Punk's Still Not Dead
Murphy's Law front man Jimmy Drescher, aka Jimmy G., is one of the unsung pioneers of so-called alternative music. That's him in the video for the Beastie Boys' "Fight For Your Right (To Party)," busting through the door with the other hooligans. He's on the Mighty Mighty Bosstone's first album, recorded long before the Beantown ska-punks became the darlings of rock radio. And then there's that little club on the Bowery. Maybe you've heard of it? Murphy's Law has played dozens upon dozens of shows at CBGB's over the years, probably hundreds. When he wasn't on the bill Jimmy was there anyway, diving off the stage, slamming in the pit.
Originally formed in Astoria, Queens, Murphy's Law has been at it for more than 20 years, preaching to the angst-ridden with their smart-ass lyrics and high-octane blend of punk, metal and ska. They played their earliest shows in 1983, raising hell in long-gone Lower East Side joints like A7 and 171A. Since then they've toured the world, sharing the stage with everybody from Fishbone and the Reverend Horton Heat to Agnostic Front and Clutch.
Haunting dive after dive, club after club, Jimmy G. and the boys consistently rock the house with sing-along hardcore anthems like "Panty Raid," "Quest for Herb" and "Sit Home and Rot." Their aptly named "Ska Song" plays like a rougher, looser version of Sublime, while the thrasher "Crucial Bar-B-Q" heckles all those self-important straightedge kids that don't eat meat. Their reggae-punk epic "Bong" pretty much speaks for itself.
A party band in every sense of the term, their live shows are notorious, their annual Halloween and New Year's Eve gigs are the stuff of legend. They're also responsible for one of the greatest spectacles of concert violence I've ever seen.
It happened in Tampa, Fla., in the mid-1990s. In addition to the usual assortment of punks, skaters and surfers, there was a thuggish pack of neo-Nazi skinheads in the crowd that night, bullying the smaller kids, insulting the bands. Taunted by this rabble, Jimmy G. leaned down from the stage and started chewing them out. One of the Nazis grabbed him, pulled him toward the ground. Big mistake. Jimmy G., in a blur of fists and elbows, pummeled at least six of them. In the meantime, maybe five feet from my face, guitarist Todd Youth brought the body of his Les Paul down right on one of their heads. It was like watching John Henry swing his mighty hammer. The Nazis fled to the hospital; Murphy's Law retook the stage like conquering heroes and played a full, blistering set.
Don't expect anything quite so bloody Friday night in Brooklyn, just some kick-ass punk songs devoted to life's finer things: booze, weed, slam dancing and sex. And if you get a chance, shake Jimmy G.'s hand. He's what the history books call a living legend.