I Got a Name: The Jim Croce Story

by Ingrid Croce

  “Let’s talk,” I said, and led him inside and up to the attic, which had been converted into my art studio and bedroom.

  Over the next few hours, he told me about his trip and the weeks following his return. He covered a lot of ground but left out that he’d dated my best friend. He had convinced himself it meant nothing.

  “My parents increased the pressure on me to break off our relationship as soon as I returned,” he said sadly. “I guess I gave into them. But when I saw your name in the newspaper, and it said you’d be performing at the Main Point, I knew I’d made a mistake.”

  He hesitated. I said nothing.

  “And when I saw you singing Friday night, I realized how much I missed you and needed you.” He pulled me to him and wrapped me tenderly in his arms. “I’m so sorry I’ve hurt you, Ing. Please forgive me.” He kissed me on top of my head. “I promise I’ll never do this again. I love you, Ing. I’ll always love you.”

  _____

  Years later, when Jim wrote the song “Alabama Rain” for his second album, Life and Times, he captured the innocence of those days in the early ’60s, when we were young and had our ups and downs in love. He set the song in Alabama to give it the feeling of the sultry South. But it is those steamy nights in Jim’s little green Volkswagen that I remember whenever I hear his song.

  Lazy days in mid-July, country Sunday mornings.

  Dusty haze on summer highways,

  Sweet magnolia’s callin’.

  Now and then I find myself

  Thinkin’ of the days,

  When we were walkin’ in the Alabama rain.

  We were only kids but then,

  I’ve never heard it said

  That kids can’t fall in love and feel the same,

  I can still remember the first time I told you,

  “I love you.”

  Drive-in movies Friday nights,

  Drinkin’ beer and laughin’

  Somehow things were always right,

  I just don’t know what happened.

  Now and then I find myself,

  Thinkin’ of the days,

  When we were walkin’ in the Alabama rain.

  We were only kids but then,

  I’ve never heard it said

  That kids can’t fall in love and feel the same,

  I can still remember the first time I told you,

  “I love you.”

  FACETS

  IN AUGUST 1964, WHILE JIM was on the international student tour, a spontaneous uprising in response to police brutality had broken out in North Philly. Close to a thousand people were arrested, and the community businesses were trashed.

  Sal, who was completing his graduate work in folklore at the University of Pennsylvania, phoned Jim upon his return that fall to fill him in about the riots and to discuss the other major events of that pivotal year: the obscenity trial of Lenny Bruce, the Johnson/Goldwater presidential race, the student response to the escalating “police action” in Southeast Asia, and the Warren Report’s conclusion that Oswald had acted alone in the murder of President Kennedy.

  Jim was eager to tell Sal about his trip outside the country and how it had reinforced his belief in the power of music. They laughed together about Jim’s malaria phobia and the unintentional overdose of quinine. And Sal saved the best for last.

  “How does working on the soundtrack of a television documentary grab you?” Sal asked him.

  “Great.”

  “Finally, being a folklorist is paying off. I got a contract to produce the soundtrack for The Miner’s Story and thought you’d be a natural for it. It’s a profile of American coal miners. It highlights the boom times after World War I and the decline that followed. Channel 10’s camera team filmed the miners’ families at home and then went down into the mines with the men. Jack Palance is the narrator.”

  “So where do I fit in?”

  “Well, you know, Palance was born in the coal country. He comes from one of those northeastern Pennsylvania towns like Carbondale, Hazelton, Pottsville, or something. Anyway, he’s the driving force behind this documentary, and he’s passionate about the story. He’s been overseeing every detail of the show, including the music. He’s even checked you out, Croce.”

  “That’s scary. What’s he checked out?”

  “Well,” Sal continued, “probably everything he could. He was impressed that you were chosen to do the NSA tour, and when I played him a tape, he liked your voice and your repertoire. What he wants to hear now is the music you’d suggest for his soundtrack.”

