“It has been some time since I've admired an album as much as Chris Walters’ "Yay! Everybody, Yay". Well recorded and category-free, it's like setting your Pandora to a vaguely foreign film-noir meets classic jazz meets . . . well, whatever comes to Chris's fertile imagination . . . station from an alternative universe where artists flourish. It's an effort that I think many of us would consider in our best moments and then reject as unrealistic. Quite impressive.” - Bob Mater, musician/producer "This is music that makes you want to write poetry, not a review. Walters' pallet is so colorful it's like a stroll through the world's largest museum, or cocktails at a sidewalk cafe." -Austin Belmear, Jazz & Blues Beat "Once, on a gig, after he had played some choruses on a tune, I told him that I was astounded. It was as if with his solo he had successfully impregnated his lover through a hole he had made in her side. Hardly orthodox, but their consummation was complete and their child was beautiful. His influences remain elusive, uncategorized. If you get too close you’ll get some on you. Scrub it off or let it change you. Change you so you are textured, ripe with nuance, beautifully marked with many truths. Careful what you say…he’ll make it his own just to show you that you spoke a thread of truth. Saint Saens, Ginastera, Cole Porter, Walt Whitman, a little girl, the rhythmic pulse of machinery, and you. A south African shanty, smell of coriander, smoke of a dung fire, the pungent tang of the people crowded around. A blue smoked jazz joint in Manhattan early 60’s. Paris 1932. I slip into a bar mainly to get out of the rain only to have the dangerous chanteuse Josephine sing to me. Singing though me. Happily cashing in my soul in a dank Parisian alley bar. Everything held dear no longer matters ….red eyed and absinthe-minded. Opening a dangerous box. Playing with the stuff you were told to fear. My grandmother is alive as a young girl in love, hating having to say goodbye again. Her Victrola finishes playing that tune for the fifth time. Shuuk, shuuk, shuuk, shuuk. I cringe as I hear someone call me for dinner. I reach over and start the record again." - Danny Coots