by Ingrid Croce
_____
There was little work for Jim and me that winter in New York. The album had been delayed again, with no spring release in sight. Holed up in our tiny apartment in the Bronx with no money, we grew more and more depressed. Jim tried getting jobs playing backup in the studios but had few offers. When he did get work, he didn’t have enough money for gas or the subway, so he rode his bicycle through Harlem to get to Manhattan.
“How did it go?” I asked one afternoon when he returned exhausted.
“Absolutely nothing.” He steered his bicycle into the living room and set the kickstand. “The album is no closer to being made now than last week. The story’s the same: ‘We’re working on it, just a few scheduling problems.’ Shit, to top it off, I’ve got a Guard meeting again this weekend.” He flopped down on our old couch.
We stayed at his parents’ house as usual that weekend. There was no concert to get Jim out of his National Guard commitment this time.
Just before we headed back to New York on Monday morning, Jim found a letter his father had left for him on the kitchen table before leaving for work. He opened it in his old bedroom as I packed our things, and Jim read the letter to himself:
Jim, your seeming lack of initiative and interest to settle down has me somewhat concerned! How your mother feels is another story! It seems to me that you prefer to live a nomadic and gypsy sort of life, running from place to place. Possibly some visits to a psychiatrist will prove helpful. I don’t know. But I would say that you are turning out to be an educated bum, if you will excuse the expression. There is no question that you know better. But why you choose to carry on in the manner you have elected is beyond my thinking.
Jim clenched his jaw and read on:
Your desire to keep roaming may be what you call happiness, but I think you’re unstable and may be off your rocker. I am getting to believe you wasted four years in college, and there’s no question you’ve wasted four years since you’ve been out of school. Now that you have decided to be on your own, I attach:
1. Insurance bill for $85.10 for your insurance. Please pay it if you want to continue the policy, otherwise don’t pay it and let insurance drop.
2. Please destroy all gas credit cards you have in my name. From here on out all my credit cards for gas are going to be charged to Associated Steam. My present cards are all being canceled.
3. I am seriously thinking about changing my will and mother’s will that in the event of my demise, there shan’t be a penny to you unless you’re settled down working at a legitimate job or until you’re 50 or 55 or even 60 years of age, at which time probably you’ll know better how I feel or felt about the situation
4. Please don’t bring any more stray cats and shaggy dogs home, if you want to sneak them in during the day to see your mother, OK. But my command is that I don’t want no S.O.B.’s who don’t look 100% to me coming here. And as long as I’ve got something to say about who comes in my house, that’s final!!! And you had better believe it. And again I don’t know how you ever got mixed up! At this point, my suggestion would be that you learn some trade, or go into some kind of business and let go of all that Ring around the Rosy you’re doing now.
Pop
Tears filled Jim’s eyes.
“What is it, Jim? What’s the matter?”
“Take a look at this,” he said solemnly, and held out the letter. “God, Ing, he’s always been tough on me about my music, but never like this. Shit, doesn’t he know how hard we’re trying?” He threw up his hands. “Maybe he’s right. Maybe I’ll never make it in music. Do you think I should just give up?” I took hold of his shoulders.
“Absolutely not! You can’t give up music, Jim!” I hugged him close and said, “Your dad has never wanted you to make music a career. But please don’t worry, Jim. I know you can do this. I’ll do whatever it takes to help you. I promise. I won’t let you down.”
Over the next few weeks, he became more determined than ever to show his father he was serious about succeeding. One night, in our Bronx apartment, we finished the words and melody to a new song we called “Hey Tomorrow.”
Hey tomorrow, where are you going?
Do you have some room for me?
’Cause night is falling
And the dawn is calling.
I’ll have a new day,
If she’ll have me
Hey tomorrow, can’t show you nothin’
You’ve seen it all pass by your door,
So many times now, I said I been changing,
Then slipped into patterns of what happened before,
’Cause I’ve been wasted and I’ve over-tasted,
All the things that life gave to me.
I’ve been trusted, abused and busted,
And I’ve been taken by those close to me.
Hey tomorrow, you’ve gotta believe that,
I’m through wastin’ what’s left of me,
Cause night is fallin’
And the dawn is callin’
I’ll have a new day, if she’ll have me.
I’ll have a new day, if it’ll have me.
In March, Tommy finally called to say that Nik Venet had booked studio time to do the record. We moved into high gear, polishing the songs being considered for the album. For two weeks we wrote and practiced eight to ten hours a day in our claustrophobic apartment. At last we made our selections, knowing the final decision belonged to the producers: Venet, and Cashman, Pistilli and West. Ten songs made the final cut, eight of them written by us: “Vespers,” “What Do People Do,” “Hey Tomorrow,” “Age,” “Big Wheel,” “I Am Who I Am,” “Just Another Day,” “Spin Spin Spin,” and “The Man That Is Me.” Two others, “The Next Man That I Marry” and “What the Hell,” were written by Cashman, Pistilli and West.
