"Tom's Cafe" genre: Folk
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	Nostalgic Story Song About Irish-Americans featuring sweet vocal harmony and a "pub appropriate" guitar and accordion arrangement
	CD: Tom's Cafe   Label: 2002 Sidewalking Crab Records available on CDBaby.com and www.jamescurley.net Credits: James F. Curley - Guitar, vocals; Rob Cruz - Accordion; Larry Clyman - Guitar; Nancy Walker - Vocals; Sue Demel - Vocals
	Story Behind the Song I'm a product of the primarily Irish-Catholic neighborhood of Greys Ferry in Philadelphia (my mom still lives there). While gaining local notoriety as an enclave of white rascism in Philly, Greys Ferry was largely peopled by hard-working, church-going middle class folks, some of whom were my ancestors. This song was inspired by a real place. The sign said "Tom's Cafe" but everyone called it "Steeley's" after the owner, Tom Steele. The bar/cafe sat on the banks of the Schuylkill (pronounced skoo-kill) River, near railroad tracks and sidings that delivered many a load to factories in their heydey. The neightborhood changed much in the 1960's when the "white flight" of businesses and residents to the suburbs took place. This song recalls a time before race riots and demographic changes altered the neighborhood forever. Lyrics Tom's Cafe The day that Tom's Cafe closed, all the neighbors sighed Mr. Shannon said: "Tom's been dead five years; better he's not alive." His brother ran the place until the neighborhood ran down Now time was up; he sealed it up and moved away from town The cafe sat by railroad tracks and was busy all the time Serving engineers and brakemen from the Pennsylvania line Houses sprung up around it; Tom made many friends When business grew he made a woman's lounge and kept the front door for men An old cafe by railroad tracks and the factory that turned the river black Stand naked, having hid from wrecking crews It seems like yesterday when I heard Irish jigs coming from Tom's cafe My grandfather was a friend of Tom's; he went there many nights After working at the factory from dawn to twilight I can see the cinematic Pat O'Brien scene St. Patrick's day would have been a sight for the wearing of the green Their lives were formed before I was born; I only sense remains I hear slightly broken memories, many joys, every pain The neighborhood has now declined; the factory's obsolete Skeletons of buildings now define Grey's Ferry Street I walked down the tracks recently and spied the sober scene Rubble cluttered vacant lots; sidewalks sprouted weeds A brand new factory burns its waste and sulfur scents the air Under overpasses of a new highway, a cafe standing there ©2002 James F. Curley

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