by Ingrid Croce
“Oh please, let’s stay for just a little while.” I let my robe drop to the floor.
“I can’t, Ing. I’m exhausted. Besides, I need to stop in New Jersey on the way home to see Phil Petillo. My guitar needs some work done before I have to get back on the road again.” He bit his lip nervously.
I didn’t want to ask why he was distancing himself from me. We showered, packed, and were soon off to visit Phil and Lucille Petillo.
Not only an expert guitar maker, Phil was also an inventor who had developed a line of guitar strings that Tommy and the Boys were promoting. The year before, Phil had made Jim a Petillo guitar and since then had repaired several others for him. He charged fairly for his work, but Jim knew the degree of devotion Phil extended couldn’t be bought. Like Jim, Phil wasn’t in it just for the money.
Lucille welcomed us warmly to the guitar studio and into their home.
“Please, stay for lunch,” she insisted.
“Have you spoken to Tommy lately?” Jim asked Phil. Both the Petillos went silent. Phil and Tommy had been friends in New Jersey, and Tommy had introduced Jim to Phil when they began negotiations for Petillo Strings two years before.
“We’re not exactly on speaking terms. We may end up in litigation over Petillo Strings. Haven’t you heard anything about it?” Petillo asked.
“I’ve been on the road. What happened? I thought you and Tommy were close.”
“So did we,” answered Lucille. “We always thought he was like a brother.”
Phil Petillo summarized the situation without going into too much detail.
“It was a bad mistake for us to get involved with those guys. I hope they’re treating you okay,” he said.
As we were leaving, Phil said, “You take care of yourself, Jimmy, and make sure you get some rest.”
“Yeah, right,” Jim said. And then he gave me a knowing glance.
_____
When we arrived back in Pennsylvania, we picked up Adrian James from my stepmom’s, and Jim called Flora.
“We have a little surprise we got for you in New York. Ing and I are gonna bring the baby over. We’ll be there for dinner.”
“God forbid,” Flora scolded. “You took the baby to New York City with you? Schifoso! What kind of filthy place is that to bring a baby?”
“Mom, we didn’t bring the baby to the city with us, but babies are born in New York every day. I got some cannoli for you from Ferrara’s. I know how the Flower loves them.”
When we arrived at Flora’s, I hugged my mother-in-law with one arm and carried Adrian James into the kitchen on the other. Jim took off his cowboy boots and left them inside the front door. He brought Adrian’s car seat into the kitchen and set the Ferrara’s box on the plastic tablecloth. As he entered the kitchen, he leaned over to kiss his mother, but she turned toward the counter to get our lunch. She served Jim’s favorite, a kohlrabi sandwich on Italian bread with olives and pepperoncini. She cleaned Adrian’s pacifier at least fifteen times in between feeding him.
“Adrian is getting so big, Mom. I think he looks just like Jim. Don’t you?” Flora kissed her grandson on the cheek.
“I love him so,” she said.
“Does he look like Jim did when he was a baby?”
“Jimmy was the smartest little boy. People couldn’t believe he was so smart. I don’t know what happened to him.”
I encouraged her to talk about good times, but Flora was upset with her son’s career. She feared Jim was away from all of us too much, and though she couldn’t express her anxiety to him, the tension between them had grown steadily. Their relationship had been strained since Jim’s father’s death, and the longer Jim was on the road, the worse it got.
“You’re a grown man traveling around like a gypsy. Look at you, the way you dress. God forbid!”
Jim was hurt, but he controlled his feelings. “We do fine, Mom.”
“What can I tell my friends when they ask me what you do?”
“You can tell them I work hard every day to make a living, and that my record is number one in the country. What more do I need to do to please you? Get a fucking job with a pension?”
“How dare you!”
Jim bit his lip and raced for his boots by the front door in the living room.
“Ing, get the baby. We’re leaving!” He went back into the kitchen to get the baby’s car seat.
“Why are you leaving like this? Are you crazy?” Flora yelled.
