James Curley Songwriter

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.

Ebb and Flow by James Curley

Rest Your Weary Bones by James Curley

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

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

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

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

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

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

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…

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

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

First record by James Curley - released in 2002

First record by James Curley - released in 2002