I first met Bruce Mattys in the late 1970s at
Parkview High School in Lilburn, Georgia, about as unassuming a time
and place as ever there was. We discovered a certain shared taste
in music, and before long started getting together to play one another
our songs, eventually graduating to rudimentary attempts at recording
them. Originally this consisted of playing and singing into a Radio
Shack tape deck, and then playing back the results at a high volume
while singing along with ourselves and repeating the process (a crude
attempt at multi-tracking).
Nevertheless, our appetites had been whetted,
and as time went on we got better, at least in terms of the technology.
What struck me then, however, and what strikes me now, over 20 years
later, is the quality of Bruce's songwriting. It was as if he were
channeling emotions and experiences beyond his years, putting them
to melodies that were instantly memorable.
In assembling this anthology, I asked Bruce about
a certain song of his that I knew every word to and that I found conspicuous
by its absence. When he informed me that he had never actually recorded
the song, but had merely played it to me once, I was shocked anew
by his ability to put words and music together in a way that sticks
in the mind. I could write volumes about each of the songs on this
CD: the sweep of "Silver Bird," the sly humor of "At
the Package Store," the world-weary wisdom of "Remembering
When." But the best thing, of course, it to hear them for yourself.
For the past two decades I've lived with this
music; in many ways it's been the soundtrack of my life. It's my pleasure
and privilege, therefore, to present to you The Great Lost Bruce
Mattys Album. Let the vaults be opened!
Jerry Jodice, March 2001
Bruce
Mattys 
