DISGRACELAND - Bill Murray: Airport Drug Busts, Backstage Brawls, and Crashing Elvis’s Burial

Episode Date: January 14, 2025

Before Bill Murray was busting ghosts and living in a loop of deja vu, he was a drug-dealing premed student with a knack for comedy. When he was caught with five bricks of pot at the airport, his career in medicine came crashing down, forcing him to make a living with his smart mouth. His obsession to rise above “medium talent” brought him to volatile blows with musicians, fellow actors, and even himself. Yet in his cockiest moments and most despairing lows, the universe always found a way to show Bill Murray he still had a lot to learn.What's your favorite Bill Murray performance? Do you have any Bill Murray stories? Let Jake know at 617-906-6638, [e-mail], or on socials @disgracelandpod.To listen to Disgraceland ad free and get access to a monthly exclusive episode, weekly bonus content and more, become a Disgraceland All Access member at disgracelandpod.com/membership.Sign up for our newsletter and get the inside dirt on events, merch and other awesomeness - GET THE NEWSLETTERFollow Jake and DISGRACELAND:InstagramYouTubeX (formerly Twitter) Facebook Fan GroupTikTok To learn more about listener data and our privacy practices visit: https://www.audacyinc.com/privacy-policy Learn more about your ad choices. Visit https://podcastchoices.com/adchoicesSee omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

This is exactly right. Double Elvis. Disgrace Land is a production of Double Elvis. This is a story about a bomb threat, about a drug bust, about the burial of a king, crashed by a court jester. It's about a fight with Chevy Chase backstage at SNL that almost aired live on national television. And it's about a world-renowned smart ass, a comedic actor who never fails to solve. avert and always succeeds in cutting me up. This is about Bill Murray, a great comic, a comic who is currently on tour making music, some of it great, I'm sure. Unlike that music I played for you at

the top of the show, that wasn't great music. That was a preset loop from my Melotron called Crashing the Party, MK2. I played you that loop because I can't afford the rights. to bridge over troubled water by Simon and Garfunkel. And why would I play you that specific slice of algebra teacher cheese, could I afford it? Because that was the number one song in America on September 20th, 1970. And that was the day Bill Murray was arrested for possession of over $20,000 in marijuana. An event that shifted his career course from drug dealer to comedy legend. On this episode, a bomb threat, a drug bust, burying a king, and brawling with Chevy Chase and Bill Murray.

I'm Jake Brennan, and this is Disgraceland. The ticket agent kept her voice down on the phone. No need to advertise that there might be a terrorist at O'Hare International Airport walking among them right the second. Thank God she didn't let him board that flight to Denver. Maybe she just saved a few dozen lives. And maybe they'd call her a hero. She whispered information to the U.S. Marshals on the line. The suspect was young, college age, brown hair, tall, definitely over six feet.

And he looked smug? Yeah, smug, with a big mouth that gave her a lot of lip when she wouldn't let him board the next TWA flight. It was against protocol to let someone board without an ID. And this kid had nothing to show for himself. If only he had a driver's license, he could prove. proved that he was, in fact, William James Murray, Bill to his friends. But the stewardess stood her ground. No ID, no entry. Bill then dropped the alarming comment. That's too bad. I wanted to get on because I got two bombs in my suitcase. Yeah, that wasn't

going to fly. And neither was he. September 21st, 1970, aka Bill Murray's 20th birthday, a.k.a. the day he was arrested for the first time. Of course, Bill Murray wasn't a terrorist. He dabbled in some nefarious ship, but the flight attendant had it all wrong. Bill wasn't a threat. He was just a drug dealer, a run-of-the-mill kid selling Jamaica's finest grass to get him through college. Bill was a student at Regis College in Denver, pre-med. Leafy Green Medicine was practically part of his education. technically he was healing people. Besides, every college kid needed a shitty job to help them scrape by. Bill just happened to opt for a gig that aligned with his career path

and traveled a country peddling pot by the kilo. It was a surprisingly rewarding job. Every time Bill returned to Denver, he had a new story to regale his friends with. Bill observed his clients carefully, made up little bits about their characteristics and quirks. It made him a better storyteller and an even more convincing actor. Bill already wasn't half bad at putting on a show. Thanks to years of taking roles in high school plays, it was a win-win job.

