals rule the day
Raging in a vain attempt to shout the pain away 
As though the troubled heart finds comfort in cliché
 
A poised and perfect TV pundit wails and gnashes teeth
Offers hollow rhetoric, diminishing true grief 
But can’t explain why anyone would murder for belief

The new tower of Babel is a parabolic dish  
Without understanding, information’s meaningless

Where’s our bold new bodhisattva? Where’s our sinless saint? Who’s willing to be crucified So we can get the hint? 
Where's our poet laureate? Where’s our burnished bard?  
Who can manufacture meaning From circumstance so hard? 


Poet Laureate

'My Last Silent Night' - a modern Holiday fable inspired by meeting a homeless Vietnam Veteran very late one night after a band rehearsal. He was in a doorway in downtown Oak Park, IL close to midnight about 2 weeks before Christmas. He asked for help; I gave him a couple of bucks and chatted for maybe three minutes. In that short time he shared enough about himself to inspire this song lyric. My band at the time had a more 'country/americana' flavor and the song just went in that direction. I hope you enjoy it - please download it for free and next time you can help a veteran out, please send a couple bucks that way. 

Tonight it’s cold outside; I’ll hold my bottle tight
Calvary Mission won’t lock the door until after midnight
St. Anne’s chapel bells ringing for Christmas Eve
Remind me of the night in Saigon when I realized my nerves were gone
And I drank until the Asian dawn brought Christmas Day. 

My friends have all moved on; the house where I grew up is gone
But none of that has made my memories any less strong
I recall years ago, at St. Anne’s midnight mass
So young my voice, so much higher; raised in rapture with the choir
Chanting sacred songs inspired by the first Christmas Day

O come. Emanuel; ransom captive Israel; 
Take this bottle from my hands; rest this merry gentleman
Let this be my last silent night; lead me from shadow into light
I hear the night wind told the lamb there might be room in Bethlehem

Tomorrow there’ll be volunteers to serve the mission’s Christmas meal
They come one day a year so they can practice what they preach
On some future day when my bones rest in clay
Some Christian soul will stir the pot
And serve up soup to some poor sod
Whose thoughts will drift back to Iraq
Thirty years from today

Sweet Jesus, help me see why some are captive, others free
Some are wealthy, others poor; some live at peace; some wage war 
Let this be my last silent night; lead me from shadow into light
I hear the night wind told the lamb there might be room in Bethlehem

James Curley - Guitar/Vocal
Larry Clyman - Guitar
Tony Markellis - Bass
Todd Hanhurst - Drums 

My Last Silent Night

NEWS: James Curley's song 'A Townes Van Zandt Song' received Honorable Mention in the Mid-Altlantic 2014 Song Contest.

NEWS: James Curley's CD 'There Used To Be A Train' chosen 'CD of the Week' by Rich Warren of WFMT - Chicago's 'The Midnight Special' radio show. 

James Curley's aesthetic life is densely populated with songwriters; he sees and hears the world through them, and they have informed his emotional and artistic life since he first heard 'Moon River' at the age of 5 and asked 'who wrote that?' (Henry Mancini) instead of 'who sang that?" (Andy Williams) . 

And thus began the journey that is now like a subway car at rush hour teeming with the likes of Harold Arlen, Jimmy Webb, John Hartford, Steve Goodman, John Prine, Warren Zevon, Townes Van Zandt, Jackson Browne, Kris Kristofferson, Todd Snider, John Gorka, Ellis Paul, Dan Navarro and Eric Lowen, Tom Waits, Ricki Lee Jones, Joni Mitchell, Shawn Colvin, Bruce Roper, Nancy Walker, Sue Demel, Deb Lader, Bruce Cockburn and so many others that cram the mind of 'The Best Damn Songwriter You Never Heard' - James Curley

So it's fitting that this, James' 3rd CD - There Used To Be A Train -  is thick with songwriter homage, both obvious and subtle. From John Lennon, Steve Goodman and Townes Van Zandt being directly referenced, and Warren Zevon's 'Mutineer' being covered, to the more oblique relationships like the one between James' 'The Virtual Waltz' and John Prine's 'Donald and Lydia' and the one between Steve Goodman's 'City of New Orleans' and James' 'There Used To Be a Train' - there are ghosts of James' songwriter influences at every turn. 

Produced and arranged by John Abbey (who also played bass), the instrumental and vocal support from James' supporting musicians features a 'who's who' of luminaries from the Folk-Americana tradition: Dan Navarro (Lowen and Navarro), Steve Dawson (Dolly Varden), Sons of The Never Wrong, 2-Bit Palomino, Don Stiernberg, Ben Lansing, Gerald Dowd, Scott Stephenson, and the brilliant Jenny Bienemann whose singular vocals grace three tracks including a duet on 'The Virtual Waltz'.

Feast your ears on a collection of songs that will stay with you long after you've heard them - There Used To Be a Train is a record that flows from track to track, taking you on a river journey of insight, bittersweet regret, world weary advice and an entire range of emotional and intellectual experiences that tie the 21st century in America back to the great Folk-Americana song traditions of the past. 

BIOGRAPHY

"The Best Damn Songwriter You Never Heard"

James Curley began writing songs in the mid 70s in his native Philadelphia, influenced mainly by his trips to the Philadelphia Folk Festival and to local clubs like The Main Point, Grendel's Lair and others. He appeared as a solo songwriter back then, opening locally for other artists of the day, including Artie Traum and Lou London.

Leaving Philadelphia, James played in Denver, Boulder, Eugene and other areas and eventually wound up in Houston, where he was heavily influenced by the Texas songwriter scene there at the time. Moving to Austin in 1979, he immersed himself deeper in the local songwriting scene and performed in venues there until moving to Chicago several years later. 

Taking a hiatus from music from 1987 until 1997 to raise a family and start a small business, James took up songwriting with earnest again, and released his first CD - Tom's Cafe - in 2002, Several tracks continue to get modest airplay on indie, folk and college radio stations, as well as having been synced to film and cable television shows. The CD was produced by guitarist Larry Clyman (Big Shoulders, The Otters, Lonnie Brooks Band) and featured performances from some of James musical friends like Nancy Walker and Sue Demel (Sons of the Never Wrong), Jay Sebastian (Twang Bang) and others. 

In 2007, James released his 2nd CD - Manufactured Meaning - again working with Larry Clyman. Larry had moved to upstate New York, and James collaborated there with local musicians like Tony Markellis (David Bromberg Band) and Rick Rourke (Lost Wages) to produce the record. Several songs from the record, especially Lay Down Big Easy - a lament for the post-Katrina reality of New Orleans - continue to receive radio airplay. 

This 3rd record draws from all of James' history, touching on Chicago (Goodman's Shoes), Texas (The Blue Austin Waltz, A Townes Van Zandt Song) and other recent compositions that feature an all-star lineup of musicians. 

James Curley

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