by Ingrid Croce
“Just listen, man. Dah, dah, dah, dah. Hear it?”
“Hear what?” Jim asked.
“Don’t you hear it, man?” John insisted.
“What kind of drugs are you taking, man?” Jim joked. “Give me some of them drugs, so I can hear what you do. You are out there, man.”
“It isn’t drugs!” he insisted. “I don’t do drugs anymore, man.”
“OK, John, calm down. I’ll do drugs, and you can get high on the metronome.” Jim laughed.
“Drugs are bad, man,” Stockfish insisted. “Let’s play.” He pointed to the song “The Way We Used to Do.”
“Now, Ingrid, you sing this part.” Jim encouraged me by strumming the melody.
“No, Jim,” John interrupted. “Stop playing. Let’s really make this work. Just sing it in time to the metronome, Ingrid. No music yet. Jim, you sing with her and trade harmony parts on the chorus.”
“Stockfish, you’re about as much fun as a rubber crutch,” Jim joked. “Let’s smoke a joint.”
“Man,” Stockfish said with a straight face, “drugs can mess up your mind and your music real bad.”
“Don’t be so intense, John. There’s nothing worse than a reformed alcoholic or druggie,” Jim replied, grinning. “I say, ‘If you dig it, do it. And if you dig it a lot, do it twice.’”
Not used to practicing a song more than a couple of times, Jim typically fought Stockfish’s long rehearsals. I, on the other hand, thrived on them. I loved the discipline and attention John gave our music. Still, I had to agree with Jim; our Canadian friend was definitely “out there.”
The serenity of Cape Cod was a stark contrast to New York’s pressure cooker. The two-month hiatus gave us a chance to catch our breath before embarking on what we expected to be a grueling tour to promote the album. When we returned to the Bronx, on September 2, 1969, we were at last able to celebrate the release of the long-awaited Capitol album. Together, with Stockfish and Pat, we relaxed at our apartment and put on the LP for the very first time.
We listened in tense silence, without enthusiasm. Jim held back comment until the second cut.
“Ah, shit,” he said. He leaned his head into his hands. “I should have been there for the final mix. I thought producers were supposed to make musicians sound better than they do live. This album doesn’t come close to the way we sound in person. All the excitement is gone!”
“Don’t be such a harsh critic,” Stockfish admonished. “It’s pretty damn good, man.”
We listened until the album played all the way through, and Jim raked his hands through his thick, curly hair. “I just hope it’s good enough to sell.”
“It’s good enough, man,” John emphasized. “All they have to do now is put some energy and money behind it—promote it! Once we get out there, man, and play for the people, they’re gonna love it. I promise you, it’s as good as Ian and Sylvia—better!”
Later that month, as part of the record’s promotion, we sang at Paul’s Mall in Boston, a popular club that showcased new acts. We brought fresh energy to our performance, and the excitement and overwhelming response of the audience elated us.
“See, they love you,” John told Jim after the gig. “This is the reaction you want from your audience. They’re crazy about you, man.”
“Yeah, they love us live, but the big question is: Will they buy the record?”
We got rave reviews in Boston, but our high was short-lived. In October, after we returned to New York, no work followed.
Then we received a registered letter on the new Cashman & West letterhead. I read the letter out loud to Jim.
It exercised the company’s option under the original agreements binding us to another year under their publishing, production, recording, and management contracts.
“Isn’t the option ours?” I asked.
“Yeah, they said it was, Ing. But I don’t know about these things. What difference does it make anyway?” he shrugged. “If they can’t get us work, I’m sure they won’t expect us to stay.”
“But the letter says they’re renewing their option. It’s our option!”
Later that week, Tommy called us into the office.
“Capitol is going through a major restructuring,” he said without emotion.
“Yeah,” Jim asked, bracing for bad news. “So how will that affect us?”
“They haven’t budgeted any promotion money for the album,” Tommy said. “That means the record distribution will be minimal, and there won’t be much radio airplay either.”
“I thought you guys were supposed to promote our album!” I said. “And what happened to our advance? Why haven’t we gotten it yet?” Tommy didn’t answer. “So what do you expect us to do now?” Tommy looked at Jim, beseeching him to control his wife. Trying to contain myself, I went on. “I’m confused about this whole thing, Tommy. It just doesn’t make sense. Why did Phil send us this letter?” I held up the registered letter. “You said the option was ours, not yours, but Phil says it’s the other way around. Why would we want to continue with you if there’s no promotion, no jobs, and no money?”
Jim broke in.
“It’s probably a misunderstanding, like I told you, Ing.” I was furious. Jim was defending Tommy, trying to avoid the problem.
“We still want to continue with you, Jim,” Tommy interjected with a forced smile. “We believe in you. I thought you’d be happy to have us handle all this business stuff for you.”
Ever uncomfortable with confrontation, Jim tried to divert the tension and reassure Tommy. “Yeah, I’m about as nervous around business as a whore in church,” Jim joked. “But I guess you guys know what’s best for us.”
“Jim, why are you doing this?” I couldn’t listen to Tommy’s patronizing us any longer. Angrily, I stormed out of the office.
