by Ingrid Croce
“But then they didn’t have to. He came back at the end of the month to pick up his paycheck . . . which was kind of a mistake.” The crowd laughed. “But when he got out of the stockade it was a lot of fun to talk to him, because he said it had been an enlightening experience. He was serious, very serious. I mean, he’s probably doing books or something now, delivering lectures on some corner about the benefits of being locked up by the military police. Good ‘ol Leroy.” He and Maury started to play “Bad, Bad Leroy Brown.”
Well the south side of Chicago
is the baddest part of town,
And if you go down there
You better just beware
Of a man name of Leroy Brown
Now Leroy more than trouble,
You see he stand ’bout six-foot-four,
All the downtown ladies call him “treetop lover”
All the men just call him, “Sir.”
And he’s bad, bad Leroy Brown,
the baddest man in the whole damned town;
Badder than old King Kong,
And meaner than a junkyard dog . . .
After high-spirited cheering, he and Maury began playing another cut from the new album, “These Dreams.”
While the ballads on the second album didn’t meet with the commercial success of “Operator” or “Time in a Bottle,” Rolling Stone reporter Jon Landau appreciated them:
Croce sustains my interest through his depiction of the alternate sides of his romantic vision—one that encompasses the fantasy world of bizarre but human characters and the romantic world populated by lonely people who always manage to miss making their connection. “One Less Set of Footsteps” and “Next Time, This Time,” are marked by an undercurrent of resentment against women but neither is vengeful in the style of early Dylan. Rather, they are the product of a disillusioned man.
Jim continued to build his monologues with the audiences. Some of them were rehearsed and refined, but he often ad-libbed, depending on the crowd. He and Jonathan had a standing challenge to see who could be the raunchiest onstage. Jonathan would feel out an audience early with a few off-color jokes, which let Jim decide just how far he could go. Listeners who responded well were treated to bawdy ballads. Nearly half of his time onstage, though, was devoted to spinning out anecdotes from his past to help explain a song he was about to sing. Before “Roller Derby Queen” he talked about the woman who inspired the song, clearly competing with Jonathan to be outrageous and politically incorrect.
“You know up until last year most of my musical experience was centered around barrooms, country and western bars, kinds of places you see in movies like Easy Rider, with three or four chrome-plated pickup trucks sittin’ out front and a rifle rack in the back window. And when you get up on the stage to play, they have you surrounded by chicken wire, so you don’t get injured by beer bottles, flying pitchers, and all that stuff that’s goin’ on.
“Well, I met a lot of characters in these places, and a lot of them I ended up putting into songs.
“So I was playing one afternoon in one of these local bars where we live. And sittin’ down about ten feet away from me was this cute little woman, chubby, about this high, and about as big as a fireplug. She had this blonde hair that stood up real tall. And I found out she drove the school bus in the township where we lived and she was a Spray Net freak.
“Ya know, did you ever see the old movies where Pancho Villa’s men had bullets across their chests? Well that’s the way she brings Spray Net cans back from the supermarket. So anyway, I have this rule of thumb that if you’re 350 pounds, you’re a person. And at 400 you become a place . . . and she was hanging in right in there. And every time I watched her clap, I could see the fat on her arm jiggling back and forth. It was a beautiful sight. And I got excited.
“So I started talking to her, and it turned out she came from Texas. She used to be a roller derby queen. And that afternoon I just knew I just had to write a song about her. Now we don’t usually do it at home because her husband is a state trooper, and he can really, really mess up a nice day. But we’re gonna do it for ya here. It’s called ‘I Fell in Love with a Roller Derby Queen.’”
With all the flying he and Maury were doing, Jim also developed stories to encapsulate their experiences.
“Of all the airlines we’ve been on, my favorite is Allegheny,” he would tell an audience. “They give you an apple and a glass of water served inside an air sickness bag. It’s more an omen than a meal. They are the originators of what we call the white-knuckle flights, the ones that make you feel like you’re strapped in a dentist’s chair with duct tape. They fly one hundred feet above the Pennsylvania Turnpike at two hundred miles an hour so they don’t get lost.”