“I’ll show you what crazy is, you fucking son of a bitch!” he shouted, cursing his mother out loud for the first time in his life. “Don’t you ever talk to me like this again!”
“Is he crazy?” Flora looked at me with fear in her eyes. “What’s the matter with him?”
“I’m so sorry, Mom,” I said. “He’s not himself. He’s exhausted, but he’ll be alright. We better go now.” I headed quickly for the door.
“I should have spoken up to you a long time ago,” he yelled. “I won’t listen to you belittle me—never again. All I ever wanted was to make you happy. But I can’t please you. Nobody can!” He slammed the door.
_____
Jim’s schedule continued nonstop. He was still opening for Woody Allen and Randy Newman. You Don’t Mess Around with Jim was the number one record in the nation, and yet we could barely pay the bills. One night on the phone I asked:
“Has Tommy mentioned when we’ll get a check for your royalties?”
“The accountants in LA take care of that now. But at least they’re putting me up in nicer hotels,” he said.
“Great, but we’re still only getting $200 a week, and you’ve got a number one record. This doesn’t make sense, Jim, with all the records you’ve sold and all the concerts you’re doing.”
“They say the money I make has to pay off the expenses before I can get paid.”
I knew any further discussion was useless.
Jim and Maury left for Europe in February 1973 to promote You Don’t Mess Around with Jim. They were warmly welcomed in London, Paris, and Amsterdam, and the reviews were very encouraging for their foreign sales. When they returned in February, the second album, Life and Times, was about to be released, and Elliott booked them with Loggins and Messina.
“I feel like I’m in overdrive,” Maury complained after one show. He was stretched out on his hotel room bed. “When do we get a break?”
Jim looked up from the latest set of reviews that Joie, the secretary at BNB, had sent, which he’d brought to Maury’s room to share.
“I’m worn out too, but we’ve got to keep going,” he said. “It’s because we are out here that we’re getting press like this.” He held up the most recent copy of Cashbox and read aloud:
In a matter of months, Jim Croce has risen from the obscurity of a talented troubadour to the prominence of one of the brightest new performers on disc. Jim Croce is currently in the midst of his third single success, ‘One Less Set Of Footsteps’, bulleted at #37 this week from his second LP, ‘Life and Times.’ Jim has reinforced his recording prowess with extensive bookings around the United States, as evidenced by his tour now in progress with Loggins and Messina.
“Yeah,” Maury said with a sniffle, “and what do they say about the stalwart Maury Muehleisen, always at your side?”
“You can’t take reviews to the bank, Maury. But if you keep playing, I’ll make you rich.” They laughed.
“Yeah, just like you.”
“Listen to this.” Jim read more recent reviews, first one from Billboard:
“Jim Croce—Life and Times”—Story songs of a very personal nature are the hallmark of Croce’s works. His soaring voice carries him on his trips through life and we are privy to his experiences.
Then he read one from Dealer’s Magazine:
Croce is a hot poet—favorite of young people.
“And this is from the Daily Trojan,” he said, reading on:
Jim Croce is the fastest rising newcomer on the pop music scene today. His newest album,
‘Life and Times’, will sky rocket him to even higher heights. One Less Set of Footsteps, the first cut on the first side will probably be his next big hit.
_____
In March, Judy and I drove to the Philadelphia airport to pick up Jim and Maury, who had just completed another West Coast tour.
“I never know who to expect when Jim comes home,” I told Judy as we stood at the gate holding Adrian’s hands between us. “Every time he comes off the road, I don’t know whether he’s going to freak out or be himself.”
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“He’s wound so tight it really frightens me.” I picked up Adrian and took a deep breath, trying to feel positive in my anticipation. “I’m pregnant, Judy. And I just hope Jim is happy about it.”
Jim got off the plane, still high from his well-received performances in California. He gave Adrian and me a quick hug, and then we rushed to the parking lot, trying to avoid the fans and stares on our way. During the hour-long drive home, Jim played the radio loudly and barely said a word, switching stations constantly.
