The Faces - Ooh La La album review
Rod’s lapsed mods’ glorious wreckage
Striving to identify a pre-teen persona for oneself in an era when The Faces are regular attractions on Top Of The Pops leaves a man with exacting standards of what is and what isn’t rock’n’roll.
When your musical Old Testament finds its Genesis in Stay With Me, mock rock stands out a mile, because The Faces defined the rambunctious spirit of their genre like no other. Free of airbrushed production emasculation or intellectual contrivance, here were footie-literate lovable louts up to no good and loving it.
Almost invariably intoxicated and operating at a time when the leering likely lad was king, The Faces were a five-man human wink, unreconstructed Capri-revving arse-slappers. They were fronted by a guitarist and vocalist who both made noises like 60-a-day smokers clearing their morning lungs, sported electrocuted hair, flared everything and a hyperactive attitude that rendered opiated Stones middle-aged.
Ooh La La was originally written-off for its tendency toward shambolic chaos, but therein lies its genius. Lead single Cindy Incidentally was the sound of a widespread suburban frustration that’d latterly fester into punk, an oncoming Facesexacerbated raw revolution that found its musical language in the raging, ragged riffs of delinquent hymn Borstal Boys and boob-job knocker Silicone Grown.
If all that’s not enough, Ooh La La’s concluding title track sees Ronnie Wood aiding and abetting Ronnie Lane in what’s possibly his finest contemplative composition.
Now back on vinyl, where they belong, this is classic rock.