  “Are you for real, Sal? He wants me to write the soundtrack?”

  “He wants us to write it and you to sing it.”

  “That’s great! When do we start?”

  “How about this afternoon? Can we get together at your house? I’ve missed The Flower’s home-cooked meals.”

  “Sure, come over after your class, and stay for dinner.” He knew his mother and father would be gracious at dinner in spite of their disapproval of Sal. The reality was that in spite of Jim’s newfound independence from traveling, he still lived at home, and it frustrated and embarrassed him that he couldn’t entertain his friends without judgment from his parents.

  Behind Sal’s back, Jim Senior derided both Sal’s flamboyant appearance and his status as a full-time student.

  “Tell me: What can he do with a degree in folklore?” he would argue. “As far as I’m concerned, what he’s studying is a total waste of time.”

  Still, the Croces were always generous and hospitable, especially if the friend was Italian. His parents often invited Jim’s classmates, like Tommy Picardo, Mike DiBenedetto, Bruce Bartollini, and, reluctantly, Sal, over for a good meal. The students were happy for the chance to be in a home instead of a dormitory and enjoyed Jim’s mother’s delicious Northern Italian home cooking.

  When Sal joined the Croces that night for dinner, Jim waited until dessert to tell his dad about the documentary.

  “Dad, while I was away, Sal got me a job cowriting and singing the soundtrack for a nationwide television show. And I’m getting paid for it.”

  “As long as it doesn’t interrupt your studies, it sounds okay by me. What do you think, Mommy?” he motioned to Flora.

  “Uh-huh,” she said, while vigorously clearing the dishes from the table.

  _____

  Jim spent weeks researching material for the soundtrack. In addition to their original compositions, he and Sal chose the song “Coal Tattoo” by Nashville songwriter Billy Ed Wheeler as the theme song. It depicted the short, oppressed lives of the coal miners, symbolized by the coal dust that permanently embedded itself in the miners’ cuts and scratches, forming a blue, indelible “coal tattoo.”

  Jim’s work on The Miner’s Story gave him confidence and a sense of legitimacy. After viewing the show just once, Jim was able to come up with songs and music for the score. He and Sal completed the soundtrack in a couple of weeks, well before deadline, and for the first time in his life, Jim was paid as a songwriter. The show was a critical success, and there were royalties to follow.

  _____

  Before Jim left home one winter night, when he was scheduled to play a gig at the Riddle Paddock, he received news that his Nigerian friend, Razak, had been killed in a student uprising.

  Razak’s death saddened and alarmed Jim. On his way to work, he stopped by my house to tell me about his loss. We sat on my bed, and I consoled him. He also admitted he was troubled about his draft status and the escalating war in Vietnam. President Johnson had increased the number of military personnel in South Vietnam to 35,000 men, and there were now daily air strikes against the North.

  “Tommy suggested that I join the National Guard, like he did, to avoid the draft. What do you think, Ing?”

  “What do you have to do if you join?”

  “Well, I’d have to go to boot camp for about six months, and then I’d be required to attend weekend meetings for five years. But it’s highly unlikely they’ll send m
e overseas.”

  “Six months apart,” I lamented. “But it’s better than the alternative of your being drafted.”

  _____

  On May 22, 1965, Jim joined the Army National Guard. The preliminary meetings bored him, and the impending boot camp left him hanging. He waited nervously for the call that would take him away.

  Besides playing regularly at the Riddle Paddock, and at the Main Point as an opening act, Jim was invited by residents of Philadelphia’s elite Main Line region to play their private parties.

  Twenty-five dollars a night wasn’t much, but he took the jobs graciously, happy to get whatever paying work he could as a performer. Jim was sorry to see that many of the wealthy residents “with at least four hyphens between their last names” were offering him less money to play than he was receiving at high school functions. But he hoped that if they liked his music, in time he could ask for more.

