Jazz Communion at the Polo Grounds

The late Ginger Baker is probably best known as the drummer for Cream, a power trio from the 60s that included bassist Jack Bruce and guitarist Sir Eric Clapton. Cream was only together a few years but recorded four prolific albums – enough to get them inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in 1993 and included in both Rolling Stone and VH1’s lists of “100 Greatest Artists of All Time” (number 67 and 61, respectively). Growing up as a drummer and general fan of all great music, Ginger Baker was on a short list of people I’d genuinely like to meet one day. Lucky for me, that one day happened on a hot summer evening in my 20s.

In the mid- and late-90s, eLeMeNO-P - a professional contemporary a cappella group I toured and recorded with - happened to share the same agent as Ginger Baker and a jazz quartet he was playing with in and around the Denver area. Ginger and his jazz quartet were playing a gig at a polo ground just outside of Denver one evening and I was invited by our agent to attend. I got to spend most of the evening with his son, Cofi, who was helping set up Ginger’s drums. Just helping Cofi with the set up was enough of a thrill for me. That kind of backstage access was not something I was very accustomed to and had the evening ended after helping to set up Ginger's drums I would have found it to be complete.

To my great fortune, the evening had not ended at set up. I spent the next two hours standing roughly 10 or 15 feet behind Ginger as he and his quartet played some of the best small-ensemble jazz I’ve ever heard. I find that kind of small-ensemble jazz to be like a tasty, satisfying 10-course meal that spans from the first downbeat to the final cutoff. It’s one of my many jams, most definitely circling at the very top. The cats playing with Ginger that night were a who’s who of jazz greats in the area and the quartet seemed to be a single body that communicated with head nods, winking eyes, and smiles; not sure I heard a word spoken between them the entire night. No sheet music anywhere on the stage. Just set lists tossed here and there, which for the life of me I couldn’t follow. They certainly weren’t following them, either.

The music was amazing. To be there – right there – onstage made it feel like the music was happening to me, IN me, and through me. What really amazed me, however, was Ginger. He was getting on in years by then, and I was told that he had a really bad back. To the point where flying and riding horses was a real challenge for him. I wondered how he’d sit on a drum throne for a couple of hours and play, with all the twisting and turning and pressure on his spine that playing drums brings. What’s more, and I mean no offense to the great Ginger Baker, but he just seemed… well… a little out of it. Somewhat gone, mentally. Maybe he was just having a bad day. I don’t know. Truly, I wondered how he was going to play with what I imagined to be a lot going against him. But then, he sat down on that drum throne. Lit a cigarette. Picked up a pair of sticks. And, as the first song started, I was witness to something I’ve never seen before or since. Decades of physical erosion disappeared in an instant. He sat taller in that chair than I would have thought possible. His arms and legs moved with ease, with motions of effortless “wax on” and “wax off.” He smiled and a happiness expelled from his eyes like 10,000-watt theater lights. His mouth was a busy half-smile while half holding onto his cigarette. What’s more, I swear the entire night he never once looked down at his drums. He kept his eyes peeled on his bandmates, following each of their lead into verses, choruses, and solos and into the ending of each and every song. He wasn’t playing the drums. He was playing and making music with three other guys who were, the four of them, locked in together by a knowledge and feel for music that can’t be taught, learned, or executed by anyone who hasn’t rode in music’s saddle for decades.

The night was a thrill of a lifetime. A couple of hours of sweet communion, deep in the belly of a symphony of jazz mastery, musician-hood, and artistry of the highest level. I’ve longed to be back in that space, but the experience has proven to be sacred and singular. To be that good at anything, despite our physical, mental, or emotional situation, should be the goal of every living being. I know in my heart that there’s music in heaven. I’m at peace knowing Mr. Baker is up there playing rock and jazz with the greats and that many are getting to commune with him and them.

Long live great music, from the dives, clubs, arenas… and even the polo grounds.