Later that night, Jim told me that Tommy had said not to listen to me. Although Jim caved to Tommy, at home he expressed doubts to me about the true consequences of the contracts.
“Man, what did you sign with them?” Stockfish asked, overhearing our conversation.
“A contract for one year,” Jim said defensively. “That’s it.”
“You’d better check into it. Here, let me see the contract.”
“They never gave us one.”
“You don’t have a copy of your own contract?” Stockfish echoed incredulously. “You’d better get one, man!”
Within weeks it became evident that the album wasn’t selling. Jim and I visited a dozen record stores, and not one had our album for sale. We called Merv, the manager to whom we’d been assigned, to find out about getting back on the road, but he couldn’t get us a gig, not even a single small-college concert.
Then, in mid-October, we learned about an opening for a host position on a children’s television show out of Boston. A television producer who’d heard us performing at Paul’s Mall had become a fan, and enlisted us for the upcoming project. The show was to chronicle American history through music, and Jim and I were to audition by writing and recording sample songs for the program. With the opportunity to host our own children’s show, we began writing immediately.
In the tiny apartment in the Bronx, we sat at our dining room table: Jim with guitar in hand, me with pen and paper, and the Wollensak. We liked the idea of being employed to write about the evolution of the country, and to do it for children made it really fun. The job seemed so appropriate to Jim’s keen interest in history and his ability to teach kids.
Within three weeks, we wrote more than twenty original tunes and arranged them with Stockfish playing bass. Our publishers were pleased that their songwriters had been so prolific. Jim and I went into the studio to record the new songs. We were excited that we would be able to use these recordings as a demo for our audition with the television show.
Tommy and Dennis were in the control room with the engineer, while Jim, John, and I ran through every song in no more than two takes. Essentially, the producers turned on the tape recorder and le
t it roll.
Jim played the songs in a simple folk style. He felt nostalgic, almost patriotic, singing about the history of America. And because these songs were for children, it gave him a new direction from which to write. He and I told short stories in a plain, unpretentious manner, and Jim accompanied us with simple yet haunting melodies. Stories about the Native Americans were portrayed in “Iron Horse Lament.” “Hard Times Be Over” was about the Great Depression. “Greenhill Mountain Lullaby” described the closing of the coal mines in upstate Pennsylvania and Virginia.
Jim and I considered “Railroads and Riverboats” and “The Migrant Worker” to be among the best songs we wrote for the show. We were optimistic that these songs strengthened our chances of being selected as the hosts for the program.
Railroads and Riverboats
The railroads and the riverboats
That bred the mighty men,
That we read about and we dreamed about
The men who built this land.
And the farmers and the lumbermen,
And the men who work the mills,
And the poor hard workin’ miners
Who died inside the hill.
While the rivers that flow
Are the blood of our land,
And the trucks they keep rumblin’
On that great concrete band,
And the railroads keep pushin’
To be all they once were
And nature is callin’
No one’s listenin’ to her.
And the immigrants by the boatload
In a dozen different tongues,
Sang of freedom in the new land
Climbed the ladder rung by rung.
Some to Boston, some to Pittsburgh,
Philadelphia and St. Paul,
And the old way led to new days
They were welcome one and all.
With the railroads and the riverboats
And the bread lines far behind,
And the days we sang together
Long gone but still in mind,
And the men who came before us,
Men who brought us to today
And the story still unravels
From the dreams of yesterday.
Two weeks after we sent the demo tape to Boston, we learned that Hoagy Carmichael had been chosen to host the show.
“God, Ing, how much more disappointment can we take?” Jim asked when he hung up the phone and told me the bad news.
“I don’t know, Jim.”
“I feel like a yo-yo. First we’re up; then we’re down.”
In the next room, Stockfish played a monotonous rendition of “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star” to the methodical beat of the metronome. Pat had recently returned to Canada, but his strong presence was like having even more than two people in our tiny apartment.
“Stockfish is driving me crazy,” Jim said. “I’d like to throw his fucking metronome out the window.”
John glanced up at us but kept playing, concentrating on his timing. Finally, he spoke:
“It’s hot in here,” John said. “Is that freaking air conditioner working yet?”
“Are you kidding? It’s almost winter, John. If the fucking manager hasn’t fixed it all summer, what makes you think he’s gonna do it now?” Jim punched the wall. “I’m getting out of here before I do some real damage.”
A week later, Jim and I jumped at the opportunity to leave New York and get back on the college concert circuit as a duo. We were relieved to perform on our own again and hoped that by the time we returned to New York, John would have arranged to move back to Canada.
But the tour was short, and when we returned to our apartment, Stockfish was still there, keeping in sync with his metronome.
“I can’t find any studio work, man, and I don’t have enough cash to get out of New York,” he complained.
“Well, we can’t offer you anything more, John. You know we don’t have any money,” I told him.
When there was no reply, Jim added, “Stockfish, you’re gonna have to do something. We can’t put you up any longer, man. It’s murder in this apartment with the three of us here.”