  On one occasion, the famous artist Andrew Wyeth hired Jim and me to perform for an outdoor party. When we arrived at the Wyeths’ house in Chadds Ford, we were directed to wait in the kitchen with “the help.” It was interesting to see that musicians had their place alongside the cooks and maids, but I felt quite comfortable among them. While preparing for the picnic, the chef offered us a savory chicken soup with a variety of hors d’oeuvres and a multilayered omelet. It was the fanciest home cooking I’d ever tasted, and I was enthralled by the presentation and amazing flavors.

  The party was taking place on a great lawn near the house, and horse-drawn carriages transported the guests to the picnic. The Wyeths’ teenage son, Jamie, already an accomplished artist who was following in his family’s footsteps, loved music and invited Jim and me to ride with him in his carriage to the party. Jamie was very gracious, and when we finished the performance, we were asked to play several encores.

  Jim and I were invited back to perform at the Wyeths’ home and again at a philanthropic fundraiser they held on the Main Line. The pay never got better, but the experience was an eye-opener. I was surprised that in modern America there was still such a sharp division of the classes. This experience also reinforced Jim’s deep conviction that we needed to make a record in order to succeed.

  _____

  When Jim invited me, the proverbial tomboy, to the Villanova University junior prom, I bought a fancy, pale blue dress and my first pair of heels. I was taking another step toward being womanly and hoped it would please both Jim and my father. The night of his college prom, Jim arrived wearing a stylish three-piece suit and carrying a corsage. Hearing the doorbell ring, I hurried to greet him, wobbling as I navigated the stairs in the new heels.

  “You look like Minnie Mouse in those pumps,” laughed Florence. I was flooded with insecurity.

  “Should I wear something else?” I asked anxiously.

  When I opened the door, Jim stepped inside and came to my rescue.

  “You look amazing,” he said, pausing a moment to stare. Gently, he slipped his hand under the bodice of my strapless dress and pinned on my corsage.

  _____

  Students packed the dance floor at Villanova. Jim found a table with two vacant seats, introduced me to a few of his classmates, and then escorted me to the center of the room.

  I loved to dance and enthusiastically took his hand. Jim let my hand go, and his face grew serious with concentration. Dramatically, he stepped away from the crowd. Bending forward, he grabbed his right elbow with his left hand and started to rotate it. Simultaneously, he lifted his leg like a dog about to pee and gyrated it again and again. In spite of the beat, he was dancing his own bizarre dance to his own rhythm.

  The others stood by in amazement. At first, I was embarrassed for him. I didn’t understand what Jim was doing. Could this be Jim’s idea of a dance? I wondered. In fact, it was. Jim continued to gyrate his elbow, lift his leg, and turn slowly in circles, at all times gazing into my eyes. Suddenly, I couldn’t contain myself. I began to laugh harder and harder, as did others around us, exactly the response Jim wanted.

  _____

  In the summer of 1965, I graduated from high school. At eighteen, I felt independent and talked eagerly of my future as an artist and my excitement at attending the Rhode Island School of Design and Brown University for my core classes. Though Jim felt threatened by my leaving, he was pleased for me, even to the point of assimilating my goals as his own. To be a part of my artistic world, he took up photography, haiku writing, and painting with Japanese bamboo brushes. That spring, he graduated from Villanova with a degree in psychology and a minor in German. But now that he was out of school, he had no idea how to apply these skills to get a job.

  During the early evenings and on every weekend, Jim and I practiced and performed together and added many songs to our repertoire. We learned covers by Gordon Lightfoot, Ian and Sylvia, Simon and Garfunkel, and the Lovin’ Spoonful, and we performed at two folk clubs in downtown Philadelphia, the Second Fret and the Gilded Cage. We were becoming well known as a duo and played as many as three or four nights a week together. Music making and our impassioned, if somewhat cramped, lovemaking in the front seat of the Volkswagen also kept us busy.

