In appreciation: 50 years of Barney Miller

By Gary Bennett

This article appears in the April 3, 2025, issue of Frederick News-Post’s “72 Hours” entertainment insert.

Before there was Barney the dinosaur, there was Barney Miller. (Of course, before that came the undisputed Barney champion of all time, Barney Fife.)

Being the second or third best of anything is not too bad, but the case can be made that “Barney Miller”, a smartly written police comedy from the 1970s and ’80s, was one of the best TV shows ever.

TV Guide sure thinks so. In 2013, it ranked “Barney Miller” No. 46 on its list of the top 60 TV shows of all time. That may not sound like much, but consider that by 2013, over 10,000 TV shows had aired on broadcast or cable TV since the 1940s.

“Barney Miller” premiered on ABC on Tuesday evening, Jan. 23, 1975. It stayed there for eight years, often preceded by another big ABC hit, “Happy Days.” The titular character of the show, Captain “Barney Miller,” was played superbly by handsome, 40-something, ‘70s ‘stache-sporting Broadway actor Hal Linden. He professionally and calmly led a motley bunch of police detectives in the “old one-two” — the 12th Police Precinct in New York City.

The show was created by Danny Arnold and Theodore J. Flicker. Noam Pitlik directed most episodes. “Barney Miller” was never canceled. The producers voluntarily ended production on May 20, 1982, fearing they may begin to repeat story lines. It was never what you might call a smash hit. It was more like comfortable sweatpants you looked forward to slipping on once each week.

Hal Linden

The entire series is available for purchase on DVD, and you can even catch two episodes every week night at 9 p.m. on Antenna TV.

“Barney Miller” takes place almost entirely within the confines of the detectives’ squad room and Captain Barney Miller’s adjoining office. Most of the police action happens off-screen. This was the same strategy employed by contemporary sitcom “All in the Family” that took place almost completely within the Bunker’s Queens living room.

The familiar old precinct setting, complete with clutter and grime that seemed immovable over the years, allowed viewers to focus completely on the interplay of the characters — both the starring detectives and guest starring complainants and suspects — to superb effect.

A typical episode featured the detectives of the 12th Precinct bringing in several oddball complainants or suspects to the squad room. Usually, there were two or three separate subplots in each episode, with different officers dealing with different crimes and suspects. Many of the laughs came from the seen-it-all detectives and their handling of the weirdo interlopers.

Captain Miller (Linden) tries to remain sane while leading the 12th Precinct’s detectives. And what a crew they were. This was one of television’s first great ensemble casts.

The cast was led by crotchety, world-weary, Jewish-American Philip K. Fish (played by Abe Vigoda of “The Godfather” fame); naive, excitable but goodhearted Polish-American Stanley “Wojo” Wojciehowicz (played by Max Gail); ambitious, intellectual and slightly arrogant African-American Ron Harris (played by Ron Glass); wisecracking, gambling, poor coffee-making Japanese-American Nick Yemana (played by Jack Soo); and beleaguered Puerto Rican Chano Amanguale (played by Gregory Sierra).

Abe Vigoda

Miller also had to deal with his winking, glad-handing, past his prime, unapologetically old-school superior, Inspector Frank Luger (played wonderfully by character actor James Gregory), and diminutive and toadying uniformed officer Carl Levitt (played by Ron Carey), who constantly badgers Miller about being promoted to detective. Chano and Fish were replaced by intellectual Arthur Dietrich (played by deadpan comedian Steve Landesberg) in season three.

Some typical conflicts and long-running plot lines included Miller’s constant efforts to maintain peace, order and discipline; Harris’ preoccupation with outside interests, especially his novel that he wrote while on the job (“Blood on the Badge”); Fish’s age-related incontinence issues and reluctance to retire; Wojo’s impulsive behavior; Luger’s nostalgia for the old days; Levitt’s eventually successful quest to become a detective; the rivalry between the precinct’s intellectuals, Harris and Dietrich; and reliably bad coffee made by Yemana.

