I mentioned recently that I have a certain admiration for songwriter Rupert Holmes. His music, aside from a few hits, was not wildly popular even in its time, so it can be quite hard to find now.

A couple of nights ago, a friend handed me a CD. On it was a song I’d wanted to hear again for years, called “Morning Man.” Also on the CD, though, was a surprise: another song called “Studio Musician.” Somehow, I’d managed to avoid ever hearing it, despite the fact that it was also recorded (with modified lyrics) by a more popular artist later on.

I listened to it last night. Holmes’ arrangement is, of course, perfect. I don’t know who mixed it, but I’d like to shake his hand, too.

The lyrics got me. I’m not a studio musician. I’m not even a musician, really. I’m an amateur singer with some talent but absolutely no illusions. However, there are enough parallels between the world of a studio musician and the world of a mix engineer that the song hit far too close to home, and robbed me of my composure for a while. I’m not quite as bitter as Holmes sounds here, nor do I have reason to be, but I do share the sense of irony.

The lyrics are out there on the web, but they’re the aforementioned, modified ones. Here for your perusal are the original, Rupert Holmes words. (Sorry, Mort.)

Studio Musician
Rupert Holmes

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,
Pulling my five a 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,
With a 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.