Mr Baker

The real drummer seldom plays the minimum. He seeks to find how far he can go - not for himself but for the sake of the music. 

I got into this game because of Ginger Baker. October 1967. Ginger Baker. At the Saville Theatre, London. In front of the hippest crowd on the planet. With me there too. Ginger Baker. With Cream. Opening with Tales Of Brave Ulysses. Jack Bruce with a voice borrowed from heavy metal angels. Ginger Baker. And Eric Clapton in Hendrix fuzz and granny shades and playing guitar that was not of this earth. Ginger Baker. 

Ginger would tell me to fuck off if I were ever to get close to him. But he changed my life. Fucking Ginger Baker.

On Ginger’s website there’s a video of him playing We’re Going Wrong. When Cream played that song live, Jack Bruce’s vocals went to the limit. And sometimes Clapton’s guitar did the same. But Ginger Baker. Watch that video and you will see how far a drummer can go - for the song. Because he has to. That is real drumming.

Air On A G Harp

Strange things have been happening in the world of harmonicas...

I've been hard at work with Russ Payne and the Shark Dentists recording our second album – the first was more or less a 'live' album, but this one is the full all-original works, featuring guest musos, sort of 'Sgt Pepper's Rocking Blues Club Band'.

It's actually called 'In Love With Trouble' and should be up on iTunes, Amazon etc before too long... as well as appearing in traditional CD form.

Anyway, to start a long story that I may not be able to cut short... the final track was an acoustic number which seemed to be crying out for a violin solo. But as sessions went by and the violinist couldn't make any of the dates... it was decided that the song was actually asking for a blues harp solo.

I play occasional harmonica with the band, but of the six harps I had with me, not one of them was in the right key.

I just had the week between the penultimate session and the final one to buy (and play in) a Marine Band harmonica in the key of G.

Checking by phone to make sure I didn't have a wasted journey to a local music store, I found that they didn't have a G harp in Brighton, they didn't have a G harp in Eastbourne. Or Haywards Heath. Or Lewes. Oh well, it would have to be the Charing Cross Road in London.

I called Macari's, where I usually buy harps, and they didn't have one either. "There's a problem with Hohner sending over harmonicas in the key of G from Germany," I was told. "What kind of problem?" They didn't know.

Days were going by and I was getting desperate. I emailed Hohner in Germany to ask what had happened to the flow of G harps. More days went by and there was no word.

In the midst of this I had to attend my son's graduation ceremony at the Rose Theatre, Kingston. A quick googling revealed a music shop almost next door to the theatre: Hand's Music.

I phoned them, expecting the usual apology. But the man who answered said: "Yes, we've got three of them." "All in G?" "Yes."

Reader, I reserved a G harp and picked it up next day. And shortly after that I was in the studio, playing the last solo on the last track of the album, ready for the last mix. And it came out all right – probably because it had been such a long, hard road to get that damned harmonica there and in front of the microphone.

I still haven't heard from Hohner... But Hand's is my new favourite music shop.

Tales From The Sticks - Two

It's very late, but I did promise more on drum sticks...

That was because I was getting some funny looks on the train on the way into London, when I spent a considerable amount of time winding large, blue rubber bands around the ends of a couple of old sticks.

They were a present, of sorts, for a stickless drummer who needed a pair of beaters which could also be reversed to double as ordinary sticks. I had to pass them on to someone who could then pass them on to him in time for a special performance (which I couldn't get to).

Special, because it was born out of a series of music workshops at Crisis (the charity for the homeless) where I've been doing volunteer work for several months, as part of my training to be a music workshop leader.

And a present, because if I'd passed on a pair of my own beaters/sticks, I might not have seen them again.

Appalled at the number of red rubber bands deposited on the streets by postal workers, I had found a while back that they could be used to create rubber beaters of varying sizes, simply by wrapping them around and around the ends of old or damaged sticks.

Hence my quick manufacture of a pair on the London train. With those regular "If you see anything suspicious..." announcements being made, I became conscious that commuters were eyeing me as a potential security risk. But no one could bring themselves to ask me what the hell I was up to...

On Baker Street

I've been spending some time on Baker Street. And every time I'm there, I hear Gerry Rafferty and that saxophone and some of the most poignant lyrics ever written.

I'm just in the process of sending a copy of Baker Street to someone who hasn't heard it... but needs to... because the song is about them... just as much as it is about most of us...

The reason for this post is that while checking out Baker Street on websites I came across a discussion that was quite amazing... no trolls, no unpleasantness... just post after post of warm emotion for Baker Street and for its significance in people's lives... and for the late Gerry Rafferty.

Baker Street meant so much to so many people, it seems. And what is that meaning? If you don't know, you'd better give it a listen... It was written for you too.

Beardness Weirdness

Policemen have been looking younger for quite some time. In fact, it wasn't long ago that I found myself asking a member of the constabulary who was giving me a severe ticking off for parking inappropriately: "Just how old are you?"

He wouldn't give me his age, but I can tell you that he didn't like the question very much, and brought our conversation to an end with a "Well, make sure you don't do it again".

But I was looking out the train window the other day as we pulled into Clapham Junction and saw a child with a beard. No, seriously, a young boy, about 5ft tall maximum, with a proper black beard.

So are beards – like policemen – getting younger? One thing's for sure... I'm definitely getting old.

And... But...

And... if you're wondering what happened to the extra And... it's gone. I was going to start expanding this blog into other areas apart from words and music. But I'm now going to be able to do that in a new online project, which should be up and running in April.

More news on that nearer the launch.

Words and Music will be sticking to words and music.

Pistorius... Pastorius

I've been away... I'm back.

Whenever I hear the name Pistorius (which I seem to do quite frequently at the moment) I hear it as Pastorius — another remarkable person and troubled soul.

While I find it difficult to warm to the macho, guns and ego story of Pistorius, I still find the tale of Jaco Pastorius a hard one to bear.

Apparently a sufferer from a bipolar disorder (which may in its way have fuelled his genius for playing electric bass), Pastorius ended up on medication, on too much alcohol... and finally on the street.

His work with Weather Report, Herbie Hancock and Joni Mitchell was stunning. His death in 1987 — after an altercation with a bouncer — at the age of 35 must be one of music's greatest tragedies.