"Rapid Roy (The Stock Car Boy)" by Jim Croce
Tats, cigarettes & the roar of the crowd
“Oh rapid Roy that stock car boy, he too much too believe / You know he always got an extra pack of cigarettes rolled up in his t-shirt sleeve / He got a tattoo on his arm that say “baby” / He got another one that just say “hey” / But every Sunday afternoon he is a dirt track demon in a '57 Chevrolet”
There’s a lot of Chuck Berry in this song. It almost goes without saying. But while Berry got to live to a ripe old age, gigging every week in his hometown, Croce tragically left us in a plane crash at 30.
“Oh rapid Roy that stock car boy, he's the best driver in the land / He say that he learned to race a stock car by runnin' shine outta Alabam' / Oh the demolition derby and the figure eight / Is easy money in the bank / Compared to runnin' from the man in Oklahoma City with a five hundred gallon tank”
This is from the days before music videos, when the words did more of the heavy lifting. A tight lyric like this one could make you see a story in your mind. You’d picture a guy, Roy, gunning around in a stock car with tats and cigarettes, kicking up dust. Songs like this make me smile.
“Oh rapid Roy that stock car boy...”
As an innocent little baby, I heard this song. There were guys in my town who rolled up packs of smokes in their t-shirt sleeves. I danced to this song, even though I had barely just learned to walk.
“Yeah Roy so cool, that racin' fool he don't know what fear's about / He do a hundred thirty mile an hour smilin' at the camera with a toothpick in his mouth / He got a girl back home, name of Dixie Dawn, but he got honeys all along the way / And you oughta hear 'em screamin' for that dirt track demon in a '57 Chevrolet”
This is my favorite verse. We get the rugged glamour of the man’s life, seen from outside: a racing fool, fearless, grinning with a toothpick, honeys all along the way, the roar of the crowd. Toddler Trev heard this song, and I got it instantly.
Part of me learned from this song that I had won some kind of existential lottery, being born into a land of joy, adventure and optimism. I could grow up to be a stock car racer if I played my cards right. Or an astronaut, or the president. Kids were asked what we wanted to be when we grew up, like being offered a gift from a benevolent parent on a good day in the aisles of a toy store: “you can get one thing”.
A bit of pressure there: choose one thing, choose it wisely.
I can’t say that I ‘chose’ to become a musician, only that I chose to stop resisting it. But I grew up in a time of unprecedented abundance in the music industry, when there existed a large demographic of music professionals at every level of the industry: from superstars and “mid-list” artists and labels to A&R to small town club bookers to the guys who made the labels at the vinyl plant and the ones who drove the product on trucks out to the record stores in every damn town in the world.
But that world began a spectacular collapse in 1999, and most of those working class folks had to go get other jobs. Streaming killed an entire professional demographic, leaving only a highly select few and calling that progress. But it’s simply not enough people, so I ask that you sing also. We are not put here on earth just to consume content. Music is action, just like stock car racing, weekend picnics at the park and running through a sprinkler. Involve the body to make it real.
I’ve reached the halfway point in my singalong series, this is post #50 out of my promised 100 songs on 2025. I’ve had a blast so far, thank you all so much for the comments and the encouragement. I’m not stopping!
Music is not content, it’s connection. More to come.
“Oh rapid Roy that stock car boy, he too much too believe / You know he always got an extra pack of cigarettes rolled up in his t-shirt sleeve / He got a tattoo on his arm that say “baby” / He got another one that just say “hey” / But every Sunday afternoon he is a dirt track demon in a '57 Chevrolet”
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