This is a tough one for me to review, mainly because I have such mixed feelings about it. The book's greatest strength is its honesty; fortunately for us, Ingrid doesn't seem to spare us any of the seamier details (at least, the ones she was able to find out about...lol).
There are a couple of big things wrong with this book though. The main one is the huge patches of inane synthetic dialogue that you have to wade through. Here's a sample: "You're amazing, Ing! You stand up for the things you believe in, and I'm so proud of you. Besides, I think you're pretty, and I bet none of those girls have an ass like yours!"
Seriously, there's tons of stuff like this. It started sounding after a while like the Gomer Pyle impression that she says Jim used to effect: "Golly goshers, cuddlecakes! That would be swell!" Or like those horrible biographies for young people where they make up dialogue for prominent figures ("Jeepers, General Washington, what'll we do now?" "Anybody got a dollar? I just feel like flinging a coin across this-here river"). And oftentimes you have to wonder on what basis she derived those conversations, especially the ones between Jim and Maury.
Another problem is her frequent (and superfluous) encounter-groupish asides to the audience. Stuff like: "I knew he was processing a lot of anger, and I hoped that somehow he could work it out through his music." And she also came off a bit prissy in places; actually, if it'd been me I probably would've sang her a few bawdy ballads myself (just to get her to unclench her keester a little). Besides which, I liked Bill Reid (and yes, even Crazy Frank).
Anyway, now we get to the strengths. Well, first off I was surprised at how autobiographical his songs were. I had always assumed, for example, that "New York's Not My Home" was like one of his character songs, and that he had probably never set foot in the place (at least, not until he had a major concert there or something). And the story about "I Have To Say I Love You in a Song" was so Hollywoodish it had to be true...lol A truly touching moment.
Those Cashman guys certainly all came off as a bunch of sleazebags. It would've been nice to get their side of the story anyway. Which reminds me of two things:
1) Why the hell isn't there another biography about Croce yet? I mean, like a regular one? I imagine I'd be a lot more accepting of the shortcomings of this one if it was presented as it should be, as "The Jim and Ingrid Croce Love Story" (which is how it really comes across).
2) Jim Croce practically screams Oral Biography! I mean, seriously, what a perfect subject he would be for that approach. And they even had a bunch of interviews with people from 20 years ago which they could've used too (and interspersed interviews with Jim and Maury throughout to flesh the thing out). Boy, would that have been a great read. Incidentally, she sat on this subject for all that time and I still don't really understand why (she never does quite seem to explain it).
The book does get stronger as it goes along, and the last 100 pages or so are very good indeed. Very poignant are her accounts of the miscarriage and their ongoing marital imbroglios, as well as Jim's increasingly erratic behavior (the dead-cat incident, for example, and the frequent blowups, not to mention his relating of the Plaster Caster episode to Ingrid). The guy must've really been losing touch by the time of that last one...I mean, what in the world was he thinking? (Btw it turns out that the lyrics in "Five Short Minutes" are actually, "she casted me in plaster"...I'd always thought he was saying, "she cast at me and blasphemed"...lol. Oh yeah, and "robbing the cradle is worse than robbing the tomb" I thought was "robbing a tune.")
By the end the style has become nicely understated and there are some truly marvelous sad moments: "I held him closely for the last time" and Adrian saying, "Don't cry, Mommy. Don't cry," as she attempts to explain to him that Daddy won't be coming home anymore. And then of course there is Jim's last letter to her (received after his death): "Who knows, I might even get a tan."
Even then though, that gets followed up with the following unnecessary and anticlimactic bit of self-analysis: "When I heard the terrible news that my husband was gone, I felt broken. The thought that our son would grow up and never know his father devastated me."
It's a bit like when Longfellow caps the harrowing end of "The Wreck of the Hesperus" with the following: "Such was the wreck of the Hesperus,/In the midnight and the snow!/Christ save us all from a death like this,/On the reef of Norman's Woe!" Which is rather like watching some truly scarifying segment of a horror movie and then having Count Floyd come on and say: "Wow, that was pretty scar-y, wasn't it, kids?!"
Anyway, despite all that I found this book quite worthwhile. And also--unfortunately--more than a little depressing. I suppose that's hard to avoid, given the subject matter. But a couple days ago I did put on all 3 Jim Croce studio albums (yes, in the original vinyl) and played them back-to-back-to-back. They sounded pretty damn good too, I must say...it proved to be a lot of fun.
I was still just a kid when he died. I had only just gotten into him too (I bought my first album of his, Life & Times, from the market across the street from my house--they had just installed a record rack there). My mom, who'd been reading the paper, said, "That singer you like died." For the longest time, days and days, I simply refused to believe it. It was a sort of state of shock. I mean, I had only just now gotten into the guy--he couldn't possibly be dead! Fortunately I had a neighbor who was also into Jim, and we commiserated. Eventually I guess we both got over it, to the extent that we could. But it is still--and I say this 40 years later--one of the darker moments of my life.
Sure, I know Don McLean wrote "American Pie" about Buddy Holly, but for me "the day the music died" will always be September 20, 1973.