Antique Row on Peachtree Industrial

Lyrics

[Intro]Come in, my dear. Don't mind the dust.It's not dust, it's… history. Finely milled.Breathe it in. That's the smell of varnish and old promises.[Verse 1]They call it Peachtree Industrial. Such a functional name.But we, the curators of what-was, we call it the Mile of Memory.It started around 1981, a slow bloom of secondhand ghosts.One storefront, then another, filling with the liquidated lives of Buckhead estates.This whole stretch… a museum where you can buy the exhibits.You just have to have the right kind of eyes to see it.[Chorus]Oh, we don't sell chairs, my love, we sell the conversations they held.We don't sell tables, but the dinners of 1968, the arguments, the holiday toasts.Every lamp has a book it used to read by.Every mirror holds a face it can't forget.This is Antique Row. We traffic in beautiful hauntings.[Verse 2]Look here. This teak sideboard? Straight from a front room in 1972.You can almost smell the Tabu perfume from the lady of the house.And these Chromcraft chairs, their vinyl is cold, waiting for a card game that never ends.Saturdays, the browsers come. They run their hands over the Formica, the Bakelite, the worn brocade.They're not just shopping. They're trying on other people's yesterdays.[Chorus]No, we don't sell chairs, my love, we sell the conversations they held.We don't sell tables, but the dinners of 1968, the arguments, the holiday toasts.Every lamp has a book it used to read by.Every mirror holds a face it can't forget.This is Antique Row. We traffic in beautiful hauntings.[Bridge]And then, at the end of the line, the salvage yard.That's the boneyard. The deconstructed past.Clawfoot tubs resting in the red Georgia clay.A stained-glass window from a church on Ponce, its saints staring into the weeds.Corbels and newel posts and doors that lead to nowhere now.This is where the stories come when they've lost their houses. We give them shelter.[Outro]The sun goes down on the boulevard.The streetlights make the chrome gleam.The dust settles.Come back tomorrow. The ghosts will be waiting.They're always… waiting.