IT IS deeply ironic that Baker Street, Gerry Rafferty’s heartfelt cry for sanity, peace and simplicity, brought him the chaotic fame that ultimately destroyed him.
That searing sax solo, that desperate wish to “give up the booze and one-night stands” and that ultimate of feeling of alienation and loneliness in a “city that has no soul”, all combined to make Baker Street a classic of its time.
It was still earning Rafferty £80,000 a year in royalties when he drank himself to death earlier this year, trapped by his own demons. Together with The Ark and Whatever’s Written In Your Heart, it dwarfs the rest of City To City, which is a gentle amble thorough soft rock territory.
The accompanying CD has a version of Baker Street with guitars replacing Raphael Ravenscroft’s wailing sax, graphically underlining the pivotal role Ravenscroft’s sax played in painting an unforgettable portrait of a tortured musician.
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