I Got a Name: The Jim Croce Story Read online

  I GOT A NAME

  THE JIM CROCE STORY

  I GOT A NAME

  THE JIM CROCE STORY

  INGRID CROCE & JIMMY ROCK

  DA CAPO PRESS

  A Member of the Perseus Books Group

  Copyright © 2012 by Ingrid Croce and Jimmy Rock

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher. For information, address Da Capo Press, 44 Farnsworth Street, 3rd Floor, Boston, MA 02210.

  Set in 10 point Antique Olive Light by the Perseus Books Group

  A list of permissions appears at the end of this book.

  Cataloging-in-Publication data for this book is available from the Library of Congress.

  First Da Capo Press edition 2012

  ISBN 978-0-306-82123-3 (e-book)

  Published by Da Capo Press

  A Member of the Perseus Books Group

  www.dacapopress.com

  www.jimcroce.com

  Da Capo Press books are available at special discounts for bulk purchases in the U.S. by corporations, institutions, and other organizations. For more information, please contact the Special Markets Department at the Perseus Books Group, 2300 Chestnut Street, Suite 200, Philadelphia, PA 19103, or call (800) 810-4145, ext. 5000, or e-mail [email protected].

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  To Rich Croce

  and to Jim Croce’s fans

  But in looking back at the faces I’ve been,

  I would sure be the first one to say when I look at myself today,

  I wouldn’t have done it any other way.

  —JIM CROCE

  CONTENTS

  Foreword

  Preface

  Speedball Tucker

  Which Way Are You Goin’

  Balls to Your Partner

  Alabama Rain

  Facets

  Operator

  What Do People Do?

  New York’s Not My Home

  Time in a Bottle

  Tomorrow’s Gonna Be a Brighter Day

  You Don’t Mess Around with Jim

  I’ll Have to Say I Love You in a Song

  Lover’s Cross

  I Got a Name

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Photo Credits

  Song Credits

  FOREWORD

  AS MUCH AS THIS STORY is said to be about Jim Croce, the story I read in-between the lines is, in many ways, my story too. I remember a night in 1969 at a club called The Main Point just outside of Philadelphia. Jim and Ingrid were opening a show for me. I recall talking with them downstairs under the stage, in the dressing rooms with my girlfriend at the time, Jackie Hyde. Jackie was nervous about something.

  While Jim and Ingrid were singing onstage Jackie finally said, “I’m pregnant.” I looked at Jackie and said, “Great! We’ll have to move to the country and give him an Indian name.” Since that night I have had to look at my life through her eyes and her heart, as well as my own. Surely neither Jim or I knew at that time that our lives would be opened to others through the voices of the women we loved. Some of it is pretty good, some of it, as you can imagine, not so pretty. And although Jim is long gone, and I’m still here, the telling of those tales continues without us, whether or not we are walking around.

  There is no one I’d trust more to tell my story than my long-time love, wife, and partner. Ingrid has not—and never will—give death an ounce of sympathy or retreat one little bit from the full acknowledgment of what love truly is: a part of herself in the form of Jim Croce. The details of this book are about Jim and Ingrid, but the story is about anyone who has had the good fortune and unbelievable luck to find someone who will tell it with love.

  So I say to my old friend, Jim, “Buddy, you got more than a name. You’ve got yourself one hell of a gal.”

  —Arlo Guthrie

  PREFACE

  FROM THE OUTSIDE, it’s impossible to fathom what two people who love each other feel: why the attraction starts and how a relationship grows. But I can tell you that in the case of Jim Croce and me, it felt right. The music, chemistry, and youthfulness that brought us together formed an intense and unbreakable bond. And though Jim has been gone from this Earth for almost forty years, there isn’t a day in my life that goes by without him.

  When Jim and I fell crazy in love, we were just kids. He wasn’t famous then, but he was a star to me. He made me happier than I’d ever been. And because he showed me in so many wonderful ways that I made him feel that way too, I knew we’d be together forever.

