“I took this!”—he triumphantly produced a 45 r.p.m. record out from under his mac—“over to her flat and taped it to her door.”

“I encountered a young husband outside the stage door of the Royal Albert Hall one night after a performance with the London Philharmonic. We stood in a misty rain. “This is my wife, Ophelia,” he said, his arm encircling a lovely young woman who smiled and said in turn, “This is Giles and Diedre,” her arm around two white-haired, rosy-cheeked English children. “I want you to know,” the young husband continued, “that eight years ago when I was in public school I had a horrible row with Ophelia here, and she cursed me and swore to never see me again.” Ophelia blushed at this and cupped her hand around her forehead. “I took this!”—he triumphantly produced a 45 r.p.m. record out from under his mac—“over to her flat and taped it to her door.” Meanwhile I stood there utterly confused. “Will you sign it for us please?” he beseeched me, brandishing a pen and pushing the plastic disc into my wet hands. In the dim light and half rain I could just make out a scratched copy of “All I Know,” recorded by Artie Garfunkel. I took another much closer look at Giles and Diedre, smiling, expectant and apparently grateful in the Knightsbridge drizzle.”

–Jimmy Webb, Tunesmith: Inside the Art of Songwriting
 

All I Know

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