This account of Micky's funeral from Jules at the Manband Archive:
Just back home from Swansea. For those unable to be there in body I'm sure you were there in spirit.
It was a fitting service to commemorate Micky's talent and his qualities as musician and a gentleman. All Saints in Mumbles is a sizeable church, and was very well filled with family, friends, and colleagues. Many familiar faces in the pews, both from past and previous incarnations of Man, of the Bystanders and from many other facets of the South Wales musical fraternity.
A dignified and straightforward affair, Canon Evans made tribute to the esteem Micky is held in worldwide (mentioning the Independent's obituary published that same morning), as well as the more personal relationships closer to home. The choice of hymns, Morning Has Broken, and The Lord Is My Shepherd was as full of light and optimism as the service itself. An airing for Jeff Beck's 'Where Were You' provided a reflective break before Deke was invited to say a few words of remembrance.
Deke's eulogy was as warm and affectionate as you’d expect, and his delivery was note perfect despite admitting he was twanging like a banjo on the occasion. He noted that Frank Zappa no less had named Micky as one of his top ten guitarists in the world, whilst wondering why, unaccountably, Zappa had missed himself from that same list. He recounted how he could often do little but stand back in awe as Micky, unchained, would reel off lick after magnificent lick in an improvised solo. Micky would never play the same thing twice, because he never ran out of ideas. He would play until he wanted to stop, everything sounding so perfect you'd swear he'd worked it out the night before, but, as Deke reminded himself, he couldn't have, because they'd been together all night, and all Micky had done was snore and grind his teeth. Deke closed by marking the loss of a musical sparring partner, ally and co-conspirator for so many years and most importantly a best friend, who leaves behind a massive hole to fill.
Micky was laid to rest under the gently rolling slopes of Oystermouth Cemetery, looking out West to the estuary, to the Atlantic and beyond. That seems about right to me.
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