Sex, drugs, violence, car accidents, polo, firefighting, and rock ‘n’ roll
Rock and roll fans approaching this book hoping for insight into Baker’s years with Cream and Blind Faith are likely to be disappointed. He actually spends less time talking about those bands then he does his early jazz years, Graham Bond, or the Air Force. In a nutshell: He loves Eric Clapton, hates Jack Bruce. Thankfully, however, Baker led a fascinating life even after his rockstar fame diminished. His adventures in Africa, where he founded a recording studio in Lagos, Nigeria, are certainly unique among his Rock and Roll Hall of Fame peers. Less interesting is his obsession with polo. Baker spent most of the latter half of his life trying to establish his own polo club, but every time he almost got his operation up and running, he would end up fleeing legal troubles and relocating to another country. Drugs are a recurring theme throughout the book, for which he expresses no shame or regret. It is amazing that he can remember the exact dose of heroin he took on specific days a half century ago, which gives you an idea of his priorities. Another surprising fact about Baker is that, although much of his behavior makes him seem like the most irresponsible man imaginable, he was an experienced volunteer firefighter.
Baker may have been an excellent drummer, but if this book is any indication he wasn’t a very good writer, and relying on his daughter for a ghost writer and/or editor probably didn’t help matters. On the plus side, the book has a real conversational tone that feels similar to sitting down and having a drink with Baker while he regales you with tales of his exploits. As far as the storytelling goes, however, there is no continuity, momentum, or suspense. It is just a rapid-fire string of one-paragraph anecdotes, one after the other, many of which go into details of importance only to Baker himself. The prose includes quite a bit of picturesque slang, which at times requires some thoughtful deciphering but lends an air of authenticity to the authorial voice. When Baker goes into extensive rambles on polo, however, he has no mercy on the uninitiated listener, so you better know your Argies and chukkas.
Despite his cantankerous reputation, Baker tries to make himself out to be a lovable bloke. If you want the dark side of his character, one has to read between the lines, or better yet, see the 2012 documentary Beware of Mr. Baker. Baker married at a young age, but by his account he and his wife Liz seemed to have an open relationship, so he boastfully chronicles all of his sexual escapades. When Liz disappears from the book for several chapters, however, one can’t help but think he abandoned her and the kids while he went off to Africa to do his own thing. Baker admits to breaking the law on numerous occasions—not just drugs but also theft, tax evasion, immigration laws, assault, absconding on debts, passing bad checks—yet he always expresses amazement when he is beset with charges or lawsuits, as if he’s being unjustly persecuted. Baker does not come out sounding as likable as he or his daughter wished. The best thing that can be said about Hellraiser is that it does give the reader a glimpse into Baker’s personality, which is that of an overgrown man-child. From a literary standpoint, this book is a train wreck, but much like the life Baker led, it’s a train wreck worth watching.
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