It’s come to my attention that you’d like some words from me on my buddy John Murry. I suppose I could come up with a blurb or two or twelve. God knows I’ve written a few – and more than a couple for myself.
John made a record. And it’s great. You know that, of course. Maybe we all do. When he was making it we got together and we talked about it. We had deep conversations on the merits of being certifiably insane. And we came to the conclusion that it beats dressing like you’re homeless. Beyond that, I don’t know what to add. I could dress it up in purple but, like I was saying, we decided insanity beats dressing like you’re homeless. So we’re fairly well attired these days.
John made a record. What’s amazing is that he did it somehow in spite of himself. In spite of the fact that he claims he can’t play the guitar. And that he’s lazy. And that he’s totally unwilling to buy ‘gay ass Serge Gainsbourg records’ and sit in bars in the Mission listening to some dude ‘spin records’ from the 80’s for the sake of irony. Aside from all that John is a seriously complicated dude. For one, he can spend money like nobody’s business and doesn’t seem worried about making much of it. He taught me that money is some magical shit. As you can imagine, that got my attention. So we went out for ice cream (I was buying). John told me more secrets. We do that sort of thing; ‘Ladies (who are men – we believe) who lunch’.
I like the fact that there’s a picture somewhere of John – a picture of Barry Hannah holding him (and a drink) when he was just a baby. Hannah was friends with his (John’s) dad. Hannah fairly recently lived with John’s little brother or something, before he went to meet his maker (who makes Barry Hannah?). The first day he was there he demanded the kid “go get some pussy” and he bought them both .357’s. I don’t know where those .357’s are now. But Hannah is gone daddy gone. Of course, we’ll never stop reading him.
Anyway, John made this record and it’s pretty cool. He went up the mountain and talked to the elephant, as we used to say. I don’t pretend to know what was moving through his veins when he made it (do we need to?). All I know for sure is that I enjoy eating ice cream with John. So, in an effort to get to the heart of what this record means, I asked him what drove him to make it. He promised me he had a manifesto and he’d share it with me when he was ready. And though it wasn’t clear just what it was – he said he could come up with them (manifestos) all day long. That’s true. And that he’s happy to run his mouth, and the shit that comes out will always run golden, that is, too. Opinions really are like assholes. Of course assholes are truly great, absolutely necessary, and interesting parts of the human body. Which is really my way of saying that John made a cool record and that you might want to seek it out. It’s worth the seeking. It’s never a bad idea to keep an eye on John. Not because he’s dangerous, but because you’ll miss something. An idiotic musician renting space at the studio once found out John was addicted to heroin. In a ridiculous move to endear himself to the ‘better’ of us there (what a fool!), he expressed concern over John’s presence – as if he and his shit were in danger. I’ll tell you what I told him: “Don’t ever underestimate John Murry. Don’t ever presume to know.” I was wary of that drummer after that. Never have been of John. Not when he was high as a kite with no string, or crazy as a loon with no meds, or sane as a professor with too many books. John Murry is John Murry. That’s kinda that. What John wanted more than drums or money wasn’t never what they thought. He gave it all away, anyhow. It still isn’t. He fears absolution and embraces condemnation. He loves the hated and hates the loved. And I think we all oughta pay attention now. He never needed Bob The opposite was true. Down at the studio we all knew it. John is just now – maybe, hopefully – figuring that one out. If he does – if he has – then there’s more to come. I’m waiting. We all should.
Onwards,
Chuck Prophet
Bucketfull Of Brains 