What You Hear When the Day Slows, thanks to Bobby Caldwell's What You Won’t Do for Love
Drifting through a slow grey day, and how Bobby Caldwell’s What You Won’t Do for Love can turn quiet moments into quiet magic.
By Rafi Mercer
Some days don’t announce themselves — they just soften around the edges. Today was one of them. A slow drift through town, grey light hanging a little lower than usual, the kind of rain that never fully arrives yet somehow stays with you. And then, in the middle of it all, a song found me. Bobby Caldwell’s What You Won’t Do for Love — that velvety, late-70s groove that feels like a warm hand on the shoulder.
It’s strange how a track like that doesn’t speed you up; it steadies you. The Rhodes sways, the bassline walks at your pace, and suddenly the whole day feels less like something to solve and more like something to move through. Caldwell had that gift — turning weather into feeling, turning small moments into rhythm. And as it played, the city changed shape just a little. The pavements glowed. The rain didn’t matter. Time took its foot off the pedal.
There’s a quiet magic in stumbling across the right song at the right moment. You don’t choose it; it chooses you. And on a slow day like this, that’s enough. A reminder that not everything needs drive or force. Sometimes a good groove is more than mood — it’s permission.
Rafi Mercer writes about the spaces where music matters.
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