If I Could Save Time In A Bottle: The Death of Jim Croce
On September 20th, 1973, Jim Croce was nearing the end of a grueling European-American Tour and simultaneously recording his next album, I Got a Name. That night, Croce had dazzled his audience at an intimate performance at Northwestern State University in Natchitoches, Louisiana. The concert had only drawn a crowd of about a thousand, half of the estimated two thousand. That same night, some 90 million Americans were instead glued to their television sets as the historic “Battle of the Sexes” tennis exhibition match between Billie Jean King and Bobby Riggs was broadcast.
Croce, however, didn’t care how many people had watched him play. He was aching for home. Fidgeting and checking his watch as he made polite small talk after the show, he counted the seconds until he could leave. So eager to finish the tour, Croce called his pilot and asked if his team and he could fly to their next destination — Sherman, Texas — immediately after the concert, a day ahead of schedule. Croce made his way to the airport and boarded a small charter plane with his guitarist Maury Muehleisen, manager Kenneth D. Cortose, road manager Dennis Rast, pilot Robert N. Elliot, and comedian George Stevens.
Within an hour, they were all dead.
1973 had held 30-year-old Jim Croce dangling over the edge of superstardom. He was toeing the line between the simplicity of the past and the limitless opportunities of the future. That year, several of his songs had been picked up for movies and television, two of his albums had hit the charts, and he had his first number one hit with his song, “Bad, Bad Leroy Brown.” He was touring Europe and North America, performing for audiences of adoring fans, and recording his third album. In a matter of a few years, Croce’s life had been completely transformed — and he soon wondered if he wanted any of it at all. He was exhausted and aching for his family back home — his wife, Ingrid, and their thirteen-month-old son, Adrian. He counted the days until he could be home with his family and attempted to speed up the tour in any way possible.
57-year-old pilot Robert Elliot had been staying in a motel three miles from the airport when he’d received the call from Croce that they needed to fly that night. Unprepared, Elliot scrambled to find a taxi. Late in the evening and surrounded by miles of farmlands, his efforts were ultimately fruitless. Taxi-less and out of options, he ran. Elliot ran the three miles from the motel to the airport, often getting lost and ending up in Louisiana cornfields. Nevertheless, he arrived at the airport, exhausted and disheveled, and boarded the plane.
Elliot piloted the plane down the runway and took off — barely. In his exhaustion, Elliot had failed to clear a pecan tree at the end of the runway and may have even suffered a heart attack during liftoff. Moments after leaving the ground, the plane hit the pecan tree at full force, sending shrapnel and debris all over the tarmac. All six passengers were killed immediately.
In a bittersweet twist of fate, Croce’s next single, “I Got a Name,” had been set to be released the next day. It would spend seventeen weeks on the top charts and peak at number ten on the Billboard Hot 100.
A week after his death, Ingrid Croce received a letter that Jim had sent while on tour. Ingrid read as her husband detailed his love for her and their son, his sadness at being parted with them, and his reluctance to continue touring. Croce wrote about quitting the music business entirely and coming home, fantasizing about a life where he could write movie scripts and stories while watching his son grow. He ended the letter by writing, “Remember, it’s the first 60 years that count, and I’ve got 30 to go. I love you.”
Croce’s heart-breaking death fanned the flame of love for him and his music that had already burned so bright. His earlier single, “Time in a Bottle,” climbed back into the charts, suddenly taking on a deeper meaning. His third album was released posthumously in December of that year — only the third album in history to be released after the artists’ death. It included his number one hit, “I’ll Have to Say I Love You in a Song,” a simple song for his wife that would come to have a life of its own.
Croce harbored the rare ability to bare his soul through song, a true master of lyricism and storytelling, and for that, he earned his place in the Songwriters Hall of Fame, into which he was inducted in 1990. His music ranged from heart-wrenching love songs to vivid stories, from “Time in a Bottle” to “Roller Derby Queen.” In his seven-year long career, Croce wrote more timeless hits than many other musicians whose careers had lasted a lifetime. His thirty years of life were filled with love and creativity, weaving the two together with rhythm and melody to create something truly beautiful. Croce’s vast talents have not gone unrecognized, and his legacy has been kept alive by his son Adrian, who follows in his father’s musical footsteps.
