Step Into The Living Room
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At Crenshaw and Adams, in South Central Los Angeles, there's this little bar. If you get there early--around 8:30 or so--you'll probably find parking around back, and maybe even a seat when you go inside. Dress nicely, like maybe you're going to church; this bar has the sort of clientele for which you want to show your respect--don't ask me why, you just do. It's called The Living Room, and you're going to want to hunker down there a while.
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The
Red Hot Mama Herself
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Go to The living Room on a Sunday night, because that's when Mickey sings. Mickey Champion. This is what it's like; this is why you go: You'll probably enter through the back, where you'll find the smokers (can't smoke inside anywhere in LA). The place has gated the tiny patio off for these ostracized folk. Some friendly older man swings the gate open for you and welcomes you in. There's no cover, and chances are by the look of you, they don't need to ask for ID. They all just smile, nod there heads--a few may even tip a hat--and show you the way. The way is long and narrow, lined with cheap wooden paneling alternating strips of mirror, and the room it opens into isn't much wider. It is long though--long and thin like a boxcar--tables on the left, bar on the right. Back here, where you're standing, there's a step up to a cozy little banquette.
Everybody at The Living Room will smile at you, assuming you're the type to smile back. A little after eight, you'll find an elegantly dressed crowd of African-American men and women in their 50s or so. As the evening progresses, the crowd mixes up: every color, every age. They're all there to see Mickey. She's a blues singer, if you want to call her something as simple as that. Red Hot Mama might be a more appropriate title. She's a little fireplug of a woman, apparently somewhere in her seventies, but who knows, and that's not polite. And maybe she's dressed in a white, spaghetti-strapped, fringed flapper's dress, with a white crocheted skull cap. Or maybe the cap is red to match some fiery ensemble. Mickey'll shake your hand and give you a kiss as she works the crowd. Then she's going to slap you down with that voice when she starts to sing. I guess you'd call this place a juke joint.
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Slick
Rick and the Sax Man
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The sign says that Mickey and her trio go on at 8:30. At around 8:45 some guy wanders up to the tiny stage and sets his sax on a stand. Later the drummer sets up his kit while the bass player, Slick Rick, crams his amp on top of the juke box--the best juke box in the city, if you like the blues. Rick, by the way, is darling. He's about 20 feet tall and thin as a rail. He's wearing a gray suit that sets off his salt and pepper hair and his trademark black gloves with the finger tips cut off like Fagin. His age is kind of hard to judge. Anywhere between 18 and 40. I actually know his age, but it's somehow better not to know.
When the guitar player shows, these guys will play a set. It's good music, but I've got to admit, I don't know shit about the blues. I just go to experience Mickey. And when she finally stands up in front of that 5 x 5 stage and starts singing, I'm too hypnotized anyway. I feel like I've gone back in time to a hipper world where I've suddenly become cool just by knowing about Mickey Champion. She's all the brilliant singers I've only read about or heard on scratchy vinyl. She fills that long room with a bluesy wail. As she steps away from the band and goes off mic, Mickey makes me want to get on my knees and testify to something, anything, because I've never actually heard a live person make a sound like that, all for my pleasure. And it is indeed such a pleasure.
--Joanna Rubiner
There's a short bio of Mickey Champion at http://www.hob.com/sixdegrees/mickeyChampion