The stories from dealing grass elevated his wisecracks and kept cash in his pocket with zero repercussions. The police only sniffed them out once in some unremarkable Midwest town. It was the most podunk rag-tag team of cops Bill had ever seen. They arrested him for dealing, but had a release Bill when they lost the evidence. Other than that, pitiful running, Bill's record was squeaky clean until today. The ticket agent was watching him like a hawk. If this so-called terrorist was sweating it,

he sure didn't show it. Bill was down the hall tugging on the lockers. He felt around his pants pockets for change and found none. Just a personal check from his last client. client. No quarters meant no locker, which meant no place to stash the luggage he just called attention to. Now Bill started to sweat. There were five bricks of grass stashed in his suitcase, two pounds each worth 20 grand total. That's over $150,000 in today's money. It was too late for Bill to save himself. Chicago Vice detectives were already on the move, barreling towards him from down the hall. He had to think quick. Bill took the check from his pocket, stuffed it in his mouth, and swallowed. The mystery client was safe, but Bill wasn't.

The cops tore apart his luggage and found the weed, which was a welcome relief compared to what they thought they were searching for. But that relief didn't spare Bill a date in narcotics court. He was arrested and slapped with a charge for possession of marijuana. With no prior rap sheet, the court let him off with five years probation and no jail time. But Bill's days medicine were over as a dealer and a doctor. It would only be a matter of time until Regis College learned that one of their students not only made a bomb threat, but was also earning his tuition with illegal drug sales. And the entire ordeal was so stupid that it made the Chicago Tribune. The article mentioned Bill by name. Before Regis could expel him, Bill showed himself out. There would be no

flight back to Denver. He was stuck in the suburbs of Chicago now, back to Evanston, back home. For Bill Murray, home was where everything and nothing happened all at once. His parents' house crawled with nine children. And that was the everything. Bill was the fifth kid, a true middle child with all the textbook symptoms of craving attention. His child to the house was his first stage, a place where he commanded his parents' attention with goofy Jimmy Cagney impressions at the dinner table. Bonus laughs if he fell down and hit his head afterwards.

But outside of that house, there was a whole lot of nothing. Evanston was 20 miles north of Chicago, which meant it was 20 miles north of anything that could get your blood pumping. Bill pivoted between jobs, basic stuff like landscaping and surveying and laying concrete bricks,

which wasn't nearly as much fun or lucrative as transporting bricks of weed across America, by the way. And then he took shifts at Little Caesars as a pizza maker where he swiped chunks of raw dough to eat when no one was looking. He was that hungry. the pay was that bad. Life in Evanston just wasn't happening, and there was no promise,

no metaphorical stage to act out on. If you wanted culture, get ahead into the city, just like Bill's older brother did. Brian Murray had an apartment in the old town section of Chicago that Bill liked to visit. As it turns out,

entertaining ran to the family. Brian worked with a well-established improv troupe called the Second City. They were a wise, tracking set of jesters from Chicago, a perfect organization for Bill to fit into. It wasn't long before Bill was tagging along and taking improv workshops with the troop. It wasn't interstate drug dealing, but it was more interesting than whatever day job had him breaking his back for minimum wage. What's the worst that could happen?

Bill Murray walked off the stage, threw the wings of the theater, and right out the back door and toward the street. It was the only way to leave with dignity. This? This is the worst thing that could happen. Bill's on-stage comedy debut was, to be frank, disastrous. Bill bombed so badly that he didn't want to stick around and hear what people had to say. On the outside, he looked cool, but on the inside, Bill was breaking down. It was clear this comedy thing wasn't going to work out. Just like his attempts at becoming a dealer and a healer,

the confident smartass inside of him shrank away. He walked down the sidewalk. away from the theater. He kept going. He wasn't going to stop until he reached Lake Michigan. But when he got there, he would swan dive from this life into the next. Comedy was his third strike. He was out for good. His inner compass pointed toward Lake Michigan, toward the end. That was the right direction. He was sure of it. He gained speed and headed straight down Michigan Avenue. He didn't stop until he hit the Art Institute of Chicago. His compass told him to turn a corner and duck inside, and Bill brushed past the donation bin without even reaching for his wallet.

