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John Murry: “It’s Like Soul Music for the Suicidal; Nothing Blue Eyed About It”

Cara Gibney Posted On August 20, 2015

This is an updated version of an interview with John Murry, previously posted by CultureHub Magazine. The update needed the context of the original piece, the original was worth posting again. The second half talks of his autumn tour, his next album, Oscar Wilde and life in Kilkenny, Ireland.

John Murry’s acclaimed 2012 album The Graceless Age, paints in high definition his downfall on drugs; the consequent destruction of his marriage; the relentless ache that left in him; and his death and ultimate resurrection from an overdose. It’s been described as a masterpiece and a work of genius.

Hailing originally from Mississippi, Murry is presently to be found among the residents of Kilkenny. I caught up with him at a gig in Waterford. I told him that people in the north of Ireland want to see him too. “I want to go back to Belfast” he told me. He then went on to say that the local BBC Radio presenter Ralph McClean “is gonna have to deal with me again.” His wording was interesting. He had set himself up from the get-go as someone who needs to be ‘dealt with.’ I accused him of being self-aware. “Yes, yes, I know. I’m aware that I’m a problem. But we all like having problems.” As the handful of people in the room chuckled in agreement he moaned, “Life’s an STD with a 100% mortality rate”, and at this we cracked up. Again. I asked him if he just made that up. “Yeah, kinda, that could almost be a lyric.” It had been like this all the way through the interview, swinging the conversation from raucous hard laughs, to candid descriptions of despair. Sometimes within seconds of each other.

The 2014 follow up to The Graceless Age was the Califorlornia EP, which features songs co-written with friend and mentor Chuck Prophet. Chuck has been there for Murry at the worst of times. “When I got cleaned up he just wanted to cheer me up. I was anxious all the time; I was like that for a long time. And he would like bring me to some weird place. We’d go to see a movie like say ‘Sex In The City’. We were the only straight guys. We went to see it twice.”

“Then we went to Macy’s and we got the personal assistant to help us try on shit that we’re not gonna buy – like camouflage blazers. Who’d be seen in one of those? And he bought me a belt for like $300. I asked why would you do that and he said “because you need a belt”. And then I’d buy him something, and it was just stupid and we’d just get in trouble because things cost money.”

There was something distinctly Alice in Wonderland about all this. If you’ve seen him recently, there’s a good chance that Murry was sporting a lovely white hat, a lovely white hat that Mr. Prophet gave him. Apparently Mr Prophet left the price tag on it when he gave it to him, just like the Mad Hatter. As Alice says – they’re “entirely bonkers. But I’ll tell you a secret. All the best people are.”

He started to tell me about his new album. “The next one will be two CDs I think. It’ll be a double. I’ve written so much. It’s kind of like …” and suddenly a woman’s voice butted in. A nasally American accent whined “you’ve got another fuckin text message”. He stared at me, eyes wide, face unmoving. “I really hate that thing.” He drawled as his Mississippi accent floated to the top. “No really” he repeated ever more seriously, as the people in the room fell to pieces laughing. “It goes off all the time.” He sat in the middle of all this with that slightly bemused look, his face still hadn’t moved.

Order was restored though. “The album is just songs that can be played on guitar or piano in a really sort of simple way, and can be built upon. It feels like an accident, the record. I really don’t like it. Emotionally that is. It’s about a relationship falling apart. I kind of didn’t notice that cos I was thinking about the songs individually and it’s just really …” He paused. Started a word and didn’t say it. Started another. “But I didn’t know that I was writing them like that. I thought I was just writing about how I felt at that moment.”

“I guess I kind of thought, if this is what it’s supposed to be, isn’t it supposed to be less painful? But it’s more because, if you’re going to create something you have to feel it. If it’s devoid of emotion it’s Muzak. People will hear the music in the background, they’ll watch it, and won’t listen to it. There are just huge great speakers on crates at the side to make sure people pay attention and get hypnotised. But that’s not rock and roll.” As he was saying this he hit the table with his knuckles to emphasise the point.

One new track is the beautiful “Oscar Wilde.” I had to ask why, of all the Irish literary figures, the works of Oscar Wilde brought Murry’s imagination to a song. “I think, quite simply, that I adore Oscar Wilde for being Oscar Wilde” he told me. “He turned insult into entertainment. He never “dressed up”, but was always “playing dress-up”. He did everything with ferocious wit and complete candour. He created himself. In doing so, he made he himself his art. Unlike virtually all of his “contemporaries” and the legions of artists who’ve followed, he was never a quaint “artiste” or some extension of his creations. He fully expected to be criticized. He seemed to relish the opportunity to outwit his detractors.”

