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Gonzo Report: Bill Murray slips in and sings at The Sound
With rare birds like Murray, you have to let them come to you
"Ubiquitous" and "elusive" are two words that come to mind when I think of Bill Murray. Or maybe I mean the two qualities that I admire about him, however difficult it may seem to square them with one another. Elusive, like the jaguar shark that devours his friend in The Life Aquatic, and yet ubiquitous, given some of the urban legends that surround the SNL alum. One story has him walking up to a stranger at the airport, eating a French fry off her plate, then saying, “No one will ever believe you.” It’s also been said that he was found on a construction site reading poetry to the workers, at a college party washing everybody’s dishes, and jumping into a couple’s engagement photos. Reactions to his sudden presence are genuine, because it’s always so unexpected.
With rare birds like Murray, you have to let them come to you. If you try to get too close, they will fly away. When it was revealed that the actor would be playing with His Blood Brothers at Del Mar’s Sound, I saw it as an opportunity to catch a glimpse.
This hunt would require the proper dosages of red wine, coffee, stealth, and psilocybin. Others would be welcomed into my vibrational field, but I preferred to take this mission on myself. The mission? I guess just to watch from a distance and enjoy myself, really. Maybe it was to imitate the master by performing random solo acts of weirdness. But if you ever find me at an SDSU party washing dishes, please do take me home. Thanks, man.
I arrived at the Sound and things felt familiar: the ticket booth, the line to enter, a quick wand down by security, and I was in. Meanwhile, somewhere on the grounds, there was a fuckin’ ghostbuster getting ready to slap some nighttime bongos. Like all good hunters, I stayed patient and checked my breathing. A quiet burp escaped from my mouth. The 18-dollar glass of red wine I held in my hand was the last ingredient for the chemical combo that would give me the nutrients I needed to withstand an October evening out.
Once I established my spot near the stage, I did not dare leave. I was supposed to be standing where I was standing for a few hours of my life. If I got hungry, too bad. If I had to piss, hold it. If my car was on fire back at home, let it burn. Boots planted, I was not leaving my position.
Switch to present tense. The lights go out. The stage begins to fill with the shadows of musicians about to play. I’m not sure if there’s an opening act. Nobody is. It was never revealed. A man holding a saxophone steps forward as the stage lights come back up. It’s Blood Brother Jimmy Carpenter, getting ready to blow his horn. It turns out he’s opening things up. A-one, a-two, a-you-know-what-to-do. A bluesy bass line drops. I look around, and see a blue-collar crowd wearing dirty work boots. I hear the disgruntled chatter about job sites, the boss’s shitty nephew who keeps getting caught sleeping at work, and how Da Bears’ defense is stinking things up this year despite being on a small win streak.
When Carpenter’s set ends, there’s a break in the action. It’s Thursday night and pushing 9:30 at this point. The restless potbelly next to me gripes something about having to go to work in the morning. Again, the stage begins to fill up. Everyone is looking for the elusive one. Music starts. A mysterious figure in light clothing lurks in the back by the drums, shaking a rice shaker. It’s Murray. He stays back there for the first couple of songs before finally revealing himself. The cameras come out. The guy next to me doesn’t put his camera away all night. Murray eventually steps up and sings songs with the Bros. It’s fun. Work boots are moving on the floor. Drinks and spirits are hoisted.
On my way out, I catch a dude dressed up as Steve Zissou (Murray’s oceanographer character from The Life Aquatic). His name’s Phil. Funny, Phil is the name of Murray’s character in Groundhog Day, I think to myself. “Never thought I’d see Bill Murray in person,” he says to me. When we part, I hang for a while, then call an Uber. It’s just seven minutes away. When the black sedan pulls up, I get into the backseat. The driver turns around and I realize this ride comes courtesy of the psilocybin. Because I see a sweaty Bill Murray. “No one will ever believe you,” he says.
Here's something you might be interested in.