I mean, he was going to die, so what was the point? He didn't stop walking until he saw a painting that stopped him in his tracks. It was an oil on canvas piece by a peasant woman, barefoot in the fields with a scythe in her hand. The Song of the Lark by Jules Breton. The sun poked out on the horizon behind the woman. Her back turned away from the light, but the sun was was rising regardless. Bill paused. His compass spun out of control. Why was he following it? This compass was broken. Lake Michigan was the wrong direction, actually. It was so plain to see now. His inner smart ass piped up. That woman doesn't have a lot of prospects, but the sun's coming up anyway. She's got another chance. And so did Bill Murray. He stepped out of the museum and faced the

sunlight, Lake Michigan would have to wait. Your audience is under arrest. The voice on the megaphone cut through the crowd. People winced and threw their hands over their ears. The strong ones squinted and leaned forward in their seats to see who was admonishing them on stage. Was that Marlon Brando? Truman Capote? No.

It was John Belushi, dressed as an archbishop. It made no sense. wasn't supposed to. The core of the National Lampoon show was absolute nonsense. Committing blasphemy was child's play for these actors, especially for John Belushi. Belushi was the spirit of the lampoon incarnate, irreverent, witty, truly edgy.

We're talking about the National Lampoon, a publication that once published an issue with a dog on the cover, a pistol pointed straight out its head, with a caption that said, If you don't buy this magazine, we'll kill this dog. You get the idea. The National Lampoon Show made the magazine's caustic commentary leap from its pages and take form in actors such as Gilda Radner and Harold Ramos.

John Belushi even tapped Bill Murray, an up-and-coming comedy pal from Chicago to dine at this all-you-can-eat buffet of vulgar skits and cheap shots. Bill's flippant attitude made him a perfect fit for the Lampoon's traveling offendathon. The review toured American College in Canadian bars in the mid-1970s and eventually found a home off-Broadway at the new Palladium Theatre on West 51st Street. New York audiences gathered late at night to witness the cast Shok-Shlock brand of comedy. The wildest realities unfolded after midnight on stage at the

new Palladium. The skits were tasteless, but so was the audience. Crowds were rowdy, often, drunk, stoned, nightly brawls were inevitable. The show mostly brought up. the worst in people, in the crowd and the cast. The chatter in the audience hummed in Bill Murray's ear. It was incessant, like a buzzing fly. He tried to block out the noise as he acted out his skit, a shockingly normal number about living in the big city. Bill was used to heckling, but this was different. This was just plain rude. The National Ampoon Show actors were rude, too, but they were funny. Bill didn't see any humor in this situation. He projected his voice over the chit-chat.

Whoever was yucking it up in the front must not have heard how Bill dealt with pushy audience members. One drunk schmuck in Toronto was so mouthy that Bill personally pulled him into a back alley and broke his arm. He was prepared to do it again if he had to. Bill scanned the crowd for the asshole who couldn't keep his mouth shut, and the jerk was seated up front. Some blonde-headed prick who was nearly spilling his drinks on himself,

fully absorbed in a conversation with his buddy. His name was Martin Moll, a name you might recognize from his roles in 1980s comedy classics like Mr. Mom and Clue. Except those films didn't exist yet. In 1975, Martin Moll was a folk singer, years away from his first movie role. He opened for Billy Joel, for Randy Newman, who's a performer of that caliber. The point is, a performer of that caliber should have known how to behave when someone else was on stage. But Martin Moll was too shit-faced to keep quiet. So he didn't.

He talked non-stop. And then he took his fat mouth backstage to congratulate the crew on the great performance that he barely saw. Bill Murray had already heard enough. He recognized Martin Moll as the loudmouth from up front, and he instantly lunged at him. He wrapped his hands around the folk singer's throat. And this was no fist fight. Bill Murray was ready to wring Martin Mull's neck like a damp towel. I'll kill him.

