I am a studio musician,
We’ve never met,
But you know me well.
I am the English horn,
Who plays the poignant counterline
Upon the song you heard
While making love in some hotel.
I am a part of you,
I’ve never tried for fame,
You’ll never know my name.
I am the strings that enter softly,
Or three guitars
That glitter gold.
I am the thousand trumpet lines
That were an afterthought,
Intended as a way
To get a dying record sold.
I never ride the road,
I never play around,
I play what they set down.
I’m a working musician,
Living from week to week,
I’m the voice through which empty men try to speak.
A studio musician,
Blowin’ the chance I seek.
And when the woodwind cushion rises,
I start to dream,
On a low brass bed,
But I awake to horns,
The drummer calls to me,
We’re up to letter D.
I’m a man of the moment,
Pop is my stock and trade,
Singles, jingles, and demos,
Conveniently made.
A studio musician,
Whose music will die unplayed.
A studio musician,
Whose music could have died unplayed.
