Graded on a Curve:
Small Faces,
Ogden’s Nut Gone Flake

I loved Cap’n Crunch with Crunchberries as a kid. I especially loved the Crunchberries, those red carcinogenic balls of pure goodness that I always saved for last. But when I became a man I put away childish things—except for my GI Joe, of course; you’ve got to draw the line somewhere—and I now begin every day with a heaping earful of Ogden’s Nut Gone Flake. It sounds better than Cap’n C.—bigger, bouncier, crunchier, and far more Mod—and it’s more nutritious too. I pour the LP from its round cereal box sleeve onto my turntable, drop the needle on the first savory helping, and exclaim, “Here comes the Nice!”

In my ‘umble opinion the Small Faces were the most versatile of the great Mod bands. The quartet had it all; they could kick out the jams like The Yardbirds; were as fixated on British mores and bourgy social life as the Kinks; as Mod and in-your-boat-race (when they felt the yen) as the Who; and as psychedelic (on such cuts as “Afterglow” and “The Journey”) as Pink Floyd. And they combined all of these trappings—wrapping the whole shebang in some thick English accents, and even adding a weird uncle of a narrator, Stanley Unwin, to contribute some “looney links” between tracks—on their undisputed masterpiece, 1968’s concept LP Ogden’s Nut Gone Flake.

Odgen’s Nut Gone Flake is both the Small Faces’ greatest and final statement, for they broke up shortly thereafter, Marriott departing to form the long-stemmed heavy blues/soul/boogie band Humble Pie, and the rest of the crew joining Jeff Beck ex-pats Rod “The Mod” Stewart and Ron Wood to form The Faces. (Notice, if you will, how it took two rooster-haired personages to fill Steve Marriott’s swank Chelsea boots.) But what a last hurrah! Unless you count 1969’s posthumously released The Autumn Stone, which you shouldn’t, as it’s a sub-par mish-mash of odds and sods that Andrew Loog Oldham cobbled together to siphon every last shilling he could from the Small Faces.

Small Faces—English slang minor celebrities—were Marriott on vocals, guitar, and harmonica; Ronnie Lane on bass and vocals; Ian McLagan on keyboards and vocals; and Kenney Jones on drums, percussion and vocals. A band in which everybody sings is my kind of band, and the lads were crack instrumentalists, every last one. As for Marriott—whose combined vocal/guitar brilliance should have taken him to the Toppermost of the Poppermost—he was nothing less than an Act of God.

The LP includes so many different types of songs it’s a miracle it doesn’t sound diffuse. It’s a mighty long way down rock’n’roll, as Ian Hunter once sang, and on Ogden’s Nut Gone Flake The Small Faces seem intent upon stopping off at every overlook along the way. First stop is the album’s opener and title track, a very cool and hard-hitting instrumental, heavy on the drums and keyboards. At first the strings bothered me, but I’ve grown accustomed to their face, and wouldn’t part with them. Last stop is the defiantly cheery, tongue-in-cheek “Happydaysboystown,” which begins with Lane singing, “Life is just a bowl of oat bran/You wake up every morning and it’s there,” and includes lots of group singing, whistles, hand claps, and one too-brief sax solo. “Happydaysboystown” bears the slightest hint of the musical hall, and the raucous and devil-may-care pub vocals demonstrate that The Small Faces were less in revolt against their parents—and this at the apex of the generation gap—than in league with their traditions.

Contrast that with “Rollin’ Over,” a boot-to-the-face rocker and an uncanny preview of the future Faces, with McLagan’s rollicking organ, Jones’ big drum bash, and Marriott’s thundering power chords and harmonica producing a titanic din and wonderful entrance for the impassioned group vocals that follow. Marriott plays a great guitar while McLagan adds some mad keyboard tinkle, and the vocalists do a back and forth that is nothing less than astounding. But no sooner does “Rollin’ Over” end than you’re suddenly being subjected to the exotic word wank of Stanley Unwin on “The Hungry Intruder,” a very unusual mod tune that includes flute, Who-like harmony vocals (“May I share your Shepherd Pie?”), and some very nice bass, all leading up to a lovely instrumental passage complete with strings and that flute again, and it’s all so beautiful lads.

“The Journey” opens with loon chat by Unwin (“I’m looking for the second half of the moon and dangly”) before blossoming into what sounds to me like “Green Onions” turned rave tune, complete with some very natty Hammond organ by McLagan. It then morphs into one very strange and happening instrumental featuring a booming Lane bass line, lots of drum pummel by Jones, and one very cool guitar feedback freakout at its nether end. “The Journey” is one odd bird of a song, while “Rene” opens as a kind of music hall tune with Marriott singing in a cockney accent thick as spotted dick, while some great group vocals throw in on the chorus. Then McLagan’s organ enters the picture, and Marriott launches into a mean, feedback-drenched solo, and then blows some harmonica your way for good measure. Both songs take abrupt left turns, and you never know what hit you.

You do know what hit you—a steam train—on “Song of a Baker,” which combines Lane’s low-key vocals with Marriott’s wildest guitar pyrotechnics. That Marriott plays not one, but two of my favorite solos of all time in one song is definitely a bonus, as is McLagan’s mad electric piano and Jones’ barbaric drum bash. You have to see the video, where Marriott manages to wipe his mouth with his sleeve mid solo; rarely have bad manners and brilliant technique conspