by Ingrid Croce
“That’s really nice,” Jim said, and took the magazine out of Maury’s hands so he could look at the charts. Jim pointed to a list of the top LPs in the nation. Maury looked over his shoulder. “You Don’t Mess Around With Jim” had elbowed out “Saturday in the Park” by Chicago, “Long Cool Woman in a Black Dress” by the Hollies, and “Lean on Me” by Bill Withers.
“Jesus!” Maury responded. “Look at the singles. ‘Time in a Bottle’ is on the charts too, with a bullet!”
Jim took every interview that was offered, thanking every DJ with a handwritten, personal note for playing his songs. He was raised to show his appreciation for the smallest of good deeds done on his behalf and didn’t let a single opportunity pass without thanking the people who had helped him. He wasn’t just being polite: he was genuinely grateful and never wanted to let any one down.
In July, Jim and Maury went to California and performed in San Diego at the Funky Quarters to an enthusiastic audience. Afterward, they decided to celebrate. A tall, blonde cocktail waitress with big blue eyes caught Jim’s attention.
“What will it be, guys?” she asked.
“Well,” Jim smiled, “how about a Coors . . . for starters?”
“Hey, you’re Jim Croce,” she gushed. “I love your music. My favorite song is ‘You Don’t Mess Around with Jim.’”
“Can I see you after the show?”
“Yeah, well. I guess I’m free after work. My name is Gracie. I’ll give you a tour of San Diego when you’re done.” Maury eyed Jim accusingly.
“Don’t say anything, man,” Jim whispered. “After all, I am separated. She’s back there, and I’m here.” Maury sipped his beer and didn’t say a word when Jim later slipped away.
In Los Angeles, they opened for Randy Newman at the Santa Monica Civic Center. The crowd was the biggest yet. There were loud cheers of familiarity for the songs on the charts.
“Californians love us!” Jim said after their second show.
“Yeah,” Maury replied with sly disapproval, “we saw that in San Diego. And, by the way, Patty Dahlstrom is waiting for you backstage with Elliott.”
The next morning a reporter from the Los Angeles Times called, wanting to write a feature on Jim. Jim readily agreed, and when the reporter arrived, he asked Jim to reflect on his music.
“Your subject matter seems to be the blue-collar worker,” the reporter said.
“Yeah, I tell stories of men who have experienced life in a physical way, because they often have a knack for creating pattern images about what they did, and the images come back to me in flashes. Many of my songs reflect the mood of a moment. It’s an emotional thing. The lyrics are intellectual creations, but the music and the songs are very much in the emotions.”
The interviewer asked about his background, and the new star began to tell stories about his life.
“After college, I got a whole different kind of wisdom,” Jim said. “I began listening to people, people who probably never read a book and don’t give a damn about the symbolism in F. Scott Fitzgerald. I write songs about the hundreds of conversations I’ve listened to. Like the time I stayed up all night on a Pennsylvania passenger train and heard a black Pullman porter talk about his thirty-five years on the trains.”
“What else?”
“Well, once I got a job painting the hospital ward in Upper Darby, with a man named George Blair. He told me he had anthrax from an ill-spent youth. George wasn’t an educated man, but he had street wisdom. He told me stories about how he’d gone over to fight the French. He said, ‘They forgot more than we ever knew.’ And at work, while we’d brush thick, white paint on the emergency room walls, George would recite the poem about ‘Dangerous Dan McGrew’”:
A bunch of the boys were whooping it up
in the Malamute saloon;
The kid that handles the music-box
was hitting a jag-time tune;
Back of the bar, in a solo game,
sat Dangerous Dan McGrew,
And watching his luck was his light-o’-love,
the lady that’s known as Lou.
The following week, the LA Times article was published and entitled “Jim Croce—A Laborer in Lotus Land”:
Jim Croce is perhaps the only popular singer who has a license to drive a caterpillar tractor. He flew to Los Angeles a few weeks ago but he was here as a foreigner, an alien in an unnatural environment. He quickly returned to his home in Lyndell, Pa, a crossroads stop, which features a gas station with a red metal ten-cent coke machine and about five other weather-beaten homes. ‘It has a random plank floor put down with pegs and hand forged nails,’ Croce said. ‘And you can see that the beams overhead have been cut with an adz.’ He lives a simple life with his wife, Ingrid, and their new son, Adrian, in a rough hewn home dating back before the American Revolution.
