On March 8, 1963 John Joseph McMurray, my youngest brother was born. I was a couple months short of my sixth birthday and with the arrival of John I now had four younger brothers and sisters. Both my parents were Catholics. I guess you could have figured that out. Heck, those were great times for Catholics, not only was the Pope a Catholic but the President of the United States was as well. He was also Irish and a Democrat. That was the triple crown in my household. The man known as the happy Pope and the dynamic young President had the same first name. I guess looking back on it the name John was a no brainer. John was born into a world full of possibilities. He, being the youngest, would always have to compete for attention. He didn’t seem to worry about it much. He was blessed with talent, charisma, charm and a sense of humor second to none.

If you wanted to find John it wasn’t hard. All you had to do was find his brother Michael. John was always by his side. He looked up to his older brother who was a classic middle child in temperament and personality. They were close in age and inseparable.

Our Mom had been a music teacher and was (still is) a professional musician. Our dad loved music and had a massive record collection made up mostly of jazz recordings and Hawaiian folk music of all things. We had a baby grand piano and a Roland organ in our living room. Music had always been a ubiquitous part of our lives.

To some extent music was what we did in the evenings as a family. Daylight meant school and in the summer it meant being outside. Outside in those days was a wonderful place to be. John would wander the rugged chaparral covered hills that were directly across the street from the home we lived in from the time he was in kindergarten. We all loved exploring and hiking. The only thing that scared me was the rattle snakes. John, on the other hand, would just reach down and grab these reptiles and take them home. At one time he had as many as eighteen snakes in captivity in our garage. Some kids have puppies and kittens. John had agitated, California King Snakes.

When his older brother picked up the electric bass, John picked up the guitar. The first ever garage band that had an audience of snakes and neighborhood kids who liked music and herpetology was born.

John switched to bass at some point. He did it for all the right reasons. I suspect that his admiration of his older brother and his playing had something to do with this. It didn’t take long for John to really excel at his new instrument. He was a star and an in demand player.

The very dicey Orange County punk scene was in its halcyon days. It came in handy to have a  6’4” bass player who had a wing span like that of a Boeing 707. John was not hard to spot on a bandstand or anywhere else for that matter. 

John ended up forming and being part of a very well known punk band, the Lobsters. What appealed to him about this music was that it was outside the main stream and so was John. It was music that was reminiscent in many ways to the stripped down 50’s Rock and Roll that had somehow morphed itself into a seventies version of elevator music. Punk on the other hand was different and dangerous. Punk fit his iconoclastic views on life.

He hadn’t even graduated from High School when John, with bass in hand, went to New York City with the Lobsters. He reasoned if he could make it there….and he did. It wasn’t uncommon for me to get a phone call in the middle of the night and beyond from John. He would be coming off a gig and tell me about a musician he just met or a bass line he just invented and then perfected.

He traveled the East Coast with the band. The gig eventually came to an end several months later. They all do. It was somewhere around this time I got a phone call at three in the morning.  I made my home in Fort Worth, TX in those days. I picked the phone up half expecting it to be a horrific emergency or John. John was the only guy who didn’t give a rat’s ass about time and/or sleep. I answered the phone and on the other end was the upbeat cheerful voice of one of the world’s great optimists. John said and I quote, “It’s John….whatcha doing?” I am sure, I was not that upbeat. He went on to say and again I quote, “I am in Texas. Let’s have a beer. I need a lift.” I reminded him of the hour, my schedule and the fact that the geographic description “Texas” really didn’t pinpoint his location for any practical purposes.

To make a long story short (this is the first time I have actually taken this tact) I met up with John and he spent the next few weeks on my couch. It was a blessing. We spent a great deal of time together. We spent one last night in Texas before he resumed his journey back to California. We spent it in a place called The Cellar in downtown Fort Worth. It wasn’t far from the greyhound station and the joint had cheap drinks and a great jukebox. We took turns playing old Bob Wills, Jimmy Reed, Hank Williams and Freddy King records.

At two in the morning I put him on his bus. We laughed and hugged. We promised to do it again sometime. It was the last time I saw John. He died several months later in San Francisco.  

Last picture of the Brothers McMurray,1983: Mike, David & John

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On July 27, 1985 I got yet another one of those pre–dawn phone calls. It wasn’t John but my Mom and the news was not good.

Before I knew it I was on a plane heading straight into the whirlwind that is the organized and somewhat institutionalized world of the Catholic funeral and all its strange trappings.

The devastation and quite frankly intense shock that takes place when a young person dies can be overwhelming. This tragedy was no exception. It hit our family very hard. It also effected people who John knew for a relatively brief period of time. A woman named Robin was such a person. She was John’s girlfriend at the time of his death. They had met in San Francisco. She wanted to keep some of his possessions. This is the kind of thing that at the time was an extremely low priority to myself, my family and John’s closest friend, our brother Michael. 

I however came into possession of a pair of black, western style, leather boots owned by John. Relatively few people have a need for a pair of size thirteen cowboy boots. I wore them every chance I got. I had them re-soled more times than I can remember. I had them shined regularly. I wore them until the leather uppers wore out. They looked pretty fashionable with a pair of jeans on a Saturday night out in Texas. In California they were more of a conversation piece. The origin of the black boots, with the exception of a handful of confidants, remained a secret.

There was something far more important that Robin never gave up. It was John’s bass. It was something that meant a lot to my brother Michael. He discussed it with Robin. She insisted that it was hers and Mike being one of the most agreeable minds I have ever met, relented to her wishes. It meant so much to her that she loaned it out and lost track of it.

As the weeks, months and now years wore on, Mike’s acquiescence as far as the bass was concerned began to gnaw at him. He reached out to Robin again and people who knew John. The trail of the red G&L bass had grown cold.

As a genuinely soulful man, the pursuit of a material object is not Mike’s first instinct. The desire to have one of the few mementos of John was something that never went away and grew through the years .The bond these two brothers shared through the bass is a powerful one. The sentimental value it holds for Mike can’t be overstated.  

Mike has gone on to be a terrific bass player in his own right. He works out of Denver, CO. He has shared the stage with some of the greatest musicians of this or any era. He has his own Vintage Fender Precision Basses custom made to his own specs. He doesn’t need a 1980’s red G&L Bass for any practical reason. He would like it none the less.

Here are the specs: It is a red early 80’s G&L with no pick guard. It last known whereabouts (to us) was in 1985 in San Francisco. It was being played by John in a band called Air Tight Garage. The lead vocalist in the band was Sam Shipman. He passed away a few years ago. The guitar players name was Jay Crawford who still lives in South San Francisco. 

Anyone with information relating to this instrument should know Mike and I will pay fair market value and a reward for its return. No questions asked. My contact info is on this site. You are welcome to reach out to Mike as well at mcmurray61@gmail.com If you have questions feel free to be in touch.

I think it is important to note neither of us is delusional. We recognize this is a long shot at best. But lord knows stranger things have happened.

I would like to thank my brother Mike for his help with this piece.

Dedicated to our brother John 3-8-63 – 7-26-85

- David Mac