  When we met in the early ’60s, I was a teenager, and Jim was a sophomore at Villanova University. Music brought us together, and it was the music business that not only tested our relationship but plagued it, constantly challenging our survival.

  We were both intense individuals. When it was good, it was magnificent, passionate, and soulful. But when we hurt each other, when our friendship and trust were challenged, it was horrific, painful, and empty.

  Although Jim Croce was a private man, people feel they know him through his songs. His voice, stories, humor, and sincerity touch them in a way that makes them believe Jim understood what they felt, that his experiences were theirs too. And yet the stories I tell here, about the life behind the songs, reveal something closer to who Jim really was and how he came to create such timeless music.

  For many years, I felt compelled to write about my life with Jim, but I was reluctant. Now I feel the time is finally right.

  SPEEDBALL TUCKER

  September 20, 1973

  HEY, MAURY,” JIM CALLED over his left shoulder to his best friend and lead guitarist. “Watch this—Bob’s gonna let me land the plane.”

  “Do you think you’re ready?”

  “Is the pope Catholic?”

  Robert Elliott, the pilot, instructed Jim to increase the flaps 10 degrees and watch his air speed. From the copilot’s seat of the privately chartered plane, Jim looked down on the old plantation city of Natchitoches, Louisiana, perched on the grassy banks of the shallow Cane River. The chestnut, pecan, and chinquapin trees that crowded the city made it humid, nearly tropical. It was late September, but shimmering heat waves rose from the runway. With the pilot’s help, Jim angled down over a sparse stand of pecan trees and set the twin-engine Beechcraft onto the tarmac.

  The flying lessons were helping make the routine of traveling bearable. But Jim was beyond exhausted, and as he looked out through the plane’s window at the tiny airport, he wondered how much longer he could keep this going.

  The concert at Northwestern University in Natchitoches would be his fourth in four days, tenth in two weeks, over three hundredth in the past year. And although each night he managed to call me, the brutal road schedule and forced separation had been painful for us.

  Thank God he’d finally put his foot down and demanded this concert tour be his last for a while. He’d told me before he left, “Ing, if I don’t stop this craziness myself, something else will.”

  Although he was only five foot ten, his rugged looks and the unruly characters he wrote and sang about made Jim seem much larger to his fans. But now he appeared pale and drawn as he stepped off the wing of the plane. The stifling, sultry air weighed him down and added to his depression. The constant touring leached every drop of energy from his body and soul. He just hoped he had the guts to stick to his word and demand enough time off to get his life back together.

  Jim’s traveling companions climbed out after him, stretching and yawnin
g. The last to deplane was Maury. At twenty-four years old, Maury Muehleisen looked pasty, thin, and delicate under his long, light brown hair. He had toured with Jim for the past two years, and the wear of the road had taken its toll on him, too. Since Jim had no band, his concerts typically featured just Maury and him onstage with their acoustic guitars.

  As Maury ducked through the door of the plane, he immediately began to sneeze. The wind was whipping up ribbons of pollen from a nearby field of golden-rod, and he doubled over in a sneezing fit. Jim scarcely heard Maury’s loud honks. His companion’s constant allergic reactions had become background noise.

  Jim’s attention focused on a black Pontiac convertible that had wheeled around the corner of the hangar. The GTO squealed to a stop just a few feet from him, and a robust bear of a man struggled to step out. He had a broad, friendly face. Grinning, he extended a huge paw.

  “Welcome to Louisiana, Mr. Croce,” the big man drawled, pumping Jim’s hand vigorously. “I’m Doug Nichols, vice chairman of the Big Name Entertainment Committee at NU. It’s my job to make you happy.”

  Jim returned his grin and glanced at Doug’s convertible. He was dreading the cramped drive to town with all six passengers in the tiny rented sedan they’d hired: Maury; Jim; Jim’s agent, Ken Cortese; road manager Dennis Rast, a disc jockey whose on-air name was Morgan Tell; opening-act comedian George Stevens; and the pilot, Bob Elliott.