“We don’t remember Gilbert and Sullivan’s absurd depictions of him: we remember his depiction of himself borne of their insults. He turned pain into beauty, what others might call an absurd response to a slight or an insult was to him a platform for creating a character grander – and with a wit faster than a muzzle flash – than anything anyone could volley against him. Perhaps his was an intent and intensity borne out of a painful upbringing and a societal psychosis he understood on a personal level too well, later inflicted upon him in a manner that certainly shortened his life. I don’t know. I DO know that he was always well-attired, capable of comebacks that would make one laugh while peeing themselves, and – buried in them – truths that brought a culture to its knees. Whether it knows it or not. I admire him as he embodied art. What more do I have to strive for? I’ve little else to lose!”

It was at this point that I made a mistake. I asked if the song had been written in Ireland. “It’d be horrifyingly tawdry had I written it here!” he reprimanded, and then went on to mock me. “Of course, my next song cycle, based on Gerry Adams’ love affair with his gangster talking teddy bear and the threesome I was forced into by UVF bullies (Gerry plays both sides…) is certainly a cheap attempt to make a couple of pounds – um, euros – so I am not above turning idiocy into theatre then vomiting it into song. To follow is a ballet in which I dance as John Major and Thatcher alternately. Box office hit. Guaranteed. However, the idea for “Oscar Wilde (Came Here To Make Fun Of You)” is pointed directly at the boringness the Bay Area has now become. Christ! Even the protests are scheduled! I didn’t intend it to become a song but a song it became. Quickly. And I feel a bit like Mr. Wilde, only my ship got stuck here.”

That’s me told – but is any of the new material influenced by where he is living at the minute? “I hope not. Maybe. Ok. Maybe.” Well if it is, what would those influences be? “The lack of psychedelic drugs, adequate gaudy religious iconography, and Grum Gallagher, my new hero. Honestly it’s all been a culture shock I wasn’t expecting. Television inspires. Richard E. Grant is another new hero.”

The actor Richard E. Grant is a new hero because Murry has recently been introduced to the iconic film ‘Withnail and I’. On the other hand his adoration of Grum Gallagher is through first-hand experience – they have been working together, and Grum will be accompanying him on the autumn tour. “He’s famous, as you know” Murry said of Grum. “If he’s not, I’ve simply this to say of him: I’ve found my Warren Ellis. I pray we don’t rob a bank. Or that we get away with it. We are damn broke. He can play almost anything. Just not well. But his guitar abilities and piano playing are extraordinary to my ears. I’m honestly quite relieved to have found such a kindred spirit and I mean that sincerely. He’s become family to me.”

Willie Meighan is another hero. Tucked away in a quiet street in Kilkenny town is a rare species – the lesser spotted independent record shop. Under more threat from the big guns than one of Cecil the Lion’s cubs, the self-styled ‘happiest little record shop in the world’ is a sanctuary for Murry. Willie is co-owner. “Though being Willie Meighan’s adopted son has destroyed our relationship because he refuses to acknowledge me as his goddamn child and is not firm enough with the rod, I’ve found more music in Rollercoaster Records than in a lifetime of hipster crapshacks in California.”

The shop is renowned for the owners’ expertise, and ordering service, and basic music obsession. “Davey and Willie are tastemakers in a world of dying taste buds” Murry added. I fully expect them to save rock and roll. Did you know they introduced Ireland to The Beatles? Then Bono (as a burning effigy on Kieran Street)? It’s all true.”

He will however be leaving that sanctuary in September for the Ireland and UK tour. “I’ve got a good bit of new material to play” he told me. “Some of it is beginning to feel old. So I think I’ll make some more up. I recorded a record. It seems to have become a bitchfest, so I’ll re-record with more women and less bitchy menfolk soon. Or more hysterical Victorian menfolk like myself. It’s like soul music for the suicidal. Nothing blue eyed about it. Pitch black.”

The tour will hopefully be less confusing for him than previous ones. “Once I met David Byrne and St. Vincent. I asked her if she was Amanda Palmer. She isn’t. Then I met Amanda. She’s not St. Vincent. For anyone reading: if in doubt, it IS David Byrne if he says “Hi, I’m David Byrne…” and is dressed like a Brooks Brothers model and is sweet. Why wouldn’t he be?!?”