Back in New York another reporter interviewed Jim.
“You’re the new poet laureate of rock ’n’ roll,” he declared.
Jim modestly refused the honor. “No,” he said, “the great poets like Robert Frost and Dylan Thomas had melody in the words themselves. My lyrics don’t contain that melody. It’s the music,” he insisted, “the guitar and piano that provide the rhythm and flow. The work of those poets is far superior to mine.”
After the interview, he called me.
“The music’s going pretty good, Ing. A lot of people seem to like it, but everything is starting to look the same—the hotel rooms, the rented cars, the fans. The boredom is the worst! I really miss you. And I can’t wait to see how my little old man is growing.”
I tried to imagine what it must have been like for Jim without the intimacy we used to share. As hard as it was for us on the road, we had each other. I wondered if he was succumbing to the pressure of his female fans, who I suspected were throwing themselves at him after the shows. But I tried not to dwell on it.
Jim would joke about his misfortunes with others, but with me he could say what he really felt about his work and the road. I listened to his complaints and sympathized with him.
“Your fans would never believe you were bored,” I laughed. “But I do.” I paused. “I know a way to take it away,” I whispered seductively. “Let me come up and make love to you.”
“That would be great. But I’ll be home soon.”
Sometimes during those days of endless touring, Jim would tell me he wished I could be on the road with him and we could sing together again. But we both knew it was different now. He was expected to live up to the image he had created. And on the road, it was definitely a man’s world.
“This is tough for us both, but I’ve got to work, and it’s better for you and Adrian James to be safe at home,” he added with sudden tenderness, avoiding my solution to his boredom. “Tell me what Adrian’s up to today?” he asked.
“Well, he’s a serious little guy. And he’s learning new things every day,” I bragged. “He’s saying more words and points at the cows and goes, ‘Moo, cow.’ He can’t say ‘duck’ yet, but his new thing is to run out on the porch and get the ducks to chase him. Then he screams at the top of his lungs and comes running back inside before they can catch him. They can be vicious . . . and they go for his hands.” I paused. Jim seemed so far away. “Sweetie, it’s our anniversary next week. I know you’re busy and you probably forgot, but it’s been six years. Do you think you could make it home, just for a day or so, or maybe I can come out and we can celebrate wherever you are?”
He had forgotten. “We’ll see. Let me talk to Adrian!” he interrupted. “We’ll talk about it later. I don’t want him to forget me.”
_____
On August 26, on his way home for our anniversary, Jim stopped by the rock quarries near Lyndell, and the truck drivers and construction workers crowded around him.
“Way to go, Croce!” they said, slapping him on the back. “Congratulations, man. The chicks must be eatin’ you up!” Jim talked with them for more than an hour and played a few new songs.
“You haven’t changed a bit, Croce,” Emil Sanfranni told him.
“Shit, Emil,” Jim replied. “I’ve done too many things in my life to let a little fame change me. Some people get to the top too fast. They forget they have a goddamn belly button.”
Though Jim was hounded by fans and media, he was always happy and willing to take the time to talk with folks. Jim didn’t believe fame had affected him, but I knew it had. On the road he was treated like a celebrity. No one said no. He always got what he wanted, when he wanted it. And there wasn’t anyone out there who would interfere in his relationship with prescription drugs. He took them to sleep, to wake up, and just for the hell of it. Those around him also began to recognize his drastic and unpredictable mood swings but did nothing about it.
One afternoon when Jim was home, he was playing with Adrian and singing to him. It was naptime, and Adrian began to cry. Out of the blue Jim yelled:
“Make this kid stop crying, and do it now!” His voice had a sudden brutality that shocked me. I came running into the living room and could see that Adrian looked frightened, and I assumed it was Jim’s raised voice that had scared him. Jim yelled at me again, “Goddamn it, Ingrid! Shut this fucking kid up, or I’m leaving right now! I can’t even come home and relax for a minute without a fucking baby screaming his head off. Shut him up! Do you hear me?” He scolded, raising his hand as if threatening to slap me.