At one concert, Jonathan came out like a reporter interviewing Jim about his favorite flight on Indian Airlines.
“Why did you choose this flight?” Jonathan asked with formal politeness.
“Oh, deary me,” Jim would answer in a high, thin Indian voice he tried to make sound like Maharishi Mahesh Yogi’s. “The answer to your question lies here.” He’d put his fingertips together in meditation. “Fly Indian Airlines, the people who know how to get there, ’cause there’s where they’re from.” After another few minutes of banter as reporter and Indian traveler, with a curt nod, Jim dismissed Jonathan and signaled to Maury to start the next song. Backstage after the show, the comedian praised his cohort.
“That was funny, Croce,” he said. “We’re a good team.”
“Yeah, well, when they sign me up to replace Carson, I promise I’ll have you on the show,” Jim teased.
“I’m serious, Jim,” Jonathan stated. “You’d be a great actor or a host. Maybe you really should consider television.”
“I’ve thought about it,” Jim replied. “It certainly would help cut back on traveling and solve problems at home. Hey, did I tell you, Ing’s with child?”
“No, but congratulations!”
“Yeah, it might be good to get home for a while when she has the baby. But I’m afraid I’m not real good at home. My little man hardly knows me. And, for that matter, neither does my wife anymore.”
“I’d like to meet Ingrid sometime,” Jonathan suggested. “She must be something to keep up with you.”
“You’d like her, Jonathan. She’s really something, a great cook and very funny. We’ll have to have you over sometime when we get off the road.”
In May, Charlie Fox asked Jim to record the theme song for The Last American Hero, a Joe Wizan movie starring Jeff Bridges. The song “I Got a Name,” by Charles Fox and Norman Gimbel, sounded as if it had been written for Jim. “We really want you to concentrate on the vocal, Jim. So you won’t need to play guitar on this one.”
When he stepped up to the studio microphone for the first time without his guitar, he felt a bit nervous. His guitar was his shield, and he felt exposed without it. He sang the song all the way through, as they requested. They then asked him to do some shorter versions for commercials.
Jim asked, “Am I doing okay?”
“You’re doing great, Jim. Just keep singing,” the engineer said from the sound booth.
When Jim and the Boys listened to the playback, they were all pleased and liked the song enough to decide to include “I Got a Name” on his next album.
By late spring of 1973, Jim had sold millions of records, sold out hundreds of concerts, and made guest appearances on the Johnny Carson and Dick Cavett shows.
“I’ve gotta rest,” he said in a phone call to Tommy. “The road is really getting to me. I need time off.”
“Not now, Jimmy,” was the curt reply. “You know the schedule. And Jimmy”—Tommy paused—“cut out the drugs.”
To keep Jim’s spirits up, Jonathan made sure that no two performances were alike. One night, when Jim and Maury were performing for a college in LA, Jonathan hired two attractive women to ride their bikes onto the back of the stage in plain view of the audience but where Jim and Maury cou
ldn’t see them. The women were naked except for their socks. Jim and Maury were in the middle of “Operator” when the crowd gasped audibly and started to cheer.
The naked girls kept riding in a figure eight, and the audience began to howl. Jim and Maury stared at each other in amazement. Finally the women ran out across the stage and down the ramp in front of Jim and Maury. The musicians doubled over in laughter. Jonathan yelled out “Triumph!” from backstage.
After the show, the women waited for Jim.
“I can’t let them suffer,” he told Jonathan as he got ready to leave his dressing room.
“I agree,” the comedian said. “Wives are for home. But the road is for the lads. It’s not marriage problems we have—it’s road problems!”
“Yeah, that kind of thinking is fine when I’m on the road, but fuck, the guilt eats me up when I’m with Ingrid.” He grew serious. “I can barely relax and recuperate from all this wild-ass stuff. I don’t know what’s more stressful—being on the road or going home!”
The next morning he woke up and couldn’t talk.
