He was a fire eyed motherfucker of little morality and
attack dog attitude back when you could tear through life without a camera
phone jammed in your face, cued to transmit your sins to a race plugged in to
the sleepless entertainment grid. No law
could govern Ginger Baker back then; not even the law of averages. They all
waited for the burnout, and they’re waiting still.
It seems the lord is
happy to keep on judging Ginger Baker, keep him kicking around. Perhaps that’ll
be his punishment, suffering the scars of his own excess, Dorian Gray to a backbeat.
If he suffers now, which he does, how can he complain, which he also does.
Maybe because he had it his own way for far too long? Hell, they counted up the
votes and it was unanimous, Ladies and Gentlemen. Ginger Baker, least likely to
survive the 60’s!
But survive he did, and he don’t like it one bit. South
Africa is where you’ll find him now, gulping that morphine and firing guns in
his fortified compound. As mean as ever, batshit crazy and still beating those
skins, he slipped from the public consciousness, until Rolling Stone’s Jay
Bulger turned up with a camera. He got his nose broken for his trouble, as you’d
expect, but he stuck at it, breathing new life into an old legend. Roll up
Ladies and Gentlemen, the freakshow is in town, just drop your dime in that
slot and stand back from the screen.
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