I scooped Adrian up off the floor and took him to his room. A half-hour later, Jim came and stood in the doorway. It was as if the violent incident had never occurred.
“Would you guys like to come with me to visit Ronnie Miller? I’d really enjoy the company.” Once we were in the car, he apologized. “I’m sorry, Ing. I’m so sorry. I know I get crazy sometimes. I’m just exhausted and uptight from being on the road so much.”
What he couldn’t admit was that he was also weighed down by the “vitamins” that his druggist friend had given him and by the guilt of his double life. He was becoming addicted to the lifestyle, and being at home on the farm was a reminder of how much he had really changed.
As we approached Ronnie’s house, Jim suddenly pulled over to the curb in front of a tattoo parlor.
“Come with me, baby,” he said, and he jumped out of the car. I followed behind him, with Adrian in my arms. We walked into the tattoo parlor, where dozens of designs were displayed on the wall. “I want you to pick one out for me.”
“You’ve got to be kidding. You know I hate tattoos!”
“Come on,” he insisted. “I want you to watch while I get one.” He stared at me with his big, brown, sad eyes.
“Please, Jim, don’t do this.”
Just then, the owner of the shop came out from the back room. Tattoos covered his face, arms, and hands. I smiled weakly. Jim laughed, knowing I wouldn’t protest further. Reluctantly, I picked the smallest and least offensive design I could find, a rose tattoo. He asked me to sit with him and watch as the tattoo was etched into his chest. The needle pierced his skin, raising large drops of blood, and he winced in pain as the artist drew the petals over his breastbone. When it was done, we returned to the car.
“That’s my penance, Ing,” he joked. “I’m sorry I’ve been so mean. I’ll try to be better, I promise.”
_____
In early fall, Jim waited in a bar in Mason City, Iowa, to meet Jonathan Moore. The talkative, stand-up comedian from Bristol, England, had been booked to join him on the tour. He was a slight, fair-skinned man, and he came in holding several suitcases, including one that seemed to have odd-looking horns sticking out the top.
“What are those?” Jim asked after they introduced themselves.
“Me bagpipes,” Jonathan replied. Jim pulled a penny whistle out of his pocket.
“Take them out,” he said. “Let’s play the folks a tune.” Jonathan warmed up with a series of screeches that almost got them thrown out of the bar, but then people gathered around in fascination. The two entertained customers for a half-hour with Scottish marching tunes.
“Where,” Jonathan asked, obviously impressed, “did you learn all those English and Scottish folk songs?”
“Ah,” Jim said with a grin, “I’ll tell you later. Let me buy you a drink first.” Jim ordered them both a shot and a beer. “I started drinking boilermakers when I drove trucks,” he told Jonathan. “The little one builds the fire, and the big one puts it out,” he continued, as he toasted his new companion. Jonathan was a nonstop conversationalist and proved to be just what Jim needed.
“Where’s your mate?” Jonathan asked Jim. “I’ve seen you guys onstage, and he’s one hell of a guitar player.”
“He’s gone back to the room to lay down. Getting some rest is his main occupation,” Jim told him.
“You mean he’s like a human red?”
Jim laughed. Jonathan talked his language.
“Hey, while we’re on the subject, I’ve got this pharmacist friend. Let me know if you need anything. As I always say, what’s good for the sick is better for the well!”
“Couldn’t agree more.” Jonathan smiled and sipped his cognac, a gift from an appreciative fan.
Jonathan prided himself in performing practical jokes, which helped ease much of the boredom and tension of the tour. Outside a concert hall in Minnesota about an hour before their performance, he showed Jim how to make hot air balloons from plastic laundry bags provided in the hotel rooms.
