Dan Morris: Life in the fast lane with 'Lightning' Mick Baker

​I’m lucky to have several such pals, yet am blessed with one in particular who, to my shame, has never featured on these pages even after all these years.

As he has recently celebrated a rather big birthday, I will remedy that situation forthwith.

Way back in 2008 (crikey… when did 2008 start to warrant a ‘way back in’?) I did what many shaggy-haired students around the world do when they are 20, and put together a rock band.

A guitarist of middling ability, but a tart in extremis, I had my eyes on the front man prize, and with my 20-Benson’s-a-day gravelly voice, started to gather other musicians around me who would actually make the whole enterprise sound good. First there was ‘The Captain’ – another guitarist who took the pressure resolutely off me, and then there was our keyboard player – one of the loveliest women I will ever meet, who also had plenty of vocal chops.

A very old chum of mine signed on to play the drums, and finally, we landed a bass player. Unfortunately, he didn’t quite work out, but luckily, help, and the man who would be key to any success we could ever claim, was on the way. With the immortal words of ‘I know just the man’, aforementioned drummer brought into the fold a bloke who would steer the ship of fools to at least a somewhat safe harbour, and would become nothing less than one of the greatest friends I have ever had.

Blessed with hands like a grizzly bear, yet the dexterity of a brain surgeon, ‘Lightning’ Mick Baker brought the bass right up to your face. The first time we met, he simply looked me up and down, said ‘like the hair-do’, and settled in with a pint of best bitter. I knew right then that this was a man I could set my watch to.

Plugging in for our first practice together, he blew us all away, and it was clear that at least half of our rhythm section was in safe hands.

His attention to detail and commitment were steadfast, and it wasn’t long before The Captain had nicknamed him ‘the arbiter of high standard’.

He certainly forced the rest of us to up our game, and was, without question, solely responsible for us ever reaching gig-worthy standard.

To explain a little more about the dynamic of the group, the lovely thing about our motley crew was our diversity in age. Drummer and I were both in our early 20s, keyboard player was 30ish, and both Lightning Mick and The Captain were in their 40s.

Consequently, our band represented a ramshackle marriage of youth and experience, which always resulted in a hell of a good time.

Indeed, one of the things I love about music is that it doesn’t matter how old you are - anyone can get involved. It’s a bit like golf, I suppose. But, then again, I’ve never been much good at that either…

For a fair few years we made our name around local venues, often, admittedly, with more of a focus on enjoying the water from said watering holes rather than delighting their other patrons with our tunes. And Daddy Mick, as was the mantle that good ol’ Lightning had taken on, was always the responsible force of war in charge of the troublesome brood we had become. 

Weddings, Bar Mitzvahs, beer festivals and even baby showers had all fallen into our gig remit, and for a time we were quite a busy band, with every weekend standing as a 48-hour exercise in beautiful revelry and carnage.

They were lovely times for five lovely people who were lucky enough to make a little bit of cash doing something they truly enjoyed.

Laughter was the consummate punctuation mark of the entire time, until one fateful day that is when, sadly, it was not.

We had been together for around four years when The Captain tragically passed away. I will never forget the terrible sinking feeling of looking at ten missed calls on my mobile phone that had come from every band member apart from him. Something was terribly wrong, and with the lightest and most delicate of touches, it was Lightning Mick that finally confirmed this to me.

In the wake of the awful news, we met up at our local. I was the last to arrive, and before I had even got my bearings, the man mountain himself pulled me into a hug and kissed my head as I broke down in tears.

We had laughed together, loved together, and now we cried together.

I had known what kind of man Mick was long before that day – loyal, protective, and absolutely lion-hearted – and at that terrible time he certainly didn’t waiver. He may not be able to hold his ale, but he has always held me, and in the many years since that day he has never faltered from being an unfailing rock I have been able to turn to.

Regular readers will know all too well that I have a fantastic father, but if I never had done, I’d have given this man the job.

Sickeningly, at now 60 years old, he hasn’t aged a day since those glory times, but has become all the wiser and, somehow, even louder.

It’s been a privilege old pal. Thank you for letting me get into a little trouble, and thanks all the more for always getting me out of it. 

Don’t touch the fence, Mick! And happy belated birthday, you pirate.