Like many sitcoms, “Barney Miller” took a while to get established and find its bearings. The first season focused much of the time on Barney’s private life at home with wife Liz (played by Barbara Barrie). The show runners soon realized the laughs came from within the precinct and wrote Liz out of the show. Rarely after that did we get a glimpse into any of the detectives’ private lives.

One of my favorite episodes, “Hash,” explored what would happen if the detectives unknowingly ate brownies laced with hashish while on the job. A great line from that episode was delivered when the still sober Captain Miller asked Harris where nearly retired and slow-moving Fish was. Harris slurred, “Last time I saw him, Barn, he was jumping between buildings running down a perp.”

Another favorite was the fifth-season finale “Jack Soo: A Retrospective,” which paid tribute to the late comic actor who was felled by cancer earlier that year. In this episode, the cast, led by Linden, appeared as themselves in the 12th Precinct office as they fondly shared stories and remembrances of their dear friend. At the end of the episode, the cast raised their coffee cups in loving memory of Soo.

Decades after it left the air, “Barney Miller” retains a devoted following including real-life police officers, who appreciate the show’s emphasis on dialogue, believably quirky characters, and its low-key portrayal of cops going about their sometimes-mundane jobs. “Barney Miller” is very possibly the most realistic cop show TV has ever seen.

Inexplicably, none of the actors ever won an Emmy Award (there were many nominations for Linden, Glass and Landesberg), but the show itself was honored many times with writing and directing awards. In its final season of 1982, “Barney Miller” finally won the Emmy for best comedy series after six previous nominations.

Linden (94) and Gail (82) are still alive and fondly remember their time on the show. Linden has told interviewers that he is still occasionally called “Captain” by respectful, working police officers. It’s difficult to imagine anyone else in that role now, but Linden let on recently that only a scheduling conflict prevented Daren McGavin from taking the role.

To this day, “Barney Miller” remains an influential TV show, noted for its ability to tackle tough, timely issues in a lighthearted way.

Maxwell Gail

Gary Bennett is a longtime Frederick resident who spends his time hiking, biking, volunteering and providing childcare for grandchildren. He is married and retired from his career as a nonprofit marketing executive.

Remembering Jim Croce: There never seems to be enough time

By Gary Bennett

Jim Croce, 1973

This article appears in the September 21, 2023, issue of Frederick News-Post’s “72 Hours” entertainment insert.

Back in early August, in the pages of 72 Hours, Crystal Schelle wrote evocatively about the music of George Michael and Wham! and how much their music meant to her youth.

I know exactly how she feels.

For me, it was an obscure ‘70s singer-songwriter named Jim Croce that got into my soul and never left. Music has that power, somehow, to grab ahold of you and not let go. If you don’t have an artist that does that for you, I urge you to keep looking. It is one of the sweetest things in life.

Croce only reached American consciousness for one year before dying tragically 50 years ago this week in 1973. I cannot begin to tell you what his music means to me, even to this day. But, I’ll try.

Philadelphian James Joseph Croce had a mysterious knack for singing about the very things I was feeling as a teenager in the ‘70s, and he did it with a kind of carefree coolness that belied his long climb to fame. His relaxed demeanor is hard to describe but comes out clearly, I think, in photographs.

The album cover for “Have You Heard: Jim Croce Live,” for example, shows him on a stool playing his guitar in an old work shirt and boots, a cigar dangling beneath his enormous mustache. He didn’t seem to realize or care how big he was becoming. He caught the sensitive singer-songwriter craze of the early ‘70s, writing most of his own songs and producing three critically acclaimed albums.

A copy of the author’s own DVD

Croce didn’t so much burst on the scene as amble up to it. He provided some pleasant pop tunes in 1972, including his self-effacing hit “You Don’t Mess Around with Jim” and the lovely but sad ballad “Operator” that spoke of getting over lost love (but not really). Both songs made the top 10. I’m almost ashamed to say that I wasn’t really aware of Croce in 1972. I honestly can’t remember either song playing on the radio. But, as an awkward 10th-grader, I wasn’t really into music yet.

