Micky could take a small, basic drum kit and make it sound big. He somehow created an almost indefinable, completely unique sound, almost like he was playing a pile of dustbins turned upside down. But man, like Charlie Watts, he always hit that snare in just the right spot. Always on the back side of the beat, with a carefully disguised consistency and precision that hit you deep inside every time that snare would crack. His Toms often sounded like someone falling down the stairs, but they always came across as perfect in their eccentricity. Listen to his solo drum ending on Jeff Beck’s, “Ain’t Superstitious” from the “Truth” album…it is completely, and uniquely Micky Waller. You always had a vague sensation that his drums might fall apart at any moment, which they did once in the middle of a take we were recording for Rod Stewart’s “Smiler” album at Morgan Studios in Willesden, London. We all heard a big crash in our headphones around the middle of the song, and looked over to see Micky peering out of a pile of drums on the floor. He didn’t seem too concerned though, and gave us a big smile. I also remember his beloved Boxer dog, Zak—they were inseparable. In fact he would often bring Zak to the studio with him, where he would usually sit quietly next to Micky’s drum kit…except for one hilarious time, which fortunately, is forever captured on vinyl. We were just starting Chuck Berry’s, “Sweet Little Rock n’ Roller”, and when Ron Wood launched into the opening guitar riff, Zak decided to begin barking his head off in a sort of back and forth improvisation with Ronnie’s guitar. We carried on recording the rest of the song, and it turned out so funny that Rod decided to keep it on the track.

In 1969, we formed a band together with Leigh Stephens called Silver Metre. Somebody recently gave me a live recording of a show we played at the Fillmore West in 1970…Micky was marvelous on the instrumental jam.

Mick and I travelled and shared a room for many miles during Long John Baldry’s first tour of America with his wonderful blues band. I played bass in that group, and we locked together as a rhythm section with the ease that can only come when you don’t have to think about it…you just play.

Mick was a true eccentric, who really belonged in a Dickens’s novel. We had many a good laugh together in that band. I remember one gig in particular, out there in Middle America somewhere, when Micky’s drum kit didn’t make it to the show for some reason, so he had to play the opening act’s kit. It turned out to be one of those giant drum kits that practically needs its own semi-truck to carry it around in— double kick drums, millions of tom toms, and so many cymbals that Micky was completely lost when he sat down behind it. He was so buried that you could hardly see him at all, just a slight tuft of curly hair sticking over the ride cymbal, and he later told me he had no idea how to begin playing the thing. After playing with Long John Baldry, who was a wonderful human being and a great talent, I moved to Mill Valley near San Francisco to play with John Cipollina. Mick would often call or write to me from England, to ask if I’d seen or heard from this girl named Felicia whom he’d become quite fond of during Long John’s tour. This went on for many years, even after I joined Jefferson Starship in 1974, and moved permanently to San Francisco—until he finally got it that I had no idea where she lived, and hadn’t seen her around town for years. He really liked her.

Micky was smart, eccentric, but also a bit off balance mentally and emotionally, at times almost verging on paranoid. He became so convinced that certain people in the music business were swindling him, that he actually obtained a law degree to make sure he was getting his full share of royalties. Of course, it may not all have been paranoia, and there are times when I wish I had done something like that myself.

Micky wasn’t for everybody—like most of us, he could have an irritating side to him. Nicky Hopkins would sometimes vent to me about him, mostly based on the time they had to room together when touring the U.S. with Jeff Beck. Then there was the time Long John Baldry’s wonderful piano player, Ian Armitt, a true Scott, got Micky in a stranglehold and had to be pulled off. Because Micky didn’t fit into the usual image of a rock ‘n’ roll musician, he was an easy target for practical jokes. Although practical jokes are usually in good fun, and harmless enough, when they were played on Micky they sometimes got a bit out of hand, and occasionally crossed the line.

He was vulnerable like that. There was a deep, indefinable loneliness about him. He was a bit of a know it all, and in fact he did know quite a lot about many things, and was a very smart fellow. But he wasn’t very well versed in the sort of things that are needed to make your way through this life in a relatively happy state. He had a great sense of humor, and we would often have a good laugh, mixed in with some pretty deep (to us anyway) discussions on life and philosophy, while sitting on an old wooden bench outside his favorite pub overlooking the river Thames in Richmond, London. After I moved to America to join Jefferson Starship in 1974, we pretty much lost touch, other than sending each other Christmas cards. But even they stopped coming about ten years ago. Jeannette and I would occasionally hear through Lucy, a close friend who also knew Micky well in the old days, and other mutual friends of his, that he’d been seen showing up at various functions, usually other peoples’ funerals, looking disheveled, very old and with an obvious drinking problem…he apparently didn’t look so good. I would like to have seen him one more time, but it’s too late now. Like most people, Micky was far too complex a character for one person to try to sum up in a few short paragraphs. I can only write down how I remember Mick based on our own special relationship, fashioned in the trenches of the music business so many years ago—like the time I checked myself out of a London hospital with a partially collapsed lung that hadn’t fully re-inflated yet. I needed to make the plane out of Heathrow in time for Long John Baldry’s first tour of the USA, and Micky kept an eye out for me through the first few days of the run, until I was fully recovered. Thanks Mick.

I almost called him last March when I was over visiting my 95 year-old mother…but didn’t have the time. I always seem to be attracted to people who live somewhat on the fringes of society. We were good mates.

Bye Mick…another old friend bites the dust.
Pete Sears