A late-night confession dressed as pop-soul: a man sifts through love and blame and finds his own reflection staring back
“Common Thief” sits on side two of David Cassidy’s 1975 RCA album The Higher They Climb the Harder They Fall, credited to songwriter Bill House and running just under four minutes. The album—produced by Cassidy with Bruce Johnston—was released in July 1975 and reached No. 22 on the UK Albums Chart (its only national chart placement), while the track itself was not issued as a single. In the sequence it’s track 9, following the brief dialogue vignette “Massacre at Park Bench,” a placement that frames it as a cooled-off, reflective scene after the record’s brighter turns.
A bit of period context clarifies the mood you’re hearing. By 1975, Cassidy had stepped away from the teen-idol escalator and into work that felt more adult and self-directed. The Higher They Climb… is the first of his RCA trilogy, a set where he mixes canny covers with newly candid material and West Coast friends (Johnston, Carl Wilson, Richie Furay) close at hand. The album never charted in the U.S., but in Britain it found a receptive audience, buoyed by UK hits drawn from the LP such as “I Write the Songs” (No. 11) and “Darlin’” (No. 16). “Common Thief” stayed an album cut, yet over time it became one of those deep tracks devotees point to when they talk about Cassidy’s grown-man phrasing and the set’s quietly confessional core.
The songwriting credit matters. Bill House—a Los Angeles–based singer-guitarist and writer active in the ’70s studio scene—penned “Common Thief” and would collaborate again around Cassidy’s next RCA record; his name threads through this period as part of the small circle helping the singer pivot from poster walls to real rooms. On discographies and music databases, House is consistently cited as the song’s composer; AllMusic lists him as sole writer, and contemporary reissues keep that attribution intact.
What gives the performance its ache is the lyric’s angle of approach. Cassidy doesn’t thunder; he confides. The narrator isn’t pointing the finger so much as putting his hands up: if there’s theft here, it’s the pilfering we do from ourselves—time, trust, the better part of our own intentions. The arrangement is classic mid-’70s L.A. pop-soul: rhythm section soft-footed, keyboards warm, guitars set to glow rather than glare. Cassidy’s vocal rides the top of that texture with a measured grain—lighter than R&B grit, heavier than bubblegum—making the refrain feel like a hard truth learned late. Even without a single release, you can hear why the track keeps resurfacing on digital editions of the album and in set lists decades later; it’s one of those songs that listeners grow into.
Placed where it is on The Higher They Climb…, “Common Thief” also speaks to the album’s unspoken theme: aftermath. Earlier cuts telegraph ambition and sheen—“I Write the Songs,” “Darlin’,” “Get It Up for Love.” Then the second side tightens its focus, and this tune steps forward like a late conversation after the guests have gone. Its tempo doesn’t hurry; its melody doesn’t grandstand. Instead it breaks the night into careful measures where memory can be held without breaking. That restraint is the record’s signature move—and the way Cassidy lets silence do part of the singing is what keeps the track from dating with the fashions around it.
Meaning, in the end, is there in the title’s mirror trick. We tend to hear “thief” and look outward. The song turns us back inward. What have we stolen from ourselves by pretending, by rushing, by keeping score? Cassidy answers not with absolutes but with tone—an adult voice measuring cost and grace in the same breath. For many long-time listeners, that’s the enduring gift of “Common Thief”: it sets aside the star’s old armor and, just for a few minutes, lets the man speak plainly. You don’t need a chart number to prove its worth; the proof is how it feels when the room is quiet and the needle finds track nine again.