I'll kill that fucker. Bill yelled as he pressed his thumbs into Martin's neck. Rage funneled into his fingertips. He talked through the whole thing. I fucking hate him. Belushi rushed over and pried Bill's hands off Martin's neck before he could do any real damage. Martin didn't stick around to say goodbye.

He made his exit. Staves left. Medium talent. Bill yelled as Martin rushed away. Medium talent. Bill was incensed. He had no interest in hanging around these half-ass phonies in their mediocrity. If Bill was going to be the best, he needed to be around the best, all the time, on the stage and off of the stage,

even if it meant catching a last-minute flight to Memphis. A rammed into the fence again, harder this time, and they had no reason to hold back. Soon their idol would be gone forever, never to be seen in the flesh ever again. A cemetery gate separated them from their last glimpse of the king, and that gate had to go. It was now or never. The crowd heaved into the back gate again, and their bodies a sweaty wrecking ball of the 90-degree Memphis heat. Helicopters hovered overhead. It was August 18, 1977.

The day America buried its only royalty. Elvis Presley had left the building. The king is dead. long live the king. Bill Murray watched the riot wrestle with the back gate at Forest Hill Cemetery, which, by the way, was where Elvis was initially buried

next to his mother before they were moved to the plot at Graceland. Bill shook his head. If they wanted to get inside the cemetery, they needed to be subtle, sneaky. Do something like hop on the press bus that was headed straight for Elvis's gravesite, just like Bill had done. He missed the actual viewing at Graceland.

The Presley family closed it off once they heard the National Inquirer was paying big money for photos of the king in his casket. Bill grabbed an empty seat on the press bus, though, and he headed into the cemetery regardless. It crawled forward at five or six miles an hour, stifled by the number of morning fans clogging the streets. The hearse inched along behind them, surely moving even slower. It would be a while before the king reached his final resting place. But when the bus finally pulled into the cemetery, Bill got a good look at the riot. The crowd never broke down the gate.

In fact, when Elvis made his grand entrance, Bill was the only person standing in the cemetery. The cops pulled in first, 24 of them in a row, each one eyeing Bill Murray like prey. Their militant glares told Bill everything he needed to know. One move, motherfucker, and your funeral will be next. So he froze in place, and people began to point, and they signaled Bill out, and they stared. Wait, were people recognizing him? Bill was a fresh face on Saturday night live.

SNL producer Lauren Michaels had freed Bill from his rut of rude comedy with the National Ampoohe Show earlier that year. But maybe he really was rising up in the ranks. On his way to being one of the greats, one of the best, just like Elvis. That's when Bill saw the name on the grave in front of him. Gladys Presley.

He was standing at the grave, of Elvis's mother. That was why people couldn't stop looking at him. It had nothing to do with Bill or SNL or fame. Bill Murray was just the guy who played characters like Nick the lounge singer on late night TV. In the presence of the king, Bill was the medium talent.

It was minutes before Saturday Night Live went on air, but no one was laughing. The cast members were. keeping to themselves backstage. The crew eyed tonight's guest hosts with distrust, and they were not fans. February 18th, 1978. Barely a year prior, Chevy Chase had been one of the vital members of SNL. Original cast member, the first anchor ever to host the satirical weekend update segment,

which remains part of the show today. Chevy was hot shit, and he knew it. And when he signed a three-picture deal with Universal, he made sure every single. everyone around him knew it, too. Chevy's departure from Saturday Night Live was less than graceful. He made it seem like he was graduating from TV to film while everyone else was a duntz being held back a grade. Yet SNL had been able to replace him in just five weeks.

In early 1977, Bill Murray filled the Chevy Chase-sized hole in the cast. He was back to working with Belushi, Gilda, and Harold Ramis again. The Lampoon Gang was back on their old bulls. shit. His old pals quickly brought Bill up to speed on Chevy Chase's whole deal, like how Chevy treated the rest of the actors as if he was better than them. And now, he was back, as tonight's guest host, the movie star mingling with the not ready for primetime peasants. There was an unspoken expectation that Bill would strike back. Knocked Chevy down a peg or two since he had the gall to show his face here again. Bill and his temper were happy to oblige.

