- published: 20 Nov 2006
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Mark Freuder Knopfler, OBE (born 12 August 1949) is a Scottish-born British guitarist, singer, songwriter, record producer and film score composer. He is best known as the lead guitarist, vocalist, and songwriter for the British rock band Dire Straits, which he co-founded in 1977. After Dire Straits disbanded in 1995, Knopfler went on to record and produce six solo albums, including Golden Heart (1996), Sailing to Philadelphia (2000), and Get Lucky (2009). He has composed and produced film scores for eight films, including Local Hero (1983), Cal (1984), and The Princess Bride (1987). In addition to his work with Dire Straits and as a solo artist and composer, Knopfler has recorded and performed with many prominent musical artists, including Phil Lynott, Chet Atkins, The Chieftains, Eric Clapton, Bob Dylan, Emmylou Harris, Jools Holland, Sonny Landreth, and Van Morrison. He has produced albums for Tina Turner, Bob Dylan, and Randy Newman.
Knopfler is one of the most respected fingerstyle guitarists of the modern rock era, and was ranked 27th on Rolling Stone magazine's list of 100 Greatest Guitarists of All Time. Knopfler and Dire Straits have sold in excess of 120 million albums to date. A four-time Grammy Award winner, Knopfler is the recipient of the Edison Award and the Steiger Award, and holds three honorary doctorate degrees in music from universities in the United Kingdom.
On Raglan Road of an Autumn day I saw her first and knew
That her dark hair would weave a snare that I might one day rue
I saw the danger and I passed along the enchanted way
And I said 'Let grief be a fallen leaf at the dawning of the day'
On Grafton Street in November we tripped lightly along the ledge
Of a deep ravine where can be seen the worth of passion's pledge
The Queen of Hearts still making tarts and I not making hay
Oh, I loved too much and by such, by such, is happiness thrown away
I gave her gifts of the mind, I gave her the secret sign
That's known to the artists who have known the true gods of sound and stone
And word and tint I did not stint, I gave her poems to say
With her own name there and her own dark hair like clouds over fields of May
On a quiet street where old ghosts meet I see her walking now
Away from me so hurriedly, my reason must allow
That I had loved not as I should a creature made of clay