Love Letter
In my early twenties, (1982-ish), I went to see King Crimson play at The Mann Music Center in Philadelphia’s Fairmount Park. I had become a huge Peter Gabriel fan (still am) and Tony Levin was the bass player in both bands. I wanted to hear him play live.
My seat was stage left in about the tenth row. He was stage right, well over six-foot, with his famous bald head and thick mustache. He stood with his feet a yard apart, facing forward as though challenging us to doubt his groove. I was already dizzy with the hope of his playing bass on songs I hadn’t even written yet. I had no idea how to write a song.
Ten years later, I moved to Woodstock, New York after a few years wandering lost in Manhattan, hoping to be discovered. By then, I’d heard that Tony lived somewhere in the Hudson Valley. In my mind, I thought living in Woodstock would improve the odds of my getting to play with him. But I still hadn’t recorded anything meaningful. I’d only just picked up the guitar and hadn’t had the courage yet to admit that it was the piano I really wanted to play. I was thirty-four now, and it was time to get serious if I wanted to learn how to write a decent song, play an instrument, make a real “record.” CDs, Discmans, and DIY music were just coming out and I wanted to be a part of that.
Silence is Broken was the first full-length album I recorded in a professional studio on 24-track analogue tape. That was 1992 and a bunch of very talented musicians carried me through that first hurdle. In 1995, I recorded Confession with Denny Bridges, who had been an assistant engineer to the great George Martin whose brilliance brought the Beatles’ brilliance to even brighter light. I was young enough to believe that working with Denny was my path to success. I hadn’t even considered yet what my measure of success would be. Like so many young people, what I really wanted was attention, validation, someone telling me that I was special. More than that, I wanted musicians I admired to say I was worthy; to invite me into their club.
Two years after moving to Woodstock, spending my weekends driving to venues across the northeast, playing for audiences of two to fifty people, I moved to a cottage closer to town. One fine summer afternoon I came home and found two packages I hadn’t ordered on my front step. They were addressed to Tony Levin across the street. Across the street! I could hardly breathe, and even as I’m typing this, I can feel warmth gathering in my armpits. What do I do now? Do I just go over there and tell him I have packages for him? Is it possible for me to do that without passing out? I needed another approach.
When I finally caught my breath, I asked myself what a normal person would do. A normal person would pick up the phone and call. These were the days of phonebooks, landlines, and people calling one another so I found his number and called him. He wasn’t home, phew, so I waited for the beep and left a message. The next day, I left the boxes on his back porch, but never said a word about his music or mine.
But now I had his phone number! All I needed was the courage to ask him about a song I’d written that I wanted to hear him play on. I’d already recorded it on Confession with another bass player named David Keyes, but I’d often wondered what Tony would do with it. Then one day I bumped into him at the post office. It was a NOW moment. I had to ask him now. So, I did, and he said sure, and so it happened, and I loved it and that was over twenty-five years ago. Since then, Tony’s played on a number of my songs, and every time it’s a thrill and an honor. Recently, I was brave enough to tell him that.
Yesterday, I got my monthly stats from Spotify. “Write Me a Love Letter,” the song Tony played on all those years ago, had been the most streamed song on my channel in February. Over a thousand streams. I still find it hard to comprehend the miracle of my voice being heard on any platform anywhere. It’s a dream having come true and just about makes me cry.
I’ve never been comfortable promoting myself, my songs, or my writing. Humility was encouraged when I was growing up and I’m still more comfortable there. But I love my songs. They’re like my children in so many ways. Now, when I play the piano or the guitar and find myself playing my old songs, it’s like an audio scrapbook of faces, venues, emotions, and highways I’ve driven, and I’m both grateful and nostalgic for everything that brought them into being.
Tony Levin, bass; Abby Newton, cello solo; Bar, piano and vocals.
April 11, 1966. Second Grade. I hadn’t noticed yet that Paul was left-handed.
Thank you, Bar
Just stunning, Bar.
I have the original version on “Confession” (from oh, so many years ago in NY). This version is incredible. All of the layers are presented- as on a glorious buffet table. So clear, and yet, woven. So full and rich. A feast for the soul.
Simply beautiful.
I was deep into bad world news last night when the most beautiful music came drifting across the room. I asked Wayne, Who IS that? And he said, Bar. Thank you.