Great Moments on Video №6: The Faces (w. Keith Richards) – Sweet Little Rock’n’Roller

(London’s Kilburn State Theatre, December 23, 1974)

The Faces (w. Keith Richards) – Sweet Little Rock’n’Roller

(London’s Kilburn State Theatre, December 23, 1974)

In my previous Great Moment on Video (the Allman Brothers), I tried, to the best of my ability, to point out what it is that makes a transcendent blues performance as opposed to merely a good, solid, professional one — so I suppose it would make sense to move on from the blues to its inebriated offspring and offer a few thoughts on what it is that separates phenomenally great rock’n’roll from merely good rock’n’roll.

When it comes to playing good rock’n’roll, I suppose it isn’t really tremendously difficult. The whole thing requires much less training than classical or jazz — certain brands of purists would say, the less the better — and if you got a good enough sense of rhythm and a nice guitar tone going on, then achieving your primary purpose, that is, to just get the people up on their feet and make them have a good time, is easy-peasy. Thousands of bands do just that. A small percentage of those bands, usually through years of tough practice and experience, achieve impressive levels of technicality, fluidity, and stamina. These are the professionals, and we can admire their tightness and meticulousness, as a certain degree of respect becomes mixed with the fun.

But only a select few, and even then, only during select time windows and celestial configurations, have what it takes to play the kind of rock’n’roll that totally transcends the routine purposes of rock’n’roll, while at the same time still remaining rock’n’roll and totally not claiming to be anything «beyond» rock’n’roll (so we’re not talking «progressive rock» here, with its intentionally elevated goals). Even in my extensive audio library, I could probably condense all the examples of such rock’n’roll bliss in a playlist 2-3 hours long, at best — let alone video performances, which do not always capture artists at their most efficient.

The thing is that «top level rock’n’roll» of A+ quality really has to satisfy an immense number of requirements, like a top level gourmet dish that not only has to include several rare ingredients, but has to delicately and strictly observe their ratios and their manner of cooking. A top level rock’n’roll band must be experienced and professional, so as to gain your admiration — but not too professional, for fear of placing technicality over entertainment. It must, by all means, give off the feeling of spontaneity, of being directed and guided from above — but not too off-the-cuff, for fear of losing the primary purpose and spirit of the music. It must preserve that purpose, making you want to get up and dance and lose yourself in the moment — but it must also go slightly above it, giving subtle, not too obvious hints that they are here to break the rules, not respect and cherish them. The music must revere its roots, but it must never give off the impression of «imitation» or «tribute» — otherwise it loses its vital force.

Before I end up totally sounding like a Confucian scholar, without any further ado, here is one of the relatively few video performances, happily captured for posterity — if, alas, in somewhat inferior quality — and available on YouTube for all to see (it was ripped from an old DVD of the entire concert which is most likely out of print, as it was a bootleg edition anyway). And no, it’s not the Rolling Stones — but it’s close enough.

The trick here, I think, is that while the Faces, for the brief few years of their existence, were always a strong stage presence (at least on those nights when they weren’t too drunk), it is the guest appearance of Keith Richards at this particular London show during their final tour of the UK that adds the last drop to the mix, giving it that special «transcendent» flavor. I won’t go as far as to say that everybody on stage is on fire because of Keith’s presence — that’d be a little insulting to the band — but it is simply a classic case of «the sum being greater than the parts», when each additional talent actually becomes a multiplier, and the Faces multiplied by Keith gives the performance an order of magnitude that would be hard to match indeed.

Every single requirement written out above is fully observed in this performance. The guys are clearly having a blast, so that their energy and excitement easily rubs off on the viewer and listener. They may be a little drunk — or they may feign to be a little drunk, you can never really tell with easy-goin’ 1970s rockers — and it gets reflected in the performance, but just drunk enough to make you feel a little intoxicated, too, without ruining the overall tightness of the music. They are elated — but not pretentious; even Rod Stewart’s outrageous outfit, the target of most (well-deserved, but good-natured) jokes from YouTube commenters, feels more like a shock gesture of defiance than an arrogant display of narcissism (a fairly common thing for the overall glam-rock aesthetics of the era). Above all, they are creating here something totally outrageous — and doing this with a totally natural attitude. The High Priests of Rock’n’Roll are certainly not the ones who chant "God gave rock and roll to you!" or threaten you with "blood on your face, you big disgrace". They’re the ones who conjoin opposites by reaching the topmost levels of spirituality with utterly materialistic means.

Interestingly enough, this is one of the earliest instances of Keith and Ronnie Wood’s famous «weaving» technique — which, in this particular case, is more of an accident, with the band simply agreeing to accommodate Keith’s presence (incidentally, the show took place exactly eleven days after Mick Taylor’s announcement that he was leaving the Stones; however, as of that date there were still no plans about Ronnie being his permanent replacement). Yet from the very start, Keith is the instrumental star of the performance, with his guitar tone louder and thicker than Ronnie’s; and it makes total sense that it is Keith Richards, the world’s greatest successor to (but never a slavish imitator of) the Chuck Berry vibe, who more or less becomes the «musical director» of Chuck’s ‘Sweet Little Rock’n’Roller’... even as it seems like he’s sleepwalking, zombie-like, through the entire performance!

