Banged up inside his cell in HMP Portland, it was pure luck that inmate Hakeem Baker’s name was pulled out of a hat in a raffle and his prize was his first ever guitar lesson.
Learning those first bars of music was not only the key to his liberty, but it released the soul of a free spirit who found redemption in words and music.
Growing up in a working class Caribbean family in East London he has gone from a chaotic childhood with little hope of a future to performing at the Royal Albert Hall.
“I don’t call myself a musician,” says Hak, 34, who’s just back from touring Europe, and a one-man show in Australia. “I’m just a guy who makes tunes. My job is to represent my people here in the East End – they’re the most extravagant, amazing, hard working people.”
The story of the British-Jamaican singer-songwriter and poet’s rise has been captured in a film by documentary makers James Topley and Ivo Beckett of Deadhorses, and is released in cinemas this week.
It’s an unflinching view of Hak’s tough childhood growing up on a housing estate on the Isle of Dogs, how he left home at 14 and lived off his wits with his brotherhood of working class street kids.
It shines a light on the poor mental health they suffered later in life, and how some of Hak’s best mates have become statistics in the rising rates of young male suicide.
At the heart of the story, is the often difficult but beautiful relationship he has with his Jamaican-born mum Joy, 64, who spent her life grafting, while trying to save her son from running with gangs.
“Parties, puff, booze, girls – it was only a matter of time before we got caught up in something,” Hak says.
He served a few months in youth offenders for possession of Class A drugs, followed by a couple of years in the slammer in Dorset for a much more serious crime.
Ironically, Joy’s career was in social work, and she knew exactly what would happen to her son.
“My mum said, statistically, I would be back in prison. She was right. I was sentenced to two years for robbery because I had a knife and went into a shop and robbed it,” he says, regretfully. “Nobody got hurt.
“I’d been in prison for four months when they came on the wing and asked if I was interested in guitar lessons.
“I only had four or five lessons in the end, but they gave me a guitar ,so I could practice in my cell. I became obsessed and played as much as I could. I would look at it and say to myself, ‘I’m definitely gonna do something with that.’”
Estranged from his mum, who didn’t know where he was, Hak continues: “She came to visit one of her clients at the prison and saw me in the visiting room. She hadn’t even known I was there. It was heartbreaking.”
When Hak was released, his then girlfriend Eliza bought him a guitar, and he taught himself to play G-folk, which is a funky ska-style blend of grime and spoken word with beautiful melodies.
“My true friends understood me playing guitar,” he says. “But it took a long time for my mates on the estate to get their heads round it.”
Asked what Joy thinks of her rehabilitated son, he grins: “She’s tough, my mum. But she comes to all my gigs and gets dressed up to the nines. She’ll be smiling from ear to ear, saying, “That’s my boy.’ That’s all I need.”
He’s performed several times at the Royal Albert Hall, including famously with his friend Pete Doherty, front man of The Libertines,
He contacted Hak during lockdown. “Pete said he liked my song Wobbles on Cobbles,” he recalls. “When we first met, he walked in the room, such a towering figure, looked me in the eyes and went, ‘Ooh, you've got some demons!”’
Hak laughs at the memory. “I was kind of perplexed by him, but he read me immediately and I have loved him ever since. He's a great man.”
Hak had a strict upbringing and won a competition to be a chorister at Southwark Cathedral. But secondary school turned him into a tearaway. “Going to George Green School was a huge eye opener for me,” he recalls. “It made me want freedom.”
After leaving his mum’s at 14, Hak mainly sofa surfed before ending up in a hostel, and was finally kicked out of school.
“Me and my mum couldn’t get along. I was arguing and bringing things that I shouldn't into her house. It was completely against her rules,” he admits.
“I thought I was the man and was earning money now. Garage and grime was kicking off and me and my mates were MCing at youth clubs all around London and Essex, recording DVDs and appearing on cable TV.”
Early footage of Hak and his mates on the documentary captures their closeness.
Having had therapy, he now understands why their mental health took such a beating. “Working classes have it hard – and they bring their kids up hard,” he reflects.
“I understand trauma bonding now and how my friends didn’t get the care we needed at home, so we created our own family. But we had to look after ourselves as kids, and as we got older, mental health issues have begun to rear their ugly heads.
“I lost my best friends TJ and Johnny to suicide, and that’s why I say, ‘Yo, talk, even if it’s just to your friend, alleviate some of that stress.’”
Hak, who is now back in touch with his dad, adds: “Mum taught me the importance of determination and resilience. But because of that hard Caribbean life, she never talked about things like mental health.
“So I’m talking about it now because that’s what we didn't do. We didn't talk.”
* Buy tickets to Everyman cinema screenings of Hakeem through their website and find out about Hak’s gigs on his Instagram @haknaker.
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