Gonzo Report: Bill Murray slips in and sings at The Sound
With rare birds like Murray, you have to let them come to you
Gonzo Report: Bill Murray slips in and sings at The Sound
With rare birds like Murray, you have to let them come to you
"Ubiquitous" and "elusive" are two words that come to mind when I think of Bill Murray. Or maybe I mean the two qualities that I admire about him, however difficult it may seem to square them with one another. Elusive, like the jaguar shark that devours his friend in The Life Aquatic, and yet ubiquitous, given some of the urban legends that surround the SNL alum. One story has him walking up to a stranger at the airport, eating a French fry off her plate, then saying, “No one will ever believe you.” It’s also been said that he was found on a construction site reading poetry to the workers, at a college party washing everybody’s dishes, and jumping into a couple’s engagement photos. Reactions to his sudden presence are genuine, because it’s always so unexpected.
With rare birds like Murray, you have to let them come to you. If you try to get too close, they will fly away. When it was revealed that the actor would be playing with His Blood Brothers at Del Mar’s Sound, I saw it as an opportunity to catch a glimpse.
This hunt would require the proper dosages of red wine, coffee, stealth, and psilocybin. Others would be welcomed into my vibrational field, but I preferred to take this mission on myself. The mission? I guess just to watch from a distance and enjoy myself, really. Maybe it was to imitate the master by performing random solo acts of weirdness. But if you ever find me at an SDSU party washing dishes, please do take me home. Thanks, man.
I arrived at the Sound and things felt familiar: the ticket booth, the line to enter, a quick wand down by security, and I was in. Meanwhile, somewhere on the grounds, there was a fuckin’ ghostbuster getting ready to slap some nighttime bongos. Like all good hunters, I stayed patient and checked my breathing. A quiet burp escaped from my mouth. The 18-dollar glass of red wine I held in my hand was the last ingredient for the chemical combo that would give me the nutrients I needed to withstand an October evening out.
Once I established my spot near the stage, I did not dare leave. I was supposed to be standing where I was standing for a few hours of my life. If I got hungry, too bad. If I had to piss, hold it. If my car was on fire back at home, let it burn. Boots planted, I was not leaving my position.
Switch to present tense. The lights go out. The stage begins to fill with the shadows of musicians about to play. I’m not sure if there’s an opening act. Nobody is. It was never revealed. A man holding a saxophone steps forward as the stage lights come back up. It’s Blood Brother Jimmy Carpenter, getting ready to blow his horn. It turns out he’s opening things up. A-one, a-two, a-you-know-what-to-do. A bluesy bass line drops. I look around, and see a blue-collar crowd wearing dirty work boots. I hear the disgruntled chatter about job sites, the boss’s shitty nephew who keeps getting caught sleeping at work, and how Da Bears’ defense is stinking things up this year despite being on a small win streak.
When Carpenter’s set ends, there’s a break in the action. It’s Thursday night and pushing 9:30 at this point. The restless potbelly next to me gripes something about having to go to work in the morning. Again, the stage begins to fill up. Everyone is looking for the elusive one. Music starts. A mysterious figure in light clothing lurks in the back by the drums, shaking a rice shaker. It’s Murray. He stays back there for the first couple of songs before finally revealing himself. The cameras come out. The guy next to me doesn’t put his camera away all night. Murray eventually steps up and sings songs with the Bros. It’s fun. Work boots are moving on the floor. Drinks and spirits are hoisted.
On my way out, I catch a dude dressed up as Steve Zissou (Murray’s oceanographer character from The Life Aquatic). His name’s Phil. Funny, Phil is the name of Murray’s character in Groundhog Day, I think to myself. “Never thought I’d see Bill Murray in person,” he says to me. When we part, I hang for a while, then call an Uber. It’s just seven minutes away. When the black sedan pulls up, I get into the backseat. The driver turns around and I realize this ride comes courtesy of the psilocybin. Because I see a sweaty Bill Murray. “No one will ever believe you,” he says.
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