“I can’t wait ’till you hear this song I wrote on the road,” he told me when we pulled into the driveway. He walked in the front door and headed straight to the tape deck. “Listen to this. It’s about these groupies dedicated to making plaster molds of as many rock stars’ dicks as they can. They’re serious! They came to my dressing room a couple of nights ago, wanting to add me to their collection. I couldn’t resist writing about them!” The tape began to play “Five Short Minutes of Love.”
Well she was standin’ by the dressing room after the show,
Askin’ for my autograph and asked if she could go back to my hotel room.
But the rest is just a tragic tale:
Because five short minutes of lovin’
Done cost me twenty long years in jail.
Well, like a fool in a hurry, I took her to my room,
She casted me in plaster while I sang her a tune,
Then I said, oooh-oo-ee, sure is a tragic tale,
Because five short minutes of lovin’
Done brought me twenty long years in jail.
Well, then a judge and a jury sat me in a room,
They say that robbin’ the cradle is worse than robbin the tomb.
Oooh-oo-ee, sure was a tragic tale, (wasn’t worth it)
Because five short minutes of lovin’
Will cost me twenty long years in jail.
When I get out of this prison gonna be forty-five,
I’ll know I used to like to do it, but I won’t remember why.
And I’ll say, Oooh-oo-ee, sure was a tragic tale
Because five short minutes of lovin’
Done cost me twenty long years in jail.
“And did you let them?” I asked when the song was done.
“Yeah, it was really something!”
“Yeah, I bet it was.”
“It’s all so crazy!” He shrugged. “But it’s their thing, and if they dig it, they should do it.”
“‘That sounds just like you.”
“What the hell are you so pissed off at? It’s only a song!”
“It’s not only a song. How stupid do you think I am?” Tears filled my eyes. “This crap has gone on for so long, you don’t even know how blatant you are! Jim, I’m going to have another baby,” I cried as I stormed out of the living room and ran upstairs to the bedroom with Adrian in my arms.
“Well, have it your goddamn self!” he yelled after me, then headed for the kitchen and grabbed his guitar.
An hour later, I walked into the kitchen to get Adrian James his lunch.
“Oh, I forgot to tell you,” Jim said, as if nothing had happened. “A film crew is coming by this afternoon to shoot some footage for a promotional film. They want me to do more college concerts. I invited them to stay for dinner.” Still seething, I didn’t let the news get a rise out of me.
“So how many am I supposed to serve?”
“Fifteen or so,” he replied flatly.
Holding back my tears, I started cutting tomatoes and vegetables to make a big batch of spaghetti sauce. I felt choked by the pressure we were under. He had promised that this time when he came home, we’d have time alone. But now, after another fight, and with a camera crew on its way, my hopes of our communicating seemed futile.
An hour later, Acorn Productions pulled their vehicles up the long driveway, and Jim went out to greet them. While the crew set up on the front porch of the house, Rick Trow, the head of the production company, walked around the property. Though we rented the large farmhouse for only $125 a month, it was surrounded by eighty acres of rolling hills. An Amish man named Amos leased the farmland and grazed his cattle there. And a pond filled with ducks was right out in front of the house.
“The ducks frighten Adrian,” Jim said to Rick, “but he loves the cows. His first words after ‘Mama’ and ‘Dada’ were ‘cow,’ ‘moo-cow.’”
“Kids are great, aren’t they?” Rick said.
“Yeah, I nicknamed him Adrian Amos James after ol’ Amos over there on the tractor. When we have our next son, I’ll name him Andy.”
Rick told me they were staying at an inn in Coatesville, and I was thankful they didn’t all expect to sleep at the house. He explained that first he wanted to take some footage of the three of us doing what we did as a family. And that he’d be back the next day to work with Jim alone.
While I was cooking in the kitchen, Jim called to me to come out with Adrian so I could sing with him. The last thing I wanted to do was to be in an idealized PR piece on Jim Croce. I was disheveled. I had nothing to wear but jeans and a new T-shirt Jim had brought me with his face on it. I was totally unprepared to perform; I was livid, and I walked out grumpily and sang my part.