No two stories about what happened next are exactly alike. And this thing is stuff of 30 rock legend, passed down from generation to generation with the details shifting in each retelling. But we do know it went something like this. Bill and Belushi were shooting the shit on the couch in a dressing room when Bill saw Chevy in his doorway. He told Chevi to knock off the Big Shot Act, and Chevy changed the subject and immediately went for the jugular. Said the acne scars on Bill's face looked like craters on the moon. Bill bit back and made a comment about Chevy's floundering second marriage.

Why don't you fuck your wife once in a while? She needs it. Then the gloves really came off. Bill sprang up from the sofa and charged toward Chevy. Chevy hopped into a fighting stance. Straight back, feet, shoulders like the part. Chevy knew out of scrap. He had an older brother who kicked the crap out of him. Even boxed for fun. Chevy was a pro. Chevy was a pro. in fist fights. To him, this was no sweat. Like David versus Goliath, and he sure wasn't David. Belushi launched off the sofa to block Chevy from the attack in the nick of time. Chevy threw punches that peppered Belushi's forehead. Bill's fist met the back of Belushi's scalp. It was a tangle of ego, screams, slaps, savage name-calling.

Another cast member eventually forced Chevy's arms behind his back and pulled him away. Chevy, dude, we have an opening monologue to do, like right the second. Chevy pivoted to hosting mode like a seasoned pro. As he made his way towards the stage, Bill chanted a familiar phrase at his back, Medium talent! Medium talent! But wait, what if Bill was the medium talent? After all, Chevy was SNL's first choice. S&L had hired Chevy first and left Bill behind to slink crude jokes with the National Lampoon show.

S&L didn't want him until after Chevy left for Hollywood. And if he was Chevy's replacement, then Chevy was medium talent. What did that make him? No, Bill didn't want to go there. His inner wise ass wouldn't even entertain the thought. His own break was coming. He knew it. He just had to wait it out a little longer.

His brother Brian had been working on a film script for ages and said he needed one more actor to round it out. Brian didn't even have a specific role for Bill yet. But he knew Bill could nail whatever was thrown his way. Better yet, he knew Bill would do it for cheap. The two brothers shook on it. Bill was going to be a movie star, and everything was going to be all... There was only one question that mattered at Rolling Hills in the summer of 1979. And it was this.

Do you take drugs? Good. Good. Drugs were in high demand at the Florida Golf Club that season. Not from their guests. From the camera crew, the club was foolish enough to allow on-site to film Brian Murray's movie, Caddyshack. Brian had written a movie about what he knew best, and that was life spent lugging clubs between the tea and the fairway. He and Bill pocketed plenty of cash working as teenage caddies, not unlike one of Caddyshack's main characters, Danny Noonan. Brian had a meager $6 million budget to replicate his experiences for Hollywood, and the dollars were already dwindling.

thanks to an unending supply of cocaine to keep everyone feeling all right, all the time. It started small, a little bump here and a quick hit there, and just a few grams at a time, but it was hard to curb the cast and cruise appetite. This wasn't just any old Coke. This was a pallet cleanser from the cheap stuff. It was pure. It was clean. It was like it was made to order straight from Columbia and directly up your nose.

Overindulging was easy. lines at lunchtime became normal. Quick bumps grew to binges by the ounce. The madness peaked when the cast and crew allegedly inhaled 80 grams of cocaine every week. And then there was the booze. That was even easier to overdo. You needed the right vice for the right situation. Cocaine was powdered energy.

It kept you upright on long days, getting down to the hard work of movie making. But alcohol was for killing time, especially when the element. in Florida trump the production schedule. Elements, like Category 5 hurricanes. Hurricane David ripped the path through the Dominican Republic, where its 125-mile-per-hour winds killed 2,000 people and left $1 billion worth of damage in its wake. And soon, Hurricane David's eye would be staring down at Florida,

so production on Caddyshack came to a halt. The party was over. Sort of. The cast and crew fled to their rooms to board up their windows. They kept all the essentials in stock, clean water in the bathtub, extra batteries for power outages, and enough booze to last them through hurricane season. And the film's budget shrank yet again, and it was about to shrink even further. One of the film's biggest expenses would arrive soon and drain $250,000 a week.