  “Can you give us a lift?”

  “Sure, you bet. That’s what I’m here for.”

  Jim gestured to Maury, who was leaning against the plane, trying to recover. “Let’s take a ride,” he told him.

  Maury’s red bandanna, dangling between thumb and forefinger, waved damply in the breeze. He nodded, picked up his guitar case, and walked to the Pontiac, his route interrupted midway by another bout of sneezing. While Jim and Maury got in the convertible, the rest of the troupe unloaded backpacks and guitars from the plane and squeezed into the rental car.

  At Jim’s urging, Doug soon had the Pontiac flying along the back roads. A canopy of trees stretched overhead, and the wind felt fresh and cool as it hit Jim’s mustachioed face. He felt his spirits rise as they drove. This, he thought, was the type of freedom he missed.

  He looked at Doug and laughed. Although the man appeared strong enough to wrestle a grizzly bear and outweighed Jim by more than 150 pounds, he was obviously nervous.

  The effect his celebrity status had on some people amused and embarrassed Jim. Drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, Doug tried to start a conversation.

  “How’s the tour going?”

  Jim didn’t answer right away. He was starting to feel relaxed and didn’t want to think about it. Besides, he thought, if he was honest, he’d probably just disappoint Doug.

  The truth was that even though his hit songs, “You Don’t Mess Around with Jim,” and “Bad, Bad Leroy Brown,” had recently topped the charts around the country, Jim was broke, fatigued, and homesick.

  “It’s okay,” he finally answered, without conviction.

  Doug gave him a quizzical look and then had to brake quickly as a logging truck pulled in front of them from a side road. A huge load of freshly cut tree trunks was lashed to the top of the truck. “Jeez, look at that boy,” Doug drawled. “He must be three times full.”

  Jim raised his thick eyebrows at the turn of phrase, pulled out a tattered notebook from his shirt pocket, and made a note.

  “Do you mind if I borrow that?”

  Doug grinned. “Don’t mind at all. You think you could put that in a song like ‘Speedball Tucker’? That’s my favorite.” He broke into the refrain but was off-key, and stopped.

  Jim laughed.

  “Maury, did you hear that?” he yelled over his shoulder. “I don’t need you anymore. I got me a new partner.”

  Maury grimaced. “What, Jim? I can’t hear a damn thing you’re saying back here!”

  “I said, ‘You’re fired’!” Jim hollered through cupped hands.

  “Oh,” said Maury, “is that all?” He lay back down to get out of the wind.

  When the oncoming lane was clear, a well-muscled arm emerged from the cab of the lumber truck and waved the convertible around. Doug punched the accelerator. The pavement gave way to the antebellum bricks of Front Street in Natchitoches, and they hummed under the wheels. The convertible pulled level with the cab of the truck, and Jim waved in thanks.

  The driver grabbed the lanyard and responded with a blast of his air horn. Doug jumped. Jim grinned and shouted, “Hey, Maury, excuse yourself.”

  Doug laughed and relaxed, surprised by Jim’s unpretentiousness. He had developed a low opinion of the entertainers he had escorted to the university concerts for the past two years. “Snooty prima donnas” was how he described most of them. Once he had driven eighty miles to Shreveport to pick up Sly Stone, who emerged from the airplane wearing a brilliantly sequined suit, which he wore around town all day before the concert. Doug had not been impressed.

  “You sure are down-to-earth,” he said to Jim. “I was wondering if maybe your work shirt and worn-out blue jeans was just an act. But that’s how you dress all the time, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah,” Jim said, amused. What Doug didn’t know was that the clothes he was wearing represented the best of what was left of his wardrobe.

  Doug was glad that Jim had been selected to play at Northwestern University. The Big Name Entertainment Committee had favored a more glitzy, high-powered entertainer like Tom Jones, but Will Mitchell, chairman of the committee, pulled seniority and insisted on booking Jim, certain he would be a star.

