Rupert Holmes — Studio Musician

I am a studio musician 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