An Ode to Atlanta, Georgia · Track 15 · middle
Inman Park Festival: Street Celebration
Capture the vibrant spirit of the annual Inman Park Festival, a testament to community, art, and the successful ongoing preservation of a historic neighborhood.
Lyrics
[Intro] It’s the last weekend in April. The air is thick with jasmine and something frying in a pan. They’ve closed the streets again. Look. They’ve given Euclid Avenue back to us. [Verse 1] We can walk right down the middle of the asphalt. Past the Victorian porches, the painted ladies with their turrets. I trace the ghost of a highway with my eyes. The shadow of I-485 that never fell. They fought for this quiet. For the right to have this party. To keep the Olmsted-designed curves of Springvale Park from being straightened into an off-ramp. [Chorus] This isn’t just a street fair. It’s an argument won in 1972. It’s a victory lap taken every year. Every band playing on a flatbed trailer, every piece of art chalked on the sidewalk, is a testament. The sound of a neighborhood that refused to be a road. [Verse 2] We pay our dollars for the Tour of Homes. Step across the threshold of a house someone saved with their own two hands. Past the Trolley Barn where the music is loudest. Past the booths selling pottery and smoked honey. A girl with a giant butterfly puppet on a stick dances by. I think of that first festival. Less of a party, more of a promise. A fundraiser to keep the bulldozers out. [Chorus] This isn’t just a street fair. It’s an argument won in 1972. It’s a victory lap taken every year. Every band playing on a flatbed trailer, every piece of art chalked on the sidewalk, is a testament. The sound of a neighborhood that refused to be a road. [Bridge] I think of the meetings in living rooms just like these. The mimeographed flyers, the worried phone calls. All that quiet, determined anger that became this… this gentle, sprawling joy. They traded the roar of engines for the sound of a fiddle. They chose the shade of these old trees. [Outro] The sun is going down behind the houses. The strings of lights are coming on. The day-drinkers are heading home. But the spirit of the thing stays. It settles into the brick and the wood. Another year, safe. Another year, ours.