“Shit,” he thought to himself. “What am I gonna do?” He had never missed a concert in his entire career, but now he would be forced to cancel the college tour that included Oklahoma, Mississippi, Texas, and Louisiana. Randy Newman’s father was an ear, nose, and throat physician and agreed to examine Jim that day.
“If you don’t stop singing for a while, you might never sing again,” he said sternly. “Your prescription is silence and sunshine. I don’t want you to speak one word—not even a whisper.”
Jim boarded the next available flight to Florida. He had Maury call Rich to let him know he’d be coming down for a visit and had BNB’s secretary call me at home.
“Jim is on doctor’s orders to rest,” Joie told me. “He’s not allowed to talk to anyone—not even whisper. So he went to stay with Rich in Florida.”
After a week at Rich and Diane’s, he headed down to Key West. One night at dinner in the Chart Room at the Pierhouse Hotel, he ran into Jimmy Buffett, his label mate on ABC/Dunhill. They had met months earlier in Los Angeles.
“Jim, what are you doing here? Good to see you!” Jim couldn’t speak but offered his hand, shook his head, and pulled out his pen and paper. “Remember, Jay Lasker introduced us in California, Jim? He thought you’d be a good role model for me,” Buffett joked, “being older and all.”
Jim smiled. He opened his spiral tablet and wrote: “Doing good! Have throat problems! Can’t talk. How ’bout you?”
“Shit, I’m so broke I have to charm hotel guests into doing my dirty laundry while they do theirs. I’m sure you’re beyond that.” He looked hopefully at Jim. “Hey, I’ve got a Fender Telecaster and a hand-tooled leather guitar strap that says ‘Jimmy.’ Are you interested?”
“Maybe,” Jim wrote. “How much?”
“I’ll sell it for $100, but it’s worth a lot more than that,” Buffett bargained. The deal was struck.
“Next time I’m on radio, I’ll play ‘Great Filling Station Holdup.’ Love that song. I’ll mention your album. What’s it called?” he wrote, and handed the notebook to Buffett.
“White Sport Coat and a Pink Crustacean,’” he replied. “I appreciate it. Tell everyone to buy it!”
From that meeting on, Jim and Buffett reconnected whenever their schedules allowed, and became good friends.
Within a couple weeks, Jim had regained his voice and was back playing at Doug Weston’s Troubadour in Los Angeles and the Santa Monica Civic Center. The Hollywood Reporter called his delivery “sophisticated, intelligent and full of piercing imagery,” while Variety said he “had them rolling in the aisles.” Billboard also interviewed him in Los Angeles and mentioned his “throat attack.” “This was an extreme deprivation for Croce,” the reporter said, “who loves conversation. ‘I wore out a couple of those little blackboards,’ Jim told me.”
The Troubadour and the Santa Monica Civic Center were close enough together for Jim to stay at the Sunset Marquis Motel for almost a month. California had become his home away from home, and he settled into the easy lifestyle.
One night after a Troubadour engagement, he met Cheech Marin, of the outlaw comedy team Cheech and Chong.
“I’m a real fan of you guys,” Cheech said. “We should get together. Why don’t you come over to my house?”
Jim and Maury took him up on it and arrived at Cheech’s door after one of the Troubador shows, with their guitars and a six-pack of beer.
“You guys were very impressive tonight, man,” Cheech said.
“Thanks,” said Maury.
“Yeah, we appreciate it,” Jim added. He looked around the house and felt comfortable from the start. With paintings and pottery all around, and the aroma of food cooking on the stove, he felt right at home.
“This pottery is beautiful, man. Where did you get it?” Jim asked, pointing to a tall, slender raku vase.
“I made it, man. I’m a mud head.”
“So’s my wife,” Jim told him. “She’d love your work.”
“I’m a good cook, too, so if you guys are hungry, I can make something.”