  Jim had originally been scheduled to appear in the spring, but severe throat problems forced him off the concert tour and delayed the NU gig until September. In the interim, Jim’s first album, You Don’t Mess Around with Jim, shot to the top of the charts, and now his second album, Life and Times, was charting too, with “Operator” and “Bad, Bad Leroy Brown.” Jim’s concert price had risen to $10,000 a night. Doug had let everyone on the concert committee know what a great deal they were getting, as Jim had been secured at the earlier price of $750.

  Since Jim seemed to be enjoying himself on the ride through the countryside, Doug felt at ease enough to ask him a few questions.

  “How many concerts do you do a year?”

  “About three hundred,” Jim answered disinterestedly. It wasn’t his favorite subject.

  “Wow!” Doug said. He did some quick arithmetic in his head. Three hundred concerts a year times $10,000 per concert, plus royalties. “You’re on your way to being a millionaire. Good for you!”

  Jim wished Doug was right. In spite of his success, he was living on expense money on the road while management sent his family $200 a week.

  As they reached the center of town, Doug asked, “Do you wanna check out the motel now?”

  “Not yet.” Jim was enjoying the sun and the company. “I don’t need to be anyplace until sound check this afternoon. So if you don’t mind, can we just drive around for a while? Oh, and would you mind stopping by a post office? I need to send a letter to my wife.”

  By 7 PM the sun had slipped far down toward the horizon, but the heat had barely diminished. Jim and Maury felt relieved to be inside in the university’s air-conditioned Prather Coliseum. They warmed up for the concert in the basketball locker room, which doubled as their dressing room, the faint odors of the last basketball season still lingering in the air. They both sat on metal folding chairs, tuning their guitars.

  Maury, a perfectionist, toiled and kept an ear cocked. A lit Marlboro was stuck under a string at the end of his guitar. Jim was restless. He finished tuning quickly and walked over to inspect the sandwiches donated by the Southern Hospitality Committee. The committee consisted of two dozen or so anxious, lush-lashed sorority sisters who catered the entire NU concert series. It was their opportunity to meet and flirt with the stars.

  Jim picked up one of the triangular-shaped sandwiches and laughed. “Hey, Maury,
” he called out. “Take a look at this!” He held up the white-bread sandwich with the crust removed and wiggled it in Maury’s direction. A toothpick attempted to secure a sliced, stuffed olive to the top. The olive dropped off. “This may be the South, but it ain’t South Philly. And this sure isn’t Italian bread. Don’t they know it’s a capital offense to cut off the crust?”

  He carefully replaced the delicate morsel as if it were a small, wounded bird. Maury paid little attention, still fiddling with his guitar. He barely noticed that a small entourage had collected in the dressing room. It included Doug and several of his friends, mostly students.

  Jim wandered over, picked up his guitar, and sat down. Maury finally finished tuning. Jim strummed a few chords and began to play the old Sam Cooke tune “Chain Gang.” Without looking over, Maury picked up the lead on his guitar. They entertained the private party for over a half-hour, with a mixture of material from slow Delta blues to English bawdy ballads. With a cigarette dangling out of the corner of his mouth, smoke rising to the ceiling, Jim treated them to the song “Careful Man” from his upcoming album.

  I don’t gamble, I don’t fight,

  I don’t be hangin’ in the bars at night;

  Yeah, I used to be a fighter, but now I am a wiser man.

  I don’t drink much, I don’t smoke,

  I don’t be hardly messin’ round with no dope;

  Yeah, I used to be a problem, but now I am a careful man.

  But, if you want to see a co-mo-tion,

  You should a seen the man that I used to be;

  I was trouble in per-pet-u-al motion,

  Trouble with a cap-i-tal “T.”

  Stayin’ out late, havin’ fun,

  Done shot off ev’ry single shot in my gun;

  Yeah, I used to be a lover,

  But now I am an older man.