Rick and his crew were very nice. They seemed to really enjoy our music. After dinner, when they were getting ready to leave, I invited them all back for breakfast.
After putting Adrian to bed, I went into the living room where Jim was practicing.
“Jim,” I said calmly, “I don’t want to argue anymore. I know your coming home is painful for you, and it is for me too. If there’s something I’m doing wrong, tell me.” My lips trembled. “I don’t mind taking the blame. But I need help now, because I can’t go through this anymore.” I sat down on the sofa, and tears fell from my eyes. Jim put down his guitar and held me. “It must be my fault, because no matter what I do, I make you angry.”
“No, it’s not your fault. I’m fucked up,” Jim said. “I’m the one who needs help.”
“Jim, maybe we both need help. Or maybe we should just end this, once and for all.”
“No, Ing, please, I promise it’ll get better. I’ll get help, anything you want.”
I wanted to believe him. But I didn’t want to keep arguing every time we were together.
“I don’t know what to say. I feel my life is falling apart, Ing. We’re still driving a fucking broke-down car, and we barely have anything to wear!”
When we went to bed, he assured me he’d go for counseling. “And I promise I’ll spend more time at home,” he whispered. “I’ll be different, you’ll see. But, please, please don’t leave.”
_____
In the beginning of March 1973, Jim performed as the opening act for the comedian George Carlin. Three days later, Barb Eraud, a reviewer for the University of Pittsburgh newspaper, wrote:
Croce moved me more than any other artist I’ve ever seen—from Stones to Kinks to Yes to Poco to James Taylor to Carole King to anybody—nobody can put across a song the way he can. . . .
Although Jim insists he isn’t a comedian, his monologues were much more interesting, relevant and humorous than Carlin’s. There was an intimacy established between him and his lead guitarist, Maury Muehleisen and the audience, until it was as if we were all sitting around a fireplace exchanging stories and fun.
In late March, Jim opened for Loggins and Messina at Carnegie Hall to two sellout shows
and rave reviews.
The following day, he was thankful for this review in the New Musical Express:
Physically, he resembles a construction worker version of Hurricane Smith—long, lean, and denim clad with moustache and a curly mop of ink black hair. He introduces each song with anecdotes, biographical insights and an impeccable sense of timing. He is relaxed and urbane, and an absolutely marvelous put-down artist. He is a better stand-up or stool-perched comedian than many so called comics now working the circuit. His set really made the evening for me.
There was more praise from a variety of publications, and Jim was particularly excited that he made it into Guitar Player magazine, and that they mentioned Maury and Phil Petillo:
To set the record straight, Croce is hardly the bullish Cretan we’re led to believe. To the contrary. His hands are not broad, like a baseball catcher’s, he probably doesn’t weigh 130 pounds, and he’s not even six feet tall. . . . Jim’s musical roots go back to his father’s traditional jazz with Turk Murphy, Fats Waller, Bessie Smith, Eddie Lang and Joe Venuti. . . . Jim’s favorite guitarists are Christopher Parkening, Merle Travis, and Jerry Reed. . . . When they play concerts as a duo, Jim generally stays with rhythm fingers, leaving the lead and fills to Maury, though they’ll sometimes swap duties and mix them up. Croce uses a Martin D-35 but with a narrower neck that his friend and guitar maker, Phil Petillo, repaired for him. Petillo shaved down the Martin’s struts to make the guitar resonate a little more. Jim prefers very low action. The strings are Petillo’s own brand.
Life and Times shot to the top of the charts. At a concert after the album’s release, Jim told his audience how he came up with “Bad, Bad Leroy Brown”:
“This song compresses the personalities of a number of people I’ve had the privilege to meet, including my sergeant at Fort Jackson and a fellow private I got to know down at Fort Dix. Leroy and I were stationed there and we were sittin’ around talkin’ one night. And he said he didn’t like it anymore and that he was just gonna get up and go home. And he did. He went AWOL. He had the whole army out lookin’ for him, but they couldn’t find him.