“Thanks for the offer. Home cookin’—that’s really nice,” Jim said. “I’m not too hungry yet, but I’ve got some great stuff to share. Let me show you how to make a Lyndell hash pipe out of a beer can.” He crushed the middle of the can, slit holes in the top with his pocketknife, worked an air channel inside, and filled the back with hash. Then he lit it and sucked the smoke out the pop-top hole.
“Far fuckin’ out,” said Cheech. He smiled and tried the Lyndell pipe. “It works great!”
Jim and Maury soon became regular visitors to Cheech’s house in the Hollywood Hills, along with other musicians like Leon Russell, Harry Nilsson, and Dave Mason, who dropped over for jam sessions after concerts and often stayed until dawn.
“I like this lifestyle,” Jim told Maury one night at Cheech’s house when they were jamming with Hoyt Axton and banjo player Doug Dillard. “Maybe Ing and I could get a new start in California. I think she’d really like Cheech and his wife. And I think change would be good for us.”
Before they left, he spent some time talking to Cheech on the balcony. Jim really felt good with Cheech. He was streetwise, well-educated, and knew a lot more than Jim did about the business. He respected him.
“You know,” Jim confessed, “I’d like to try acting or hosting a talk show or something. Do you think I could do it?”
“Yeah, movies are fun,” Cheech said. He gave him a scrutinizing stare. “You’d be good at it, man. Maybe we could do a movie together sometime.”
Weeks later, Jim returned to Coatesville for a few days’ rest between tours. Judy picked up Maury and Jim from the airport and dropped Jim off at home. Having been separated from us for many weeks, he stepped awkwardly toward the front door.
“Shit,” he mumbled, “I feel like I should knock on my own goddamn door.”
“You look exhausted,” I said, hugging him.
“And you look very pregnant.” He hugged me back. Adrian James ran into his father’s arms. I had spent the morning preparing Jim’s favorite meal. I was certain that after an hour he would grow restless and want to visit one of his buddies. I hoped dinner would keep him home for a while at least.
In the living room, Adrian proudly sang “Bab-a-loo,” from the I Love Lucy show, strumming his ukulele in earnest with his slender little fingers. After dinner, Jim made some phone calls while I put away the dishes. I hesitantly went upstairs to put Adrian to bed, afraid Jim would leave the house while I was out of sight. But minutes later he joined me in the baby’s room and followed me to the bedroom.
He built a fire in the old fireplace and lit a candle near the bed. While I was turning back the comforter, Jim walked back into Adrian’s room.
“I want to check on my little man again,” he said. “I love to watch him sleep.”
When he returned, he lay down next to me, and soon we were touching. Just
as we began to relax and enjoy the intimacy, he jumped up without any explanation.
“What’s the matter, Jim? Do you want to talk about something? Are you worried about the rent or the bills?”
“No, I just need to leave.”
While he played his guitar downstairs in the kitchen, I turned over and cried myself to sleep.
Around 4:30, he came back upstairs to wake me up. Sitting on the edge of the bed with his guitar in one hand, he gently shook me.
“Ing. Wake up, sweet thing. Wake up. I just wrote a song I want you to hear. I wrote it for you.”
“Do you have to play it right now, Jim?”
“Please, Ing. I want you to hear it now. I need you to.”
I sat up in bed. He adjusted a pillow for my back and kissed me on the cheek. Then he sang me his new song, “I’ll Have to Say I Love You in a Song”:
Well, I know it’s kind of late
I hope I didn’t wake you,
But what I’ve got to say can’t wait
I know you’d understand.
Ev’ry time I tried to tell you
The words just came out wrong,
So I’ll have to say I love you in a song.
I know it’s kind of strange
But ev’ry time I’m near you,
I just run out of things to say
I know you’d understand.
But ev’ry time the time was right
The words just came out wrong,
So I’ll have to say I love you in a song
LOVER’S CROSS
THE WIND SWIRLED AROUND the single-engine Beechcraft as it took off from Chicago’s O’Hare Field. A storm was moving eastward, toward their destination in Washington, DC, where they were scheduled to play the Cellar Door that evening. Jonathan sat silently in the front seat, looking intently out the cockpit window.