Brian had wildly underestimated the cost of paying his brother, who was now counted as a mainstay on the SNL Kavis. and did not come as cheap as previously thought. Hurricane David passed over rolling hells, though, without much harm. And before too long, the ominous storm clouds would park, and the Florida sun would beam over the golf course once again. Just like that day years earlier when Bill Murray stepped out of the Art Institute of Chicago and stepped into the light, it was a new day, a new beginning.

Chevy Chase stirred in bed. He looked at the clock in the nightstand. 3 a.m. It was too early for this. The knocking at his hotel door escalated to urgent banging. It was becoming clear that rolling over wasn't an option. Chevy stumbled to the door in the darkness. Two Murrays were on the other side.

Bill and Brian didn't bother with plastic. Pleasantries. Hey man, got any grass? No, Chevy didn't have any grass on him. Caddyshack was a cocaine crew. Weed was the light beer of this drug world. It was good enough, but why settle for good enough when you could get gacked? The Murray brothers didn't budge from the doorway. If there was any bad blood left between Bill and Chevy, Bill seemed willing to put it behind him for the sake of getting stoned. Besides, the tension from their fight at Saturday Night Live had dissolved while shooting their lone scene together in Caddyshack. You know the one. Where Chevi's character, Ty Webb, is forced to enter the dingy abode of Greenskeeper Carl Spackler. Spackler, played by Bill

Murray. Maybe it stroked Chevy's ego that he was playing the posh golf player, while Bill took the role of a crooked-mouth burnout living in his own filth. Bill even contributed to said filled directly. He provided the hustler center folds for the walls and the tattered car seat to use as Carl's couch. It's really awful, Chevy's character says as he scans the shack, right before Carl proudly shows him a type of grass he claims to have invented. A hybrid of Kentucky bluegrass, featherbed bent, and northern California since Amelia. Perfect for 36 holes by day. Even better for getting stone to the bejesus belt at night. It was a phenomenal scene, but Bill needed the real thing. right now. The unspoken question lingered in the air. All right, so who does have grass?

Younger members on the crew? Maybe, no, it would be too cheap, like smoking trash. They didn't need to go down the chain of command. They had to go up, right to the top. Chevy would be the gateway. He saw himself as the biggest source of star power in the entire movie, except for one man, Rodney Dangerfield. Now that was a man whose resume you really had to respect. He made so much bread headlining comedy shows in Las Vegas that he actually lost money to step away in film Caddyshack. Rodney Dangerfield hustled hard, laughed hard, and partied even harder. When he first visited the film studio, he arrived in a bright blue leisure suit, pulled out a bag of coke, did two lines on the spot and asked, where's the pussy? If anyone on set had drugs, it was Rodney, who, luck would have it, was just two doors down from Chevy.

Bill and Brian let Chevy do the talking as the so-called main star who could approach a comedy giant like Rodney Dangerfield. Rodney had some grass all right. The good stuff. Not the kind he gave away for free. Even to castmates. He'd need a fat wad of cash for this stuff. Rodney pulled a plastic baggie from a suitcase to dangle under their noses.

Bill and Brian ponied up a few hundred bucks between the two of them and walked away with Rodney's stash. It wasn't until they got into some decent lighting that they saw. saw what they had actually just copped. It was just a bag of seats. Rodney sold them a glorified, Grow Your Own kit. And the smartasses had been outsmarted.

One former drug dealer swindled. Some folks might have been pissed. Bill, Brian, and Chevy just laughed it off. Apparently, they still had a lot to learn. In a rare occurrence, three egos went up in smoke at Rolling Hills that night. Anything less would have been a dismal. I'm Jake Brennan, and this is disgrace land.

All right, this week's question of the week is, which Bill Murray performance from which film is your favorite and why? There are so many iconic options, life aquatic, stripes, lost in translation, and also, if you have any Bill Murray experiences, if he's ever served you a drink or crashed to your house party in Brooklyn, or pet your dog, whatever, I want to know about it. Hit me up and let me know, and we will discuss. us in this week's after-party bonus episode.

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