Studio Musician - Live

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.