Studio Musician - Rupert Holmes

We’ve never met, but you know me well

I am the English horn that played the poignant counter-line

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, pulling my five a week

I’m the voice through which empty men try to speak

A studio musician

Blowing the chance I seek

And when the woodwind cushion rises

I start to dream with the low brass bed

And I reject the riffs and Hendrix licks they’ve paid me for

That I’ve played before

Instead, they want what I hear in my head

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-in-trade

Singles, jingles, and demos conveniently made

A studio musician

Whose music will die unplayed