For the first two verses, though, we have the focus on Rod — still at the top of his seductive powers, belting out the lyrics drunken-sailor style and shaking his ass... also drunken-sailor style, I guess. Unlike Mick Jagger — heck, even unlike Chuck Berry himself — Rod isn’t sporting an evil or sly grin or cackle, going for a more simplistic approach. Here’s the funny thing, though: Chuck’s original lyrics are "at nine years old and sweet as she can be" — meaning that the song is about a little girl seduced by the magic of rock and roll, which is pretty realistic (what can be more fun and innocent than a cute 9-year old boppin’ to the music?), but apparently, Chuck’s reputation with underage girls was so scandalous even back at the time that Rod decided to change the lyrics to "nineteen years old" — just in case. Okay, maybe not just in case; more likely, he intentionally decided that the song would make more sense if it were about a 19-year old hottie than if it were about a 9-year old cutie. But the funny... or, maybe, the creepy thing is that Chuck’s delivery is actually sexier than Rod’s in this case. What he sings, either here or on the studio version of the song recorded for the Smiler album, has little to do with sex appeal and everything to do with simply getting energized as hell — and liberated, of course, by the sacred might of rock’n’roll music.

The full magic of the performance begins to unleash around 1:30 into the video — that’s when Ronnie, and then Keith, gather around Rod at the mike: three happy, scruffy vagabonds, only one of whom properly knows how to sing but who really cares? Look how utterly, recklessly happy they are! Look how Keith realizes, around 1:45, that he’s too far from the mike anyway to make any impact, and decides to throw in a nasty lead line instead ("if you can’t join ’em, beat ’em!") And who could forget that combination of fashionable leopard jacket with disgustingly rotten teeth? (This was right smack dab in the middle of the man’s utter dental catastrophe. The day he had his teeth replaced he also forgot how to play lead guitar).

My favorite piece is the three-part instrumental break in the middle — first, there’s Ian McLagan on that beautiful Steinway, tinkling away without, perhaps, the ferociousness of a Jerry Lee Lewis, but with total dedication to the craft, expanding on the legacy of the great New Orleanian piano players (Ian Stewart, the «sixth Stone», played in a similar vein on the Stones’ rock and roll numbers but practically never got to solo). Don’t miss Rod’s smooth gliding over the piano at 1:58 — I’m still not sure how he avoided getting those boots in Ian’s face, but let’s chalk this one up to «inebriated professionalism». At 2:30, Ronnie steps in with a couple instrumental verses that are fantastically precise, yet still dirty as hell... by the end of his break, I think that Kenney Jones loses the beat just a touch, and for a couple of bars, the song teeters on the verge of crashing, but they still manage to pull it together and regroup around Keith’s break.

That little part from 3:10 to 3:28 is the culmination for me — Keith in full-on Ya-Ya’s mode (perhaps the last time ever in his life!), blasting out those slow, dirty, gritty-bent licks that he did appropriate from Chuck, but made them fatter, grimier, ten times more aggressive and punchy than playful Chuck ever could. The expression on his face while he’s conducting that relentless machine-gun sonic attack is priceless — it’s a sort of "I-don’t-know-what-the-hell-I’m-doing" expression, with his whole body contorted in some strenuous physical effort but his eyes peeling away into the sixth dimension, perhaps channelling the energy from there. And that tone... the very best tone in the world for extra-class rock’n’roll, when the fun-time melodicity of the Fifties is given a pissed-off, punkish overcoat. It’s a "go have unlimited fun, my friends!" and a "but if you fuckin’ mess around with me, I’ll kill you" thing at the exact same time. Rockabilly greats idolized the first principle, punk heroes prioritized the second one. Keith Richards was one of the few who saw that two can be one, and realized it better than anybody. (Although, judging by the look in those eyes, "saw" is perhaps too simple a verb to be employed here).

Towards the end, there is also some great use of the quiet-vs.-loud dynamics — the quiet section may feel a bit «boring», but it’s largely there for two reasons: (a) allow the boys to do some cocky, teasing strutting across the stage (Ronnie’s got some pretty cool heels on him) and (b) make possible the eventual crescendo around 4:30, when the «weaving» reaches its culmination. From then on, it’s a mad rush to the end for everyone involved, with Keith, Ronnie, and Ian entering a three-part friendly joust and raising the stakes with each new bar. (I love Ian’s quick backward head turn at 5:30, it’s like: "...oh we’re going into the coda, right guys? okay, just wait a moment while I triple the energy for this last couple of bars!").