The following morning Stockfish went to Tommy and begged plane fare. When he came back, he told Jim, “I’ll be going home to Canada in early December.”
Just before Christmas, Jim and I went on another college tour through upstate New York. It seemed a futile attempt to promote an album no one could buy or hear. And on top of everything else, several universities where we were scheduled to play had been plagued by campus strikes and riots. At others, only a handful of students showed up for our poorly publicized performances. After a few weeks we reached our final stop, Alfred University in Alfred, New York.
I was excited to get to the university, as I’d heard that the ceramics department was among the best in the country. But the campus had been overtaken by a flu epidemic, and the ceramics department was closed. We were given a room next to the infirmary, which was packed with sick and complaining students. We had a whole day to spend before our first show.
“What’s there to do around Alfred?” Jim asked Lee Schumacher, the student representative assigned to us.
“Well,” the animal husbandry major said, “you can either go to the livestock barns or participate in the race riots.” His expression indicated he was not at all excited about his host-playing role.
“That’s no contest, Lee,” Jim said, trying to implore him. “Let’s go to the barns.”
The student gave him a slow smile, warming up to Jim. “The horses, goats, and sheep are in heat right now,” he said, “so you can watch them mate.”
“That sounds like fun,” Jim grinned.
Only two students showed up for the first concert. The rest were either sick, gone for Christmas vacation, or taking part in student protests. The next night the audience doubled in size to four. Afterwards, backstage, I blew up. “Jim, this is ridiculous. I don’t understand why we have to stay here if no one is coming to hear us. Please call Merv and tell him we want to come home for Christmas. I’m going to go soak in a hot bath.”
Sitting in the tiny bathtub, I found myself swatting at the black flies I was convinced were breeding in the heating ducts of the infirmary. In the adjacent room Jim very reluctantly phoned Merv.
“No one is showing up to the concerts, man. A crowd of exactly two the first night, then four the second. The campus is just about shut down with a flu epidemic, and the rest of the students are already gone for the holidays. What do you say we go home for Christmas?”
“You’ve got to stay—you’re booked through the end of the week,” Merv reminded him. “If you don’t stay, no one gets paid!”
Jim was silent a moment.
“I guess you’re right.” He paused. Then he added, “Say hello to Tommy and Dennis for me. Tell them I’m spending my spare time at Alfred University at the School of Animal Husbandry. Tell them, if they’re interested, that the sheep are in heat.”
“Jesus, Jim,” I screamed from the bathroom. “Tell him there are fucking flies in the bathtub, and everyone here has the flu!”
But by then Jim had already said good-bye and hung up the phone.
“Ing,” he said in a defeated tone, “they won’t pay us if we don’t finish here, and we don’t have enough money to get home! We’re stuck.” The next morning, the college closed the entire campus because of the flu epidemic. The university cancelled the remainder of our shows and paid us through the end of the week.
Depressed, but also relieved, Jim and I decided to begin vacation early. We were packed and on our way back to the gloomy Bronx apartment before breakfast time. On the way back, Jim came down with the flu. I drove on, while Jim vomited through the open window of the VW. He spent the next week in bed.
_____
The new year, 1970, found us once again with no money and no plans. Dreariness settled around us. We tried to avoid quarreling but couldn’t.
“You need t
o talk to Tommy,” I fumed. “If they’re not going to get us work, then why would we sign and agree to an option? You and I both know that’s not what Tommy promised us.”
“Yeah, you’re right. Why don’t we just leave?” he said sarcastically.
“Please talk to Tommy and tell him how you feel. If he’s really your friend, he’ll do the right thing.”
“Oh Ing, you certainly are an ornery one.”
“Well, we can’t stay holed up in this apartment forever!”
“Come over here and give me a kiss right here,” he said, pointing to his cheek.
“Goddamn it, Jim, can’t you discuss this with me for just a minute?” I pleaded. “I don’t want to be so serious. But one of us has to be concerned about our future. You say you’ll talk to Tommy, but you never do. You know he won’t listen to me. He won’t even acknowledge me. Please, Jim, could you please just find out what’s going on?”
“Okay. I promise I’ll go in on Monday and get some answers.”
“We need to get a copy of the contract,” I reminded him.
“Come over here and give me a kiss.” He moved over, leaving room for me to join him on the couch. In spite of our quarrels about the business, I usually softened and accepted his overtures. It was hard for me to say no to him. I sat down next to him. “Lay down on your belly, Ing, and I’ll give you a back rub.” He lifted my sweater and began kissing the small of my back.
“Just a backrub,” I cautioned, though I knew he wouldn’t stop there. He had a way of persuading me to give in to his amorous appetite no matter how angry I was. And I loved making love to him, especially when he was tender.
We met with Tommy on Monday afternoon, but once again Jim skirted the business issues.
“Tommy, you should have come to Alfred with us,” he joked. “I don’t know what was more fun: watching the people vomit all over themselves or catching the goats reveling in fornication.”
I sat seething. “Jim, please ask him!” He ignored me and went on with the small talk before singing for Tommy the chorus to his favorite song about animal husbandry.
Cats on the rooftop,
Cats on the tiles,