“Always take these with you,” he said as he twisted the ends of the bags around two twigs, taped candles to them, and lit the wicks. Smoke and hot air filled the bags and quickly lifted them hundreds of feet high, so they began to look like flying saucers. “You can’t imagine how many UFO sightings I’ve been responsible for. Tomorrow we’ll check the morning paper,” Jonathan said gleefully. He let another glowing bag soar into the dark midwestern sky.
On September 20, 1972, Jim made his first television appearance on the Dick Cavett Show.
“I don’t like working,” Jim told Cavett. “I used to have a job selling air time and driving around town for this radio station. I went through ten cars that year. None of them worked. I had to abandon one of them at a traffic light. I’ll tell you I didn’t make any friends that day.”
“How do you like New York?” Cavett asked, not very familiar with Jim’s songs.
“Ya know, I have a song I wrote about New York on my new album. I don’t know if I can say this on TV, but have you been on the subways lately?”
Cavett laughed, “No, not lately.”
“Well, they’re rolling restrooms. There are mutants in the subways now. I saw one subway dweller yesterday who had a face like an old pizza. He said, ‘Give me your money or I’ll kill you!’”
“What did you do?”
“I didn’t know whether to take out my black jack or my jar of Vaseline. Ya know the people in New York—they’ve lost their pacifist attitudes.”
A week later, on September 28, Jim surprised me and Adrian James by coming home for Adrian’s first birthday. Jim was saddened that Adrian didn’t run to him when he first saw him. When Jim had called from the road, Adrian would point to his daddy’s poster on the wall by the phone, but he was confused that the person in the room and the picture were one and the same.
Arrangements had been made for Jim to do another photo shoot with Paul Wilson. Adrian and I went with him to Paul’s Philadelphia studio. Jim was more comfortable now posing for the camera, and he was even relaxed enough to take his shirt off and expose his rose tattoo.
Paul was pleased with Jim’s expressive postures and captured him expertly. The pictures were used for his new album, his two songbooks, and the majority of his promotions. Paul also took a couple of rolls of film of Adrian James, some wearing his daddy’s big straw hat and a tiny Jim Croce T-shirt. One of these photos of Adrian James covered the inner sleeve of Jim’s album Life and Times.
_____
Back on the road, Jim told a reporter from the Montreal Gazette, “I was rais
ed on Fats Waller. Most of the stuff I do is good-time music. Like, when I sing my experience songs. I like ’em because they don’t make people feel introverted. I like to make an audience feel close and together.” He knew he was building a following.
In late September, he was finally interviewed by Rolling Stone.
“Let’s see what the godfather of rock rags has to say about us,” he told Maury, after picking up the issue from a newsstand.
The magazine reporter had bypassed Jim’s recent accomplishments and dwelled on his background.
“What happened to the first album you made with your wife in ’68?” he asked. Jim felt it no longer seemed like such a tragedy.
“They ground it up and made Grand Funk records out of it,” he replied with a big smile. “But it sold six copies in a PX in Thailand.”
“After graduating from Villanova, why did you do construction work?”
“I get a kick out of physical work. It’s important to me. And the guys I met out at Sweeney’s Construction Company, during my ‘character development period,’ they’re my heroes. When I have free time I just go outside and help somebody put a boiler in.” He sat forward in his chair. “The best time I ever had in construction was when I painted an elevator shaft with a big burly friend of mine, Bill Reid. I got the job because I’m not afraid of falling . . . so I usually did: two stories into concrete, that was one of my more spectacular falls.”
_____
By the winter of 1972, Jim had crisscrossed the country nearly a dozen times. It was a grueling schedule, but when he came home, his newfound success inspired him to write new songs around the kitchen table. “Bad, Bad Leroy Brown,” “Careful Man,” “Roller Derby Queen,” and “Speedball Tucker” were all completed by Thanksgiving. And he was ready to do his second album before the new year began.
For one memorable set of shows before his return, Jim had been booked to open for Woody Allen. Woody had started out in a string of miserable little clubs but was now one of the major comedy stars in the country. He had already written and starred in Everything You Wanted to Know about Sex, Bananas, and Take the Money and Run.