Croce spent years chasing his musical dreams, occasionally giving up for a while and doing all kinds of blue-collar jobs that he reportedly loved. He was a trucker, construction worker, jackhammer operator, soldier and special education teacher, among other things. Little did we know that doing those jobs and getting to know the other workers would eventually bring us such spot-on character studies as Leroy Brown, Big Jim Walker, Rapid Roy the Stock Car Boy, Spike (aka Tuffy), the infamous Roller Derby Queen, the unnamed car wash attendant with big dreams and Speedball Tucker.

In that fateful year of 1973, however, Croce came into his own with the rollicking story-song “Bad, Bad Leroy Brown,” which speaks of the comeuppance of a really bad dude living in the Southside of Chicago. Croce sang, “If you go down there, you better just beware of a man name’a Leroy Brown.”

You know someone is more than just a pop artist if they add everyday lexicon to the English language. Jim Croce did that at least twice. The next time you describe a lost cause as “spitting into the wind” or a really mean person as “meaner than a junkyard dog,” you have Croce to thank.

“Bad, Bad Leroy Brown” is a funny, funky song (with a bad word thrown in there for good measure) that we all sang with abandon. It seemed like it was always on the radio during the summer of ‘73, rising to No. 1 in July and staying there for two weeks and in the top 10 for 10 weeks through late August. I can still remember driving down the road and hearing that unmistakable opening piano riff arriving unannounced on the radio and instantly singing along and going much too fast. It was up for a Grammy and brought implausible celebrity to Croce. He spoke of writing the song about a not-too-bright Army buddy who went AWOL but came back to get his paycheck.

Stardom beckoned as Croce quickly went on to host the top music shows of the day: “The Midnight Special,” “In Concert” and “Don Kirshner’s Rock Concert” in August and early September of ‘73, a time where there was no MTV, YouTube or streaming services. He even guest-hosted “The Tonight Show” once.

As good of a singer as Croce was, he may have been an even better storyteller. Between songs, he seamlessly shared funny stories of playing in bars surrounded by chicken wire so he wouldn’t get hit by flying beer bottles and of being attracted to a five-foot-six, 215-pound “roller derby queen” who had a tooth removed so she could fit a cigarette up in there and keep her hands free.

Jim Croce, 1972

Sadly, just a month later, at the apex of his career, on Sept. 20, 1973, Croce and his guitar virtuoso accompanist, Maury Muehleisen, and several others in his party perished in a tragic small plane crash in Natchitoches, Louisiana, en route to a gig. The plane snagged a pecan tree on takeoff and tumbled to the ground in a ball of fire. Croce and the others were killed instantly. Pilot error was to blame.

He’s been gone 50 years now, and it seems like yesterday I was driving my dad’s Plymouth Satellite to the opening days of my junior year of high school and hearing the heartbreaking news on the radio. I literally had to stop and collect myself before going to school.

No one could have imagined what would happen next.

Instantaneously, the record-buying public couldn’t get enough of Croce. The stardom that eluded him during his life came flooding in after his death, as if we had to make it up to him somehow. His previous two albums shot to the top of the charts. A single released the very day of his death, “I Got a Name,” entered the top 10 immediately. His just-released album of the same name joined its two brethren by becoming one of the top three best-selling albums. Croce’s other two previously released albums also rose in popularity: “You Don’t Mess Around with Jim” soared to No. 1, and “Life and Times” settled in at No. 3. This trifecta has never again been matched in the music business.

Amazingly, all this happened in the span of a month or two. His albums went from sales in the 50,000 range nationwide to selling over 1 million copies each. To this day, I don’t know how they printed them fast enough to satisfy demand. I relished the chance to play his 8-track tapes every night during intermission at the drive-in theater I was working at in ’74 and ’75. We never got a complaint (as far as I know).

