The 500 - #102 - Fresh Cream - Cream

I was inspired by a podcast called The 500 hosted by New York-based comedian Josh Adam Meyers. His goal, and mine, is to explore Rolling Stone Magazine's 2012 edition of The 500 Greatest Albums of All Time.

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Album: #102

Album Title: Fresh Cream

Artist: Cream

Genre: Blues Rock, Psychedelic Rock

Recorded: Rayrik and Ryemuse Studios, London, England

Released: December, 1966

My age at release: 1

How familiar was I with it before this week: Several songs

Is it on the 2020 list? No

Song I am putting on my Spotify Playlist: I'm So Glad

Like any profession, members in a rock band arrive preloaded with their own set of stereotypes and jokes. They are usually a mix of funny, unfair, exaggerated...and, sometimes, painfully accurate.

The lead singer is the egotistical prima-donna, primping before a show.

Q: How many lead singers does it take to screw in a lightbulb? 

A: One -- he just holds it up and expects the world to revolve around him. 

The lead guitarist? Talented, brilliant, and a seemingly effortless player; but not built for much else. 

Q: What do you call a guitarist without a girlfriend? 

A: Homeless. 

The bassist? Steady, dependable, but terribly dull. He is stereotyped as the human equivalent of beige wallpaper.

Q: What do bass players use for birth control?

A: Their personalities.

And the drummer? Legendarily depicted as the wild man in the band. They are loud, unpredictable and, much like their Muppet counterpart "Animal", possibly feral. 

Animal, the drummer, from The Muppet Show band, 
Dr. Teeth and the Electric Mayhem.

In fact, Animal, the drummer in the fictional band Dr. Teeth and the Electric Mayhem on The Muppet Show (1976-1981), was conceived as a mash-up of three of Rock music's most notorious madmen, musicians as famous for their chaos as their percussive chops. Animal was a creation of Jim Henson’s Muppet team. He was designed by Michael K. Frith and brought to unhinged life by Frank Oz. Henson's team have confirmed that he was a composite character based on drummers Keith Moon (The Who), John Bonham (Led Zeppelin) and Ginger Baker (Cream) -- perhaps leading to the decision to give him red hair. Collectively, this trio of musicians have 15 records on The 500 list, but their off-stage mayhem is equally legendary.  I touched on Moon's antics when I wrote about The Who's My Generation, (#237) in November, 2023, and there will be plenty of time to discuss Bonham in future posts -- four Zeppelin albums are in the top 100.

This week, let's focus on Peter Edward Baker, who embraced the sobriquet "Ginger" because his fiery red hair matched his equally combustible temperament. Born in South London in 1939, Ginger’s life was shaped early by loss. His father, a lance corporal in the British Army, was killed in World War II when Ginger was just four. School never quite held him. He was restless, often in trouble and drawn more to rhythm than routine. A brief start on the trumpet gave way to drums, and by his mid-teens he was sitting in with bands around London, soaking up the influence of jazz greats.

A young Baker pounding the skins with London Jazz bands.

By the early 1960s, Baker had carved out a reputation on the British jazz and R&B circuit, where he met bassist Jack Bruce when the two of them played in the Graham Bond Organisation in 1963. Their partnership was electric and volatile, marked by arguments, onstage clashes, and at least one story involving a smashed instrument. It was a relationship that seemed destined to implode, yet in 1966 Baker insisted on bringing Bruce into a new band he was forming with Eric Clapton. That band was Cream.

Cream were (l-r) Bruce, Baker and Clapton. 

The group's debut record, Fresh Cream, lands at #102 on The 500, and I have already written about their psychedelic breakthrough -- Disraeli Gears (#114) and their final full studio release, Wheels of Fire (#205). Three albums in just over two years, all canonized. Not bad for a band that could barely stand to be in the same room together.

Cream, performing.

Cream channeled musical chemistry, but it was a volatile concoction. Baker's explosive drumming style and combustible temperament spilled into every corner of the band’s existence. Fights were frequent, especially with Jack Bruce. Arguments boiled over into physical confrontations that went well beyond artistic disagreement. This was open warfare and Bruce even reported keeping a knife in his pocket in preparation for Baker's drumstick assaults.

