small faces

For no good reason, I’m determined to update dowackado more or less daily, until I decide not to.

I’ve decided not to be outraged by anything in the news today.

This morning dawned pretty crisp. 15 degrees when I got up to stoke the wood stove. I helped a neighbor farmer move, tag, deworm and vaccinate his heifers. I enjoy that kind of work, but a couple of times, I started to think about all the things that could go wrong standing ankle-deep in muck in a small pen with 13 slightly wild-eyed 1,300-pound aurochs. Working cattle with three seems infinitely easier than with two. Someones you stand around for a bit and wish you had warmer footwear, but other times the third man just makes the operation smoother, less stressful, less dangerous. There’s also plenty of time to compare notes, and to argue. Sammy said he had just read it was a bad idea to de-worm this time of year. Dave said he had read that article but thought the article was about de-lousing, and not de-worming. They agreed to disagree and Dave went ahead and de-wormed anyway.

Got home, had a bite, and went for a walk with the two dogs out to where the cows were, which turned out to be a hike of a couple miles, there and back and not exactly in a straight line. It had warmed up a fair bit by noon so the walk was a pleasant one. The puppy even behaved herself among the cows, and for the first time a majority of the cows didn’t get up when she sniffed among them, tail wagging. (Usually, she obeys her herding instinct in clumsy and aggressive ways.) The dogs enjoy a long walk like nothing else, and their joy rubs off on their master. I think of the Peanuts cartoon when Charlie Brown quits school and wants to devote his life to making his dog happy. That makes sense to me on long walks.

Here are a couple of randomly groovy images I stumbled upon today.

The Small Faces in 1966.

And keeping retro, two images of Apollonia van Ravenstein, who is the most perfectly named human being in the history of the planet.

And three musical interludes, one from the year of my birth, the Fleetwoods with a kind of anachronistically minimalist and haunting Come Softly to Me:

And then there’s this one from Jewel, who was, I believe, just 16 when she recorded this. There has to be a name for the kind of song that was ubiquitous in its day, but a decade or two later is all but forgotten. This is a wonderful song and performance, with a terrible music video. Kind of dated, but kind of wow as well…

and finally, this Joe Tex jam. Is it a curiosity or a classic? Can it be both? “You got Mississippi written all over you…”

The Passing Show, the BBC documentary about Ronnie Lane, is now online, in six parts. I own it on DVD and watch it all the time. You really should spend the money to buy it, but I’d understand if you wanted to check it out for free, while it lasts, anyway.*

If you know and love Ronnie Lane as I do, watch it. If you don’t know him, all the more reason to watch it.

Lane surfaced in the Small Faces, along with Steve Marriott and Kenny Jones (and later Ian McLagan), one of the best bands in the ridiculously thriving London R&B scene in the mid-60s (the Stones! the Pretty Things! the Yardbirds! the Who! the Kinks!). The Small Faces, minus Marriott and with the addition of Rod Stewart and Ron Wood, became the Faces, who might have been the GREATEST BAND EVER but it’s hard to tell, because their recorded output, while sparkling, is a little sparse. Playing live, they were legendary.

Lane wrote and sang a slew of good songs for Faces, but apparently was not allowed to sing live, except for the opening verse to a cover of “Maybe I’m Amazed.” I read somewhere that Ronnie once posed an “It’s Rod or me” ultimatum to the rest of the band. If true, that was a fairly major miscalculation. (“Ronnie, we love you, but he’s ROD STEWART”).

While most Faces songs were boozy, bawdy and strutting, Lane’s were modest and introspective, though not without their own wit and raunchiness. Rod’s were Saturday night; Ronnie’s were Sunday morning. His greatest song, to my mind, is “Debris,” a son’s loving reminiscence, centered on the vivid image of his father combing through junk on blankets at open-air markets in London’s bombed out East End.

Ronnie walked away from the Faces at their peak. He took his money (which he apparently kept in cash, in a bag) and (over)paid for an old bus and a bunch of circus tents and formed the Passing Show, which toured the English countryside, with burlesque dancers and jugglers and sword swallowers and his band. No one really knew what they were doing, and everyone had a great time. Until the money ran out. He lived at a ramshackle farm, where his rock star buddies came around to drink and sing songs, and recorded several wonderful but not especially successful albums.

Then Ronnie got MS, which had also afflicted his mother. His famous music mates (Clapton, Beck, Winwood, Page, Charlie Watts) staged a series of benefits for him and for MS research. He got swindled for a shockingly large amount by a woman in Texas, ended up moving to Austin, and became a fixture of the music scene there when he was well enough to play. He moved a final time to Colorado, where the disease took his life.

The documentary is fairly conventional, but the details and love in the tales told make up for the formulaic structure. In this, the first segment, I especially loved Eric Clapton’s account of the first time he saw the aptly named Small Faces: “These little guys came into the guitar shop and they were really little, they looked like they were like four feet tall. It was like hobbits.” And Ronnie’s account of the early days: “I mean none of us could play. I was just learning to play the bass and Steve was just learning the guitar. But that’s all right. We was keen.”

I don’t know why his story resonates with me so much. His music was lovely, homely in the best sense. He turned his back on rock stardom and became a gypsy. He was the original roots rocker. He didn’t give a damn about money. In America, we prate on about following your dream, but always with the implication that eventually the dream will bring material success. Ronnie followed his, and the results were rather more austere.

Can you show me a dream
Can you show me one that’s better than mine
Can you stand it in the cold light of day
Neither can I

* The DVD runs 105 minutes, whereas the online version represents the trimmed 60-minute TV version.

Friday: Apollonia van Ravenstein, Joe Tex, cows and dogs

Semi-secret history of rock ‘n’ roll