If all this weren’t enough, shortly after the single and album “I Got a Name” hit the charts at the time of his death, a lovely, obscure Croce deep cut from his first album called “Time in a Bottle” was being featured in a TV movie called “She Lives.”

The public demanded it be released as a single by bombarding radio stations with requests for it. It went on to become the No. 1 single in December 1973 through January 1974. You may know it as a very popular wedding song to this day.

One line in the song brought sadness to everyone (and still does for me): “There never seems to be enough time to do the things you want to do once you find them.” Indeed. So true.

I tell you all this because the music industry had never seen anything like it before or since. To be sure, we had very popular artists die way too soon — Elvis, Jim Morrison, Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix, Kurt Cobain, Michael Jackson. But to some extent, all these artists had shortened their own lives due to their own actions. The murder of John Lennon in 1980 shook the world, but there was no denying his best musical days were behind him. Thirty-year-old Jim Croce was neither killing himself quickly or slowly.

You have to go all the way back to the ‘50s and the tragic death of a very young Buddy Holly in another small plane crash to come anywhere close to the outpouring of sentiment that came after Croce’s death.

Record executives have chalked up this phenomenon to the public feeling cheated that this promising new artist was gone before they really got a chance to know him. He wasn’t on the way out; he was on the way up. He was soft spoken and humble. He was a family man. His songs were somehow different. We just knew there were a lot more funny, up-tempo songs and quiet, romantic ballads coming our way from this everyman troubadour.

UNSPECIFIED – CIRCA 1970: Photo of Jim Croce Photo by Michael Ochs Archives/Getty Images

I believe his looks had a lot to do with his popularity, too. He doubled down on his working-man persona by sporting curly, unkept hair, a big mustache that looked like it never saw a razor, work shirts, work boots and jeans. Tattoos rounded out the look — and tattoos were not a fashion statement for young people in the ‘70s like they are today. Tattoos were reserved for sailors, convicts and really bad dudes not yet convicted. The dichotomy is that he was none of these. He looked tough, but from all reports, he was a sweet, gentle, soft-spoken guy. As far as blue-collar rockers go, he was Bruce Springsteen before there was a Bruce Springsteen.

Ahh, but it wasn’t meant to be.

Jim Croce likely would have gone on to have a similar career to those of John Denver and James Taylor — long, popular, highly respected and very near to superstar quality. He would have been a staple on TV and most probably a talk show host.

His music was hard to categorize. It was part folk, part pop and part easy-listening, I suppose. He had a very distinctive voice that was (and still is) immediately recognizable, sometimes funny and self-effacing and other times sweet and gentle. He told evocative stories of everyday people because he was one of them. To this day, his songs remain on heavy rotation on certain Sirius XM channels. They frequently pop up in movies like “Django Unchained” and series like “Stranger Things.”

I was trying to think of an analogy that might drive home the tragedy most of us felt in 1973. The best I can come up with is this: Suppose a promising young artist named Taylor Swift, Justin Bieber or Ed Sheeran, who we were just becoming aware of and whose songs were funny and different and great, was suddenly killed in a plane crash. I imagine that would be like losing Jim Croce in the ‘70s. He was becoming that big.

But time goes on and Croce is largely forgotten now. For a few of us, though, he lives on. Meeting Jim’s widow and fellow musician Ingrid Croce, at her delightful Italian restaurant in San Diego (named Croce’s, of course) was one of the happiest days of my life. She was sweet and accommodating, but I couldn’t help wondering if she had secretly activated a panic button due to my exuberance at meeting her.

Catch the live show “50 Years Gone: A Tribute to Jim Croce” at 7:30 p.m. Dec. 2 at New Spire Arts. The performance is a musical tribute to the life and music of Jim Croce. Mike Schirf and Chris Masheck will take the stage and not only play all of Croce’s biggest hits but will also tell the great stories that Croce told during his all-too-short career.