BEWARE OF MR. BAKER (2013)

Jay Bulger climbs into the seat of his car after conducting the last interview with the subject of his film. Ginger Baker, mad-eyed and screaming, is doing his pieces, jabbing the heavy silver handle of his walking cane through the open window. “Are you really going to hit me with your stick?” asks Bulger nervously but with a hint of a come-on. “I fucking am! I’m gonna put you in fucking hospital!” WHACK. Blood streams for the bridge of his nose.

If it can ever be considered lucky to get walloped in the face by a crazed pensioner Jay Bulger struck lucky there as it gave a handy framework to his film and underscored (should it need underscoring) what an unpleasant individual Ginger Baker is. The sign at the entrance to his South African home - “Beware of Mr Baker” - was no idle threat.

When Ginger was four his dad died in war but left him a letter to be opened when he reached fourteen. In it he advised, “Be a man at all times. Your fists are your best pals”. As Beware of Mr. Baker unravels (the title taken from the sign that greets visitors to Baker’s South African home) it appears to be the only advice Ginger has ever taken.     

The story of his colourful life is mostly told - often begrudgingly - by Ginger himself; propped up in his armchair, shaking smoking and swearing like a thirsty Father Jack Hackett. A raft of famous musicians chip in about what an incredible talent he is whilst a host of family members talk about what a dreadful man he is. His first wife (four and counting) and children deserve credit for telling their parts with such good humour considering the awful episodes he put them through.

Beware of Mr. Baker is no Searching For Sugar Man; no heart-warming tale. It is, however, frequently funny due to Ginger being, how shall I put it, a bit of a character. When Bulger asks a question he doesn’t like he quickly snaps. When recounting his early days in the jazz clubs with Alexis Korner’s Blues Incorporated he mentions “Graham”. Bulger asks him to clarify, for the sake of the film, who Graham was. An exasperated Baker replies through gritted teeth and thinks of the money, “Graham Bond was a fat guy”. It is left to the likes of Jack Bruce and a debonair Charlie Watts to fill in the gaps.

Blues Incorporated, Graham Bond Organisation, Cream, Blind Faith, Airforce and his later musical excursions get covered as does his restless wanderings and lunatic capers in Hawaii, Jamaica, Nigeria, America, Italy and South Africa where the only things he gave a toss about were his polo horses, his dogs and his drums.  

Cream - we are told by a succession of rock star drummers - were the first progressive band, the first super group, the first band to play big arenas, the first band to play long jams, the first band to break away from the chains of pop, the band instrumental in giving birth to heavy metal and Ginger was the pioneer of the rock drummer. If that’s not a terrible rap sheet I don’t know what is.

But do not, under any circumstances, refer to Ginger as a “rock drummer”. He is, he insists, a “jazz drummer” and claims his gods are Phil Seamen, Max Roach, Art Blakey and Elvin Jones who are now dear friends who are “worth more to me than anything in the world”. I doubt his son - who Baker told he didn’t care what happened to him - would contradict that statement. The footage of Ginger playing drums alongside those fellas is brilliant and maybe, just maybe, he is almost as great as he thinks he is. “It’s a gift from God. You’ve either got it or you haven’t; and I had it.”

I disliked Baker after reading his autobiography Hellraiser and there’s little here to change my opinion but as an entertaining subject for a film, he’s box-office gold.

Beware of Mr. Baker, written and directed by Jay Bulger, is in selected cinemas or can be watched on-line (£10) at Curzon Home Cinema.

HELLRAISER by GINGER BAKER

I wouldn’t expect Nick Kent to challenge Art Blakey to a drum battle and I don’t expect Ginger Baker to raise the bar in music writing but even by rock autobiography standard this is disappointing. Never the easiest person to warm to, there’s little here to thaw Baker’s public persona. Showing little emotion (beyond the occasional burst of anger) he comes firmly from an era and a mindset where men were men and spoke with their fists, women were always chicks, and homosexuals were nancy boys. He leaves an impression of a sexist, snobbish, arrogant thug full of an inflated sense of self importance.

There’s no disputing his prowess behind the drums (as he relates countless times) nor the standard of bands he played with during the early 60s jazz scene and then the Graham Bond Organisation, Cream, Blind Faith, Airforce and all his African projects yet nothing is given a context; there’s no sense of changing eras or environments, just a loop of drums-drugs-chicks-fights, with a few road traffic accidents and horses thrown in. When a book about a musician doesn’t create the urge to discover or rediscover their music you know there’s something wrong. And when all the would-be interesting music stuff is confined to the first half of the book the second half is a chore.

I had to laugh though when he bleats like a child about his lack of song writing royalties from Cream. The way he tells it he should be entitled to a share of the royalties because he changed the intro to “White Room” from 4/4 time into a 5/4 bolero. That’s not really how song writing works dear boy. I might record Clapton’s “Wonderful Tonight” in the style of the Ramones tomorrow and see if Eric will cut me in for a slice.

There’s no need for another Rock Star’s My Drug Hell saga but his drug addiction is so lightly touched on there’s little appreciation for it. Maybe it was no big deal. The most memorable thing about first taking smack was it enabled him the complete a couple of crosswords. Elsewhere his callousness is startling: events such as abortions are passed over in two lines. He then gives up said chick as his polo club deems she comes from too poor a family. Charmed, I’m sure. Likewise, if he refers to the death of a close friend as “sad” you can call that a deep show of emotion. At his own son’s wedding service he fell asleep and acted like a dick all day without a shred of remorse.

Baker also whinges about – and stopped publication of – other biographies about him, referring to them as “crap”. Hellraiser, and his reluctance to open up and move beyond A to B to C, leaves the reader wondering if instead of being crap they merely got closer to an even more uncomfortable truth.

Hellraiser by Ginger Baker is published by John Blake, priced £18.99

PS: How bloody great does Eric Clapton look in that picture?