Baker in studio.

And then there were the excesses, especially the drug use. Cream burned bright and fast because it almost had to. Sustaining their level of intensity, musically and personally, was never a possibility. All three continued their music futures, with Clapton and Baker reuniting briefly in the group Blind Faith. Bruce and Clapton ultimately continued on more conventional paths, working with a variety of collaborative and solo projects over the next 50 years. Baker, however, marched to a different beat, a continent away. For him, the next move wasn’t to form another band or clean up his act. It was to leave. At the start of the 1970s, restless, strung out on heroin, and still chasing something he couldn’t quite name, he walked into a dealership, bought a Range Rover, and decided to drive to Africa. That's right, the lunatic didn't want to fly...he wanted to drive.

Baker and his Range Rover, en route to Nigeria.

What followed was less a road trip and more an act of obsession, chalking up thousands of miles from London, across Europe, through the Mediterranean, and then deep into North Africa, navigating the Sahara with fuel cans strapped to the vehicle and wrecked cars littering the roadside like warnings. He was arrested along the way, nearly stranded more than once, and kept going.

Baker fixing his Range Rover in the Sahara.

It was a pilgrimage. Baker was chasing rhythm at its source, drawn by the music of Fela Kuti, whose Afrobeat fused jazz, funk and West African traditions into something new. When Baker finally arrived in Lagos, he didn’t just visit. He stayed, built a studio, and immersed himself in the music, proving once again that for him, chaos wasn’t a detour. It was the path. I recommend highly, their collaborative record from 1970. Recorded in Abbey Road Studios in July, 1971, Live!, is an intoxicating blend of afrobeat, fused with American funk and jazz. Baker only appears on two tracks, but both are funky, 13 minute jams.

To appreciate more fully the madness, the genius, and the fury of Ginger Baker, it’s also worth spending 90 minutes with the 2012 documentary Beware of Mr. Baker. Directed by Jay Bulger, the film is a clear‑eyed portrait of a musician whose brilliance is inseparable from his volatility.

Poster for documentary, Beware Of Mr. Baker.

The documentary traces Baker’s life from his early days in London jazz clubs through Cream, Africa, and into his later years living in semi‑isolation on a fortified compound in South Africa. The title is taken from a rusting sign near the compound’s front gate.

Rusted sign outside Baker's compound in South Africa.

The sign reveals much about the unorthodox Mr. Baker: the innovation, the influence, the addiction, the broken relationships, the financial ruin, and the stubborn refusal to soften with age.

Interviews with Clapton, Bruce and others circle around the same conclusion. Baker may have been one of the most important drummers in rock history, but he was also a most difficult man to be around. The film doesn’t just tell you that. It shows you in the first few minutes when Baker attacks Bulger, the film-maker, striking him with a cane hard enough to leave his victim bloodied after taking issue over how the film was being made. See the clip here.

Baker, in a screen capture from Beware Of Mr. Baker,
striking the documentarian, Bulger.

Which brings us back to where we started. Those stereotypes exist for a reason: The guitarist, lost in his own world. The bassist holding it all together in the background. And the drummer...the animal at the back of the stage.

Because in the end, Ginger Baker didn’t just play like the wild man behind the kit. He lived like him, too.

The 500 - #114 - Disraeli Gears - Cream

I was inspired by a podcast called The 500 hosted by New York-based comedian Josh Adam Meyers. His goal, and mine, is to explore Rolling Stone Magazine's 2012 edition of The 500 Greatest Albums of All Time.

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Album #:114
Album Title: Disraeli Gears
Artist: Cream
Genre: Psychedelic Rock, Blues Rock, Hard Rock
Recorded: Atlantic Recording Studios, New York, U.S.A.

