Mickey explains it all
I was listening to some acid jazz, and it just happened.
Mickey Walker is one of those cats who are in it for the ladies, hands down. The thrill of the show, standing ovations, the sweet smooth dazzling heights achieved when every note is just that note, the one you've been practicing for- all of it means nothing to him if there isn't a smilling honey or three waiting for him when the set's all done, three honeys all smiles and silk.
For them, Mickey plays mostly anything he can blow into: horn, sax, trombone, clarinet, suchlike. He never touches anything with strings, never touches the drums or the piano. Once, when inquired about this particular proclivity, Mickey got a kind of shiny look in his eye like he does sometimes, when you think he might have had too much to drink (but he hasn't), and tried to explain.
"You know when it's your birthday, and you get that real chill cake? And the little candles are stuck all in it, like hairpins? And you feel so full of- just so full, you know, like there's a typhoon in your chest, and when they tell you to blow out the candles, you feel like huffing and puffing so hard that the Big Bad Wolf turns over in his grave? "
Like he always does when he talks, Micky Walker gestured as he said this, gestured with his whole body. His wide mouth moved animatedly, in sync with his hands, arms, eyes and neck, all the little muscles bunching and jumping under his skin. It catches your eye.
"Take that feeling," he said, rolling his arms imploringly, "And make it as big as you can, and then bigger. Imagine it, you know? Got it pictured? Yeah? That's what I feel, straight and gone. I don't have time to waste with something that won't dance for me when I let it all out. I want it to dance, you know, like those crazy little candleflames on a birthday cake before they all blow out."
Mickey Walker is one of those cats who are in it for the ladies, hands down. The thrill of the show, standing ovations, the sweet smooth dazzling heights achieved when every note is just that note, the one you've been practicing for- all of it means nothing to him if there isn't a smilling honey or three waiting for him when the set's all done, three honeys all smiles and silk.
For them, Mickey plays mostly anything he can blow into: horn, sax, trombone, clarinet, suchlike. He never touches anything with strings, never touches the drums or the piano. Once, when inquired about this particular proclivity, Mickey got a kind of shiny look in his eye like he does sometimes, when you think he might have had too much to drink (but he hasn't), and tried to explain.
"You know when it's your birthday, and you get that real chill cake? And the little candles are stuck all in it, like hairpins? And you feel so full of- just so full, you know, like there's a typhoon in your chest, and when they tell you to blow out the candles, you feel like huffing and puffing so hard that the Big Bad Wolf turns over in his grave? "
Like he always does when he talks, Micky Walker gestured as he said this, gestured with his whole body. His wide mouth moved animatedly, in sync with his hands, arms, eyes and neck, all the little muscles bunching and jumping under his skin. It catches your eye.
"Take that feeling," he said, rolling his arms imploringly, "And make it as big as you can, and then bigger. Imagine it, you know? Got it pictured? Yeah? That's what I feel, straight and gone. I don't have time to waste with something that won't dance for me when I let it all out. I want it to dance, you know, like those crazy little candleflames on a birthday cake before they all blow out."