Never an easy man to like but unquestionably a drummer of unbeatable
skill and precision, Ginger Baker just happened to be the first rock star I
spoke to on the day I joined the staff of Melody Maker, a Monday in May, 1970. Charged by the then News
Editor Laurie Henshaw with writing a story about Airforce, the group that
Ginger formed after the dissolution of Blind Faith, I spoke to him on the
phone, a call arranged by Mike Housego, the publicist at his management
company, the Robert Stigwood Organisation.
Ginger was
friendly enough, quite chatty in fact, and clearly proud of the new band he’d
formed. It was called Airforce but in the event it was a bit too ambitious, with about 12 musicians vying for room,
including Steve Winwood and Ric Grech from Blind Faith, as I found out for
myself a few weeks later when I went to see them play at the Revolution Club on
Bruton Street off Berkeley Square. The ‘Rev’, as it was called, was a trendy
nightspot, a bit upmarket, and not really suitable for Ginger’s new band, with
a stage barely large enough to contain them and a low roof that did few favours
to the acoustics. The show was a bit ragged, a bit too many cooks spoil the
broth and, being as how Ginger was in charge, a bit too percussive for me. I
can’t remember what I wrote but I suspect it wasn’t too flattering.
Ginger next
arrived in my orbit at my MM
colleague Chris Welch’s wedding in December, 1971. He was an invited guest and although
he didn’t show for the ceremony I vividly recall his presence at the reception,
in a church hall at Blackheath, south east of London. He’d parked his blue Jenson
Interceptor on the pavement outside, a bit inconsiderately I thought, and he strolled
in smoking a huge spliff, as big as a cigar. Spotting Chris in conversation
with the vicar who’d conducted the service, Ginger joined them, chatting away about
something or other. I sidled up and watched as the great drummer took a puff on
his joint and blew out the smoke all over the bewildered cleric, a look of
mild apprehension spreading across his innocent, saintly face. Later, Ginger attacked a drum
kit that had been set up on a small stage, joining a number of other guests,
including, as I recall, various members of Yes, ELP, Jon Hiseman, Peter Frampton,
Marc Bolan and, of course, Chris Welch himself, who was no slouch behind a kit. Chris later told me that Ginger had given him a bag of grass as a wedding present.
And that was it
until 2005 when I beheld Ginger with the reunited Cream at the Royal Albert
Hall. For my friend Tony Fletcher’s iJamming website I wrote: “I was especially
impressed with Ginger, a skinny, sinewy, snappy little chap, fit as a fiddle,
wide-awake and smacking those drums like he was cracking a whip. He’s not
ginger any longer, more off-white actually, bespectacled too, and he reminded
me of old man Steptoe…
“As for the
highlights, I rather liked Ginger’s novelty song, ‘Pressed Rat And Warthog’,
which he concluded with a droll announcement: ‘I’d like to inform you all that [a very long list of items of clothing] are
available, all with the word Cream written on them.’ He made it sound for all
the world as if he was completely new to – but much delighted by – the concept
of band merchandising, a nice touch….
“‘White Room’
was lively and brought the house down, as did ‘Toad’, Ginger’s solo; the first
drum solo I’ve heard in years which, contrary to expectations, I found myself
enjoying. It was as if the coiled spring inside this wiry little fellow, which
had kept the band on a fairly tight leash throughout the night, was finally
allowed to unravel.”
In 2009, I was
approached at Omnibus Press by a literary agent seeking a publisher for
Ginger’s autobiography, subsequently published by a rival company a year later as
Hellraiser and largely written, I
believe, by his daughter Nettie. The agent wanted a lot of money and, weighing
up the pros and cons of working with Ginger, I respectfully declined. There
were lots of errors in the manuscript I read, and I didn’t fancy sitting across
a table and pointing these out to the great man. “Er, Ginger the boss of Island Records is called Chris Blackwell, not Chris Blackmore. I think you're getting him mixed up with the guitarist in Deep Purple.” “Deep fucking who? Fuck off!” I was being a coward, of
course, but when I mentioned this to friends later they all seemed to think I’d
taken the wisest course.
Still, Ginger
Baker is a name that conjures up all that was magic about the flowering of rock
in the sixties, when musicianship was all the mattered, and when offbeat characters
like Ginger represented an ideal that seems to have been lost amid the tepid temperaments and overt commercialism of today’s music world. Ginger had charisma in spades and was,
pardon the pun, the cream of rock drummers, indomitable in the ‘top drummer’ section
of Melody Maker’s annual Readers’
Poll when I was on the paper. RIP if you can, you old devil.
As is clear from the watermark, the picture at the top of
this post was taken by Barrie Wentzell, MM’s chief contributing photographer
between 1965 and ’75. Captioned Top Of
The Pops, 1967, it features Cream, with Ginger up front, Jack Bruce (left)
and a permed Eric Clapton (right).
Hi Chris, I'm a journalist at the BBC News Channel. Trying to get in touch with you to see if we can set up an interview (probably via skype or facetime) to talk about Ginger Baker.What is the best way to get hold of you? You can call 020 361 42424 - if you'd prefer to call me! All the best, Sam
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