  “Ing, we need to find a better place to make love,” Jim joked. “Otherwise, you’re gonna have VW from the steering wheel permanently imbedded on your butt.”

  _____

  One afternoon in late August, as I packed for college, Jim told me in a melancholy voice, “I sure wish you didn’t have to go away.”

  “Jim, you know how much I love you,” I reassured him. “But this is my dream, just like making music is yours.”

  “What about those college guys up there, those artistic lechers?”

  “I only want you. You know that.”

  “Well, maybe we should get engaged.” he said. “Then as soon as you finish school, we can get married.”

  “I know we’re going to get married someday. But I need to complete my education first.”

  “I can’t wait that long,” he pleaded. “Come on, Ing, let’s get married next year. You’ll have a year of college behind you, and you can finish school as Mrs. Croce.”

  “Why don’t we just live together first? Move up to Rhode Island with me! And then next summer, if I survive my freshman year, I’ll come back, and we’ll get married.”

  “Yeah, that would be great, but you know how my parents are. They’d disown me. And anyway, I want you to be my wife.”

  “I want to be your wife more than anything, Jim. But don’t you think it would be fun to be lovers first? Wouldn’t it be great to get a place of our own in Providence? We could spend every night together in a real bed, and you’d never have to go home.”

  “Ah, baby, that would be great, but you know I can’t.”

  His relief in having my word that I’d marry him lasted only until the day I actually left for school. Alone and without career direction, he felt miserable. But he continued to play the Riddle Paddock, sometimes solo but often taking Rich or his young musician friend Carl Fehrenbach to play with him for company.

  Alone in his room and motivated by loneliness, Jim began to write short stories and love songs. He recorded them on his father’s reel-to-reel tape recorder and mailed them to me, always accompanied by a long romantic love letter. He wrote every day, sometimes twice a day, and telephoned at least once a week.

  His first love story and letter awaited me when I arrived at RISD.

  THE LOVE STORY

  (A ribald classic, a fragment of a Chaucerian-type tale)

  It is believed that this series of tales is an autobiographical one written by a young man during adolescence and middle years dealing with a great, wondrous love affair with a maiden believed to be Super Girl.

  In years long past there lived in a beauteous shire a fair enchantress who was courted by a young gallant. She enjoyed his company, his singing and the music of his lute. They soon were deep in love and dallied in carriage, loft or when her parents were away, in the great bed of the royal chamber . .
.

  The story went on to tell of our first night together, cloaked in mythology. Jim’s romantic fable revealed his lofty expectations for our relationship. The letter he enclosed with the story further expressed how much our love meant to him.

  My feelings, though equally intense, were down-to-earth, honest, and open. I was flattered by his embellishments but afraid I might not live up to his expectations.

  In another letter Jim wrote to me while I was away at RISD, he used Japanese brushes to paint a motif that matched the poetic opening lines:

  Dear Ingrid,

  As the bamboo grows straight & tall

  So grows my love for you.

  I’ve been painting with my new Japanese brushes and I just had to write. I spent the day hunting, hiking and riding.

  (I didn’t get anything) Nothing much else is new except I love you more. I can’t wait to see you. We have lots to do (ha ha)

  that’s my sexy laugh, so take note.

  I may take on some private Mainline Parties on Friday and Saturday, but I can’t even sing straight everything sounds to me like Ingrid, love, love, love making . . . Well, I’d better stop thinking like that before I attack my pillow. I’ve been really jumpy and restless . . . this oriental painting is just the thing I need. It embodies not only the form but a philosophy of simplicity and symbolism, and beauty that is an experience both aesthetic and visual. I’ll show you some of the things I’ve done when you come home for Christmas. You probably see so much art work though, that it won’t interest you but I’ll show it to you anyway. I’d love to hear all about your work please write me about it. Well, I’ll talk to you on Wednesday so goodnight. Think of me when you sleep for I will think of you, and every moment will be a moment of love.