You both recorded a terrific folk album as a duo Jim and Ingrid Croce. Many of those songs appear in this collection. How discouraging was it that the album never took off?
Very discouraging. When we recorded Jim and Ingrid Croce, we were ready to sacrifice whatever it took to promote our Capital album. We moved from our home in Pennsylvania to New York, which was a tough place to live without money. Throughout 1968 and 1970 we worked very hard to make our music careers a success. But after giving it our very best effort, the album failed to get public acclaim, and we finally decided it was time to move on.
Jim was distraught by his failure in the music industry. A tempest of despair surrounded him as we packed our things. With his adrenaline pumping, he carried our air conditioner down seventeen flights of stairs. Attempted to vent his anger by throwing the heavy weapon on the landlord’s front step, sadly he missed, and with his toe throbbing, his back aching and all our possessions piled high on the truck, he performed his final act of defeat. He heaved his bicycle up on top of our belongings only to have it reverse direction and plummet down, catching his ear in the spokes of a wheel. This was not a good day. As the blood was coagulating on Jim’s ear and tears of pain were welling up in his big brown eyes, our friend Gene Pistilli wished us luck and hugged us good-bye. We drove the rental truck with our old red Saab in tow. Without enough money to pay the toll to New Jersey, I threw a handful of pennies in the basket and Jim drove like a bat out of hell across the border. We felt like fugitives in our own land. Once we reached the HoJo on the other side of the bridge, I looked back at the imposing skyline. It as majestic all right, but it had never felt like home.
When our success in the music business seemed unattainable, we moved to the countryside in Pennsylvania and opened our home and hearts to our new community. Here we played our music just for fun. For one hundred dollars a month, which included all the flowers and vegetables our kind landlords allowed us to “rescue,” we rented a three-room “smokehouse” apartment in an old farmhouse in Lyndell, Pennsylvania. Here Jim actually wrote “New York’s Not My Home,” and slowly we let go of our disappointment and found us a home.