When you hear music, after it’s over, it’s gone in the air. You can never capture it again.
Eric Dolphy, 1964
Junior was a first generation Italian-American who lived with his mother in a two-story house in South Ozone Park, Queens. She spoke no English. He barely spoke. Today they’d probably put him on the autism spectrum.
He was the middle child in a stereotypical Italian family. His older brother owned a few businesses on Atlantic Avenue in the strange no-mans land that existed between Brooklyn and Queens at the time (early 1970s). He wasn’t a gangster, but lets say sort of shifty. I never met his younger sister, but I’m told she was a bit of a princess. His father died right around the time that our avant-garde (free) jazz trio came together. Continue reading “Junior Croce”