"There was just no way I could leave this little Martin guitar in my apartment overnight or even in the afternoon, and expect to find it there when I got back"
About this Quote
The line lands like a throwaway tour anecdote, but it’s really a small-town crime story with a musician’s panic baked in. Forbert isn’t romanticizing gear; he’s mapping the daily logistics of being broke, mobile, and surrounded by temptation. The “little Martin” isn’t just a guitar, it’s livelihood you can carry in one hand. The detail “overnight or even in the afternoon” sharpens the anxiety: this isn’t paranoia, it’s a schedule. Theft is so normal it compresses time; safety windows shrink to nothing.
What makes it work is the plainness. No big speech about art, no moralizing about poverty. The sentence is all practical dread: leave it, lose it. That matter-of-fact tone signals a scene most listeners never see: the unglamorous underside of the singer-songwriter myth. We like to imagine the guitar as an extension of the self, but here it’s also a target, a commodity with street value. The intimacy of “this little” suggests affection, even tenderness, yet it’s immediately undercut by the cold equation of risk. Sentiment doesn’t protect you.
Contextually, this fits the 1970s-into-80s era of hustling musicians in cities where apartments were transient, locks were flimsy, and trust was expensive. The subtext is a whole economy: secondhand instruments, pawn shops, rent money, the constant fear of being set back to zero. Forbert’s intent is to make that vulnerability legible without begging for sympathy. The guitar’s portability becomes its curse: easy to love, easy to steal, impossible to leave behind.
What makes it work is the plainness. No big speech about art, no moralizing about poverty. The sentence is all practical dread: leave it, lose it. That matter-of-fact tone signals a scene most listeners never see: the unglamorous underside of the singer-songwriter myth. We like to imagine the guitar as an extension of the self, but here it’s also a target, a commodity with street value. The intimacy of “this little” suggests affection, even tenderness, yet it’s immediately undercut by the cold equation of risk. Sentiment doesn’t protect you.
Contextually, this fits the 1970s-into-80s era of hustling musicians in cities where apartments were transient, locks were flimsy, and trust was expensive. The subtext is a whole economy: secondhand instruments, pawn shops, rent money, the constant fear of being set back to zero. Forbert’s intent is to make that vulnerability legible without begging for sympathy. The guitar’s portability becomes its curse: easy to love, easy to steal, impossible to leave behind.
Quote Details
| Topic | Music |
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