With his big old moustache, Roman nose and dark eyes twinkling from a lived-in, olive-skin face, Jim Croce looked like one of the good guys whose families went to America as immigrants, seeking neither fame nor fortune but just a fair crack of the whip. Driving a truck and favouring the blue-collar, sweat-and-smoke image, singer-songwriter Croce was no pin-up. He was regular people.
By the time he reached 30, Jim was doing good. In July 1973, his funky Bad, Bad Leroy Brown was No.1 in the US and he was booked on an endless tour of coffee-house and college shows that helped spread his reputation as the Next Big Troubadour Thing. That month he drew 12,000 to the Ravina Folk Festival outside Chicago. Good news for his wife Ingrid, struggling at home with the bills and a toddler while Jim was on the road. Her old man was about to hit pay dirt.
