In 1973, at only thirty years old, Jim Croce died in a plane crash. The fifty year anniversary of his passing is coming up in September of this year. I grew up listening to his music, and there’s nobody else quite like him.
In 1973, at only thirty years old, Jim Croce died in a plane crash. The fifty year anniversary of his passing is coming up in September of this year. I grew up listening to his music, and there’s nobody else quite like him.
I knew a guy who claimed to be the inspiration for the song. Of course, his story’s to be taken with, not just a grain, but a salt shaker worth of salt. There was a bar in Chicago called Reservation Blues, run by blues guitarist, Eddie “The Chief” Clearwater. They had another old blues guy working the door named Leroy Brown (which he would gladly prove with id, upon request). He said he knew Jim Croce way back and he was the guy. He matched a few of the trappings… tall, from the south side, etc. Leroy was a master story teller, with a hundred wild tales to tell. You couldn’t care less if they were all true, exaggerated, or whatever - everyone loved shooting the shit with him. I bartended across the street, so I saw him a lot and liked having an after hours drink with him, until they closed a couple years later.