“Since I Fell for You” in David Cassidy’s hands feels like a late-night confession—proof that one wrong love can quietly rewrite a whole life, even decades after the first goodbye.
Before we drift into the feeling, the facts deserve to sit up front—because they tell you where this performance lives in Cassidy’s story. “Since I Fell for You” appears as track 4 on David Cassidy’s 2003 studio album A Touch of Blue, and it runs 2:53. The album was released in the UK on November 3, 2003, and it is widely noted as Cassidy’s 17th and final studio album, with a bonus disc of re-recorded classics included alongside the new cover set. On the UK’s Official Albums Chart, A Touch of Blue first appeared on the chart dated 15 November 2003, debuting at No. 61 (and that debut week also proved to be its peak), before sliding to No. 92 the following week.
Now, the song itself carries a longer history than any one voice—almost like an heirloom passed hand to hand. “Since I Fell for You” was composed by Buddy Johnson in 1945, first popularized through performances connected to Buddy Johnson and His Orchestra and his sister Ella Johnson, and it grew into a jazz-and-pop standard that kept calling singers back to its bruised simplicity. Its most famous chart moment came much later: Lenny Welch’s 1963 recording climbed to No. 4 on the Billboard Hot 100, proving that a song built on plain heartbreak can still move mountains when the phrasing is honest enough.
So why does David Cassidy—forever framed in many minds by the bright flash of early fame—choose this song for A Touch of Blue?
Because “Since I Fell for You” is not a song about the drama of a breakup. It’s about the quieter afterlife of love: the way it stains ordinary days, the way it changes your voice even when you’re trying to speak casually. The title doesn’t posture. It doesn’t threaten. It simply admits a turning point: since I fell for you… everything else became “after.” That’s the cruelty of it—and also the strange poetry. One emotional misstep, one devotion given too freely, and suddenly the past is no longer a home you can return to unchanged.
Placed inside A Touch of Blue, the performance reads like a deliberate artistic self-portrait. This album is a room full of standards and familiar melodies—songs you don’t pick to impress anyone with trendiness, but to tell the truth about taste, memory, and the kind of longing that matures rather than disappears. The record’s very premise—new recordings paired with a bonus disc that revisits earlier signature material—suggests an artist standing at the shoreline of his own career, looking both directions at once. In that light, “Since I Fell for You” becomes more than a cover: it becomes a confession he can finally sing without needing to outrun it.
And then there’s the emotional geometry of the song’s lineage. In the Buddy Johnson world, it carried the ache of postwar blues sophistication; in Lenny Welch’s world, it became a pop torch-song that still held onto its bruises. When Cassidy arrives—decades later—he doesn’t need to “compete” with those versions. He only needs to inhabit the lyric. The song is built to reward restraint. You don’t win it by oversinging; you win it by letting the line land like an unguarded thought—an admission you didn’t plan to make out loud.
That is the meaning “Since I Fell for You” tends to reveal, especially in a late-career reading: love isn’t always a triumph you can frame on the wall. Sometimes it’s the lesson you keep carrying in your pocket, touching it now and then the way you might touch a scar—half disbelief, half remembrance. David Cassidy, singing it within the reflective shelter of A Touch of Blue, turns the song into a small act of courage: not denying what hurt him, not decorating it—just telling the truth, softly, and letting the silence afterward say the rest.