By Gary Bennett
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.
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.
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.
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.