You could argue that the rhythm section is the one weak link in this entire combo: Kenney Jones, for all his reliability and friendliness, never came across as a guy with an individual style to me, and the bass player, Tetsu Yamauchi, clearly does his part well and even blends in with the guys a bit in having fun, but, as the Faces themselves have acknowledged post-factum, he was a rather hasty and imperfect replacement for Ronnie Lane (ironically, Ian remembers that Tetsu’s greatest reason for joining in was a desire to participate in the hedonistic rock and roll lifestyle precisely at the moment when the Faces themselves were getting tired of all the excesses and trying to cut down a bit on the endless booze and partying). But with a ratio of 4 to 2, it’s one of those situations when «inspired genius» rubs off on «average professionalism» and makes even a mediocre player feel like a music God.

Bringing it all together: I cannot even begin to imagine how rock’n’roll could ever sound, look, or feel better than these particular five and a half minutes. To quote a great recent comment from a YT viewer that perfectly echoes my own sentiments: "Put this in the next Voyager they send out into the Universe to represent the dynamics of Mankind to the other creatures out there. They put Chuck Berry on the first Voyager, but CHUCK NEVER PLAYED IT LIKE THIS. Sorry Mick but add Keef to the Faces and get Rod fully committed, with a cadence like a metronome, add to the grinding buzzsaw rhythm groove of the combined guitars masterful boogie piano and this one performance seems unsurpassable. A distillation, a pure rock extract. Tell Tchaikovsky, and everyone else the news, indeed!"

It’s simply that this performance has it all. It’s got the embedded practice and learning, and yet it also got plenty of spontaneity, on-the-spur action suggesting some spiritual presence. It’s got the cocky, flashy, flamboyant swagger, and it’s also got the friendliness, cheerfulness, and, in a way, even humility. It’s got technique and professionalism in service of fun and excitement, rather than their own goals in themselves. It’s got the cheerful fun factor and it’s also got the extra element of gritty aggression. It’s got just enough sex to remind us of rock’n’roll’s earthly vibe, and just enough concentration on musical ecstasy to give us its heavenly one. Joyful and pissed-off, professional and sloppy, arrogant and unassuming — I just can’t get enough of it. I think I might have watched it about 50 times, if not more, and I only do that with supernatural-type music pieces where, no matter how many times you go through them, you still can’t quite understand where all the magic comes from.

Finally, to avoid dedicating all of this piece to raving and slobbering, let us remember that the great only exists in contrast with the... not-so-great. So, for comparison, you could watch this performance of ‘Sweet Little Rock And Roller’ by Rod Stewart only a few years later, no longer with the Faces but with his own band, featuring Billy Peek on lead guitar. It’s not bad — it’s pretty good rock’n’roll — but nothing more than that: just a regular show to give the guys in the audience a good dancing time. The inspirational vibe has completely disappeared, and that Billy Peek guy... well, he’s a decent, but tasteless Chuck Berry impersonator (I mean, how frickin’ long does he have to rub in his duckwalk stunt? You’re not going to become better than Chuck Berry just by hopping on one leg for twice as long as he does!). The entire band, essentially, seems to be simply paying tribute to Chuck Berry, rather than taking Chuck Berry to the next level of conscience.

Or, for instance, this is how ‘Sweet Little Rock And Roller’ is performed these days, by Nikki Hill and her backing band. Nikki is a sweet and sassy «retro-oriented» artist who seemingly likes to cover everything from Chuck to AC/DC, and I’m sure she gets people on their feet in an instant, with a strong raspy voice, cool moves, and totally professional supporting band. The problem is that (a) the band looks rather like it’s doing its job, taking more care so as not to make any mistakes than to actually have fun, and (b) somehow, you still can’t get rid of the nostalgia vibe. I look and listen to this and the underlying idea is, "hey guys, the modern age has taken all the fun away from us, so let’s go back to the Fifties for inspiration and remind ourselves of the times when rock’n’roll was king!" And really, the minute you begin doing that, you’re lost. The genius of the Faces and Keith doing ‘Sweet Little Rock And Roller’ in 1974 is that not for one tiny little second has this anything to do with nostalgia. On the contrary, it’s fuckin’ Albert Einstein breaking out of the limited paradigm of boring old Isaac Newton — not negating the old by any means, but showing how the old is merely a subset of the new. It’s new fresh branches growing on the old trunk, not a desperate attempt to go back and pour water on the withered roots of a dead tree.

If anything, there should be a lesson here for all aspiring musicians, and that lesson is — try to do only what comes to you naturally. Great art cannot be planned, algorithmized, deduced by logical, philosophical, or marketing means. Great art cannot be produced when you have to constantly impose checks, restrictions, limitations, or censorship on yourself. Great art cannot stem from any sort of paradigmatic thinking. Heck, great art cannot stem from thinking, period. Look at Keith Richards’ eyes during that performance — he’s doing anything but thinking (and no, this is not a subtle advertisement for heroin addiction, though it certainly could be), and he’s having the time of his life and he’s also letting me and you have it as well if we just go with the same flow. Hope you never get any older, sweet little rock’n’rollers.