John Murry comes from Tupelo, Mississippi and he’s William Faulkner’s grandson or nephew or something. He used to hang out at the juke joints of folk who’d record for Fat Possum and he knew the Dickinsons. He listened well and he played for a bit in Lucero. Seven years ago he moved to Oakland and took up with Bob Frank. They came up with an album of haunting, uncompromising murder songs, World Without End. David Fricke wrote, “With his low, hanging-judge drawl, Murry sounds as severe and modern as Leonard Cohen”.
He began recording The Graceless Age (co-produced with Tim Mooney and Kevin Cubbins) four years ago on the West Coast. He took the tapes to Memphis and back again, adding layers of sound as thick as San Francisco fog and Mississippi mud. He tells a survivor’s tale of savage misadventure recounted by an uncompromising, compelling voice surfacing from a melange of layered guitars, strings, voices, and electronics: at the heart of each song something simple maybe written on an acoustic guitar or upright piano about loss and solitude and bad screwing-up, not always with a guilty conscience.