Released: November, 1967
My age at release: 2
How familiar was I with it before this week: Quite
Is it on the 2020 list? Yes, at #170, dropping 56 places

Song I am putting on my Spotify Playlist: Sunshine Of Your Love

At the risk of sounding like a cranky old-timer, I’d like to take you back to a time when buying concert tickets didn’t involve a glowing screen or a stable internet connection. Long before Ticketmaster.com, and even before phoning in an order became the norm, a ticket buyer had to show up...in person...to claim a spot in a line where you hoped to secure a seat at to upcoming show.

In London, Ontario, in the 1980s, that ritual almost always led to one place: Sam The Record Man, in the heart of downtown. It was there, amid the racks of vinyl, that music fandom required patience, persistence and, sometimes, a 5 a.m. arrival time, even in cold or rainy weather.

A ticket line-up outside Sam The Record Man in London. 
This location predates the one I visited, half a block away

It was a chilly spring morning, around 6 o’clock in 1986 when my longtime chum Jeff Ceaser and I arrived at the front doors of Sam’s, determined to be first in line. Our mission was clear -- get tickets to see the supergroup GTR at Toronto’s legendary Massey Hall that summer.

GTR promotional photo - the rest of the band
featured three talented, but lesser known, British
Musicians - Max Bacon, Phil Spalding and Jonathan Mover.

GTR were a short‑lived British rock outfit built around two guitar heroes from our favourite bands – Steve Howe, a founding member of Yes and Steve Hackett, lead guitarist for Genesis from 1970 to 1977, who hooked up with Bacon, Spalding and Mover. This was an irresistible proposition for teen-age prog-rock obsessives like us.

The five-man group’s debut, self-titled record had spawned an oddly pop‑leaning single, When the Heart Rules the Mind. This was a song clearly engineered for radio success and unbeknownst to us at the time, destined to become a one‑hit wonder, relegated to the dustbin of Gen X music memory.

We suspected our pre-dawn arrival would put us first in line, but as we approached the record store, we spotted two figures in the doorway alcove. Disappointed, we made our way to their location and then realized that we recognized them. I didn't know Scott (Lupasko) or Dave (Adamick) well, as they were a few years younger. But I had interacted with them casually at their various part-time high school jobs. They had worked at a burger place and a gas station in the mall beside our high school. They were also well regarded as talented musicians and music lovers, so it wasn't surprising to find them lining up for tickets to see the two guitar virtuoso

The Steves (Hackett and Howe) who's union
created the "supergroup" GTR - an abbreviation of Guitar.

As the four of us chatted, waiting for the record store and ticket booth to open four hours hence, I really began to connect with them. They were friendly, intelligent and knowledgeable, with terrific and varied tastes in music. "A couple of good blokes" as my British cousins would say. Somewhere in our conversations I revealed that I wrote poetry that could become song lyrics and they mentioned they had formed a band and were looking for a lyricist and singer. Perhaps I could bring my poetry, my voice and maybe even my saxophone to a music rehearsal space to jam with them.

Shot of Scott (left) and Dave in our high-school smoking pit with friends.

Some time later, I found myself making my way to a dilapidated part of the city, a largely abandoned pocket of industrial buildings and warehouses tucked beneath an overpass and hard up against the Canadian National (CN) railway tracks that cut through London. It was the kind of place that felt forgotten, vaguely forbidding, and perfectly suited to loud music and...dubious, if not criminal, choices. The buildings are still there, but the neighbourhood has been thoroughly transformed. What was once grit and rust has since been scrubbed clean and gentrified, now home to craft brewpubs and boutique fitness studios and rock-climbing gyms.

2025 Google Street View photo of the warehouse we used as a jam space.

I should have known I was out of my depth the moment I arrived. As I climbed the stairs to the rehearsal space, I could already hear Scott, Dave and their drummer, Chris Johnson. They were sensational. The three of them were effortlessly noodling their way through an improvised blues jam, locked in and clearly far more accomplished than I’d dared to imagine. I really should have feigned an illness and quietly retreated. But with youthful bravado fully deployed, I pressed on, stepping into the concrete bunker of a studio clutching my juvenile, but heartfelt, lyrics in one hand and my saxophone in the other.

Me (right) in 1986. Dave O'Leary (also a talented musician)
to the left.

