Forbert, whose faded Levi jacket, corduroy shirt and jeans stand out like a sore thumb in these New South surroundings, betrays no nervousness. The same can't be said for the disc jockey, Bob Bailey, who's taping the interview for later editing and airing but still can't seem to get beyond a rehash of Forbert's storybook success. Armed with an acoustic guitar, a harmonica in a rack, and a rapidly expanding sheaf of original songs, he gets his start singing for spare change in Grand Central Station. After working his way up to the folk clubs, he's discovered and makes a debut album that wins lavish critical praise. His second album becomes a best seller.
Country boy hits big city, makes good.
It's a terrific American myth, and like most myths, it contains no more than a grain or two of truth. Steve Forbert is no country boy. We would talk about, say, the Monkees. And as soon as he finished his first album, he set about putting together an electric backup band. Nevertheless, that first album, Alive on Arrival , perpetuated the myth, and Steve Burgh's spare production put Forbert right up front.