The selections were a mix of folk and country. We were asked to sing most songs as a duo, with Jim playing his twelve- and six-string acoustic guitars. We would sing two solos each, but both of us felt the strongest piece on the album would be “Age,” a song about starting all over again, which we’d written in our Bronx apartment:
I’ve been up and down and round and round, and back again,
I’ve been so many places I can’t remember where or when,
And my only boss was the clock on the wall,
And my only friend never really was a friend at all.
I’ve traded love for pennies,
Sold my soul for less,
Lost my ideals in that long tunnel of time.
I’ve turned inside out, and round about and back again,
Found myself right back where I started again.
Once I had myself a million, now I’ve only got a dime,
The difference don’t seem quite so bad today,
With a nickel or a million,
I was searching all the time,
For something that I never lost or left behind.
I’ve traded love for pennies,
Sold my soul for less,
Lost my ideals in that long tunnel of time.
I’ve turned inside out, and round about and back again,
Found myself right back where I started again.
Now, I’m in my second circle and I’m headin’ for the top,
I’ve learned a lot of things along the way,
I’ll be careful while I’m climbing,
Because it hurts a lot to drop.
And when you’re down, nobody gives a damn, anyway.
I’ve traded love for pennies,
Sold my soul for less,
Lost my ideals in that long tunnel of time.
I’ve turned inside out, and round about and back again,
Found myself right back where I started again.
We arrived at the Hit Factory early on the morning we were to begin recording. Our bodies fueled by nervous energy, we walked through the wood-paneled control booth and into the darkened studio. The engineer set up two floor microphones next to where we would sit. He handed each
of us a headset and then gave one to Gary Chester, the drummer, and another to Joe Mack, the bassist.
“Okay,” came the engineer’s voice over the headset, “let’s get a sound check.” He sat behind double-paned glass, working the controls as Jim and I warmed up. Tommy, Nik, Dennis, and Phil sat watching from the control booth. “We’ll go through a few of the songs so Gary and Joe can get a feel for the tempos,” the engineer said. After a run through the tunes, the engineer called a break. “Okay!” he motioned. “I’ve got the levels set. Take five. Then we’ll come back and do the first song. You pick it, Jim. We’ll do a reference vocal. So don’t worry about perfection. Let’s just get down the basic tracks today, and we’ll redo the voices later if we need to before we do the sweetening.”
“That’s when they’ll add the strings, horns, and background vocals,” Jim told me as we stretched and drank a cup of coffee.
Jim’s freelance studio work had prepared him for the album, but I was new to the experience. I tried to conceal my own tense excitement. And Jim tried to help me. Facing the sound booth again, we began to sing and felt our voices embrace as they had from the first day we’d played together in my bedroom. “Let’s try that one again,” Jim said after completing a song.
“It’s fine,” Tommy commanded.
“Can we hear it back?” I asked.
“Yeah, I felt it was a little slow,” Jim said back into the mic.
“Nah, it’s OK. Don’t worry, Jim.”
“Your performance is meticulous,” Phil chimed in, as he left the control room to return to his office.
For the next three days, we did nothing but sing, eat, and sleep. Every word we said to one another concerned the album.
On the second night, after we had recorded a few more songs, Nick Venet and the engineer stayed to listen to our takes.
When we came back to the studio the next night, Nick said, “Hey guys, instead of calling your album Ingrid and Jim Croce, we thought maybe we could call it Bombs over Puerto Rico,” he joked.
Then Nick told us his story:
“We were sitting in the studio at four in the morning last night, and suddenly there was a huge explosion; the whole building shook, and we were covered in white plaster. When we all staggered into the street, the place was full of fire engines, policemen, the FBI, and everyone you could imagine. Apparently some radical Puerto Rican group figured they’d let off a bomb when nobody could get hurt, not figuring that two idiots would be listening to tapes in the basement at four in the morning. Well, maybe it’s too much of an inside joke . . . but it just might sell!”
The third night, after the final take, I couldn’t help worrying. “You know, Jim, I think you’re right. We didn’t get much direction or input on this album. We just did what we do at concerts. I really expected more interaction with the producers, but all they did was tape us. Will we get a chance to work with the final mix after they sweeten it? I understand that’s as important as recording the songs.”
“I really don’t know, Ing. This is our first album, so I guess we have to trust the producers. I just hope they know what they’re doing! They all seem so distracted by their own problems.”
Suddenly, the recording sessions were completed, and it was over.
Jim felt disappointed.
“It all seemed kind of rushed,” he told Tommy. Tommy didn’t respond. “We just have to decide which of the takes we like best and mix it, but we could have done it better, with a little more time,” Jim continued. “Don’t you think?”
“It’s fine, Jim. Relax!” Tommy assured him.
Looking back, I remember thinking that if nothing else, we sure were dealing with some bad timing. Tommy was getting a divorce and had a new woman; Merv’s wife was leaving him, and there was a child involved, making it really messy; and Nik had some serious problems at Capitol. It felt as if no one was really focusing seriously on our project.
Two weeks later, after sweetening, “the Boys” rushed the record out the door, under budget, calling it Jim and Ingrid Croce. I couldn’t help wondering if we’d had a different producer, like John Simon, who had produced the Band and Joni Mitchell, we couldn’t have made an album that brought us to a new level. But it was done now. And the best we could hope for was a good mix and strong PR.
That night, Tommy and Barbara took us to dinner at Paparazzi Restaurant across from Tommy’s apartment and bought a bottle of champagne to celebrate. After months of delay, the album was finally complete.
“Nik wants you to go to his apartment in the Village tomorrow, so he can take pictures of you for the album cover,” Tommy informed us. “I hear he’s a pretty good photographer.”
“Yeah, well, I hope so. If he can make me look good, he’s great.” Jim responded.
“Nik’s also invited you to his mountain cabin in upstate New York for the weekend.”
“I sure hope being a friend of the producer is a good omen for the album,” Jim said.
After the photo shoot at Nik’s apartment, Gene Pistilli cornered Jim and me. “Want a joint, man?” he asked Jim. “It’s good shit!”
“I can use some good shit,” Jim smiled.
“That makes two of us, man. I am fucked up. I figured we’d write, publish, produce, and make records together, but not share the stage,” he said, referring to Tommy and Dennis. “I can’t believe I’m letting myself get on a stage with these putzes. I never expected to be part of a performing trio.”
“Well, performing isn’t their expertise,” Jim admitted.
“Yeah, Dennis looks like fuckin’ Nureyev with a hot foot. And Tommy is comatose. I have to check to make sure he’s breathing. Christ, they’re so embarrassing.” He lowered his voice. “Shit, I wish I could get out of my contract!”
“But I thought you were a partner.”
Gene took a deep breath. “Yeah, well, I am a partner, but when it comes to making business decisions, I don’t count for shit. Part of it’s my own fault. I’m not as driven as those bastards. Money isn’t my bottom line, and they know it.”
Jim didn’t respond, and I didn’t want to get into it while they were stoned.
_____
By early summer the bills had piled high, and Jim’s and my initial excitement about the album had waned. Little was going on for us with music. We called Merv regularly to ask about bookings, but there were none. And Tommy still had no word on when the album was to be released.
One afternoon in June, Jim went to the CP&W office to pick up our check.
“Hey, Joni,” he said to the secretary. “How are you doin’?”
“I’m good, but did you hear about Gene?” she whispered.
“No, what’s goin’ on?”
“I think you better ask Tommy. Gene’s in the hospital.”
Tommy calmly told Jim that Gene had overdosed on sleeping pills and had to have his stomach pumped.
“What the fuck! And no one bothered to call me!” Jim yelled, storming out. We rushed to the hospital and found Gene alive but distraught.
“No one but you and Pat has even bothered to visit me,” he said sadly. “I guess that tells you where ‘the Boys’ are at.”
The day after Gene’s release from the hospital, Phil Kurnit insisted that Gene sign papers, relinquishing his rights in their companies.
Jim phoned him and said, “I thought you guys were friends.”
“Yeah, some kind of friends,” Gene sighed. “But I guess it’s best for everyone. They can keep their profits, and I can get the fuck out.”
_____
In July, Jim walked into the newly named Cashman & West offices just as John Stockfish, Gordon Lightfoot’s former bass player, was leaving. Impressed by the musical iconoclast, Jim shook his hand and introduced himself. Then he went in to see Tommy.
“Are you doing business with John Stockfish?”
“We’re thinking about finding him some gigs,” Tommy replied. “He’s talented as hell, but he alienates people. He just stopped working with Lightfo
ot. I guess John was trying to tell him how to write and arrange his songs, and Lightfoot didn’t want to hear it.” Tommy flipped a paperclip across his desk. “Stockfish is opinionated, never short on advice. But who knows?” With a dismissive shrug Tommy turned to a file cabinet. “Maybe we can do something for him.”
The next week, Tommy introduced us to Stockfish, and Jim and I began playing with John, trying to overlook his idiosyncrasies.
“You’re good, Croce,” Stockfish told Jim with authority. “And you and Ingrid together have something unusual going on. I’d like to stay in New York for a few months so we can play together.”
“You’re welcome to stay with us for a while,” Jim offered. Stockfish took him up on it, and within a week his girlfriend, Pat, flew in from Toronto and moved in with us, too.
“Are they planning to stay with us long?” I asked Jim, one night in our bedroom. “They’re certainly welcome to share what we have,” I offered. “But we don’t have much. And it could get really tight.”
“They shouldn’t be staying with us that long,” he said. “Anyway, it’s worth it just to have the chance to play with John. I can learn a lot from him. His timing is fantastic, something I always just shrugged off, and he’s a great bass player. Besides, maybe we can get better gigs with a backup musician of John’s stature.”
Within a week, Merv booked us as a trio at the Ship’s Fare, a well-known restaurant and bar on Cape Cod. Stockfish turned down an opportunity to tour with Ian and Sylvia to play with us. The pay was slim, but we three musicians were compensated with all the lobster we could eat and a chance to get out of the city for the summer.
At each practice session, Stockfish would plant his metronome in front of Jim and me. “Come on, Jim, listen,” he insisted. “Tick, tick, tick, tick.”
“Yeah, I hear it,” Jim told John.