It didn't take long for us to realize that my saxophone playing was not a fit. I am an okay player, but only if I have the sheet music and a few hours to practice. However, I was unable to transpose on the fly and my horn, tuned to E-flat, didn't work with the band’s instruments, effortlessly being jammed in a variety of keys. Since then, I have learned to carry a handy chart with me and use it as a cheat sheet during jams, but still prefer to know the music and have the score on a stand in front of me.

Transposition Chart.

"Why don't you sing a couple songs?" was the next suggestion. A Battle of the Bands was to be held at Mingles Tavern in a month and the trio was rehearsing two well known ‘60s songs. The first was Voodoo Chile, an acid rock classic from The Jimi Hendrix Experience, and the second came from this week's Cream record, Disraeli Gears, a psychedelic blues rock track dubbed Sunshine Of Your Love.

Cover jacket for the single, Sunshine Of Your Love.

Disraeli Gears was the second studio recording from British hard and psychedelic rock pioneers Cream. I wrote a brief account of the band in my July, 2024, post for their third record, Wheels of Fire, which appears at position #205 on The 500. I'll write again about the group in 13 weeks when we get to their debut record, Fresh Cream (#102).

Fresh Cream album jacket (1966).

The title, Disraeli Gears, has its origins in a misheard expression. When recording in 1967, guitarist Eric Clapton mentioned to a member of the band's crew that his bicycle had "derailleur gears" -- a term for the shifting mechanism on a multi-speed bike. The crew member, Mick Turner, either genuinely misheard Clapton or playfully riffed that they were "Disraeli Gears", named after Victorian British Prime Minister Benjamin Disraeli (1804-1881).

Back in that concrete and metal jam space, I tried my best to sing. In retrospect, I should have tackled Sunshine Of Your Love in my own voice, instead of trying to mimic Cream bassist and vocalist Jack Bruce. I think I could have pulled it off. That said, I was clearly not up to the level of talent that surrounded me. I was more than a weak link, I was a gear (Disraeli or derailleur) that needed to be replaced. Saving further embarrassment, I sacked myself before the Battle of the Bands event at Mingles. Dave, Scott and Chris soldiered on with Dave singing Cream and Hendrix songs that afternoon...far better than I’d managed. I was happy for their success, despite my bruised ego.

Entrance to Mingles and Talbot Inn, long since demolished to
make space for the city's Junior A Hockey rink and concert venue - 
now dubbed the Canada Life Centre.

The trio would go on to form their first band, Aura. They were all still high-school age In fact, they needed to wear special wrist bands when playing at Mingles to alert staff they were not of legal drinking age -- 19 in Ontario, Canada.

Poster for a performance by Aura, May 1988.

Not long after, the group expanded and rebranded as Poor Folk, now a five‑piece. Dave and Scott remained on guitar and bass, while Chris stepped out from behind the drum kit and into the spotlight as lead vocalist. The lineup was completed by Chris’s brother Mark on guitar and Tom Sanford on drums.

Poor Folk, Sanford is not with the band at this time, pictured
far left was temporary drummer Brent Blazieko.

For a time, Poor Folk became a weekly fixture at Hanover’s, a local pub in the Westmount Mall complex, which also housed the burger joint and gas station where Scott and Dave worked. Poor Folk developed a dedicated following, which was not surprising because each member of the band was impressively talented. They provided me with indisputable evidence that my most appropriate role in their musical ecosystem was that of an applauding audience member.

Westmount Mall in 1975, featuring the loveable, but tough, 
Cliff who was the security guard throughout my high-school years.

I've stayed in touch with Scott over the years and finally got a chance to reconnect with him last summer when he visited Canada. He and Dave went on an epic world travelling adventure after university and both landed in England to explore the music scene. It is there where they ultimately settled -- Scott in York and Dave in Essex, just outside London. I appreciate the help Scott gave me, through numerous text messages and shared pictures, as I wrote this post and tried to retrace a 40-year-old memory that began with a five-hour wait, and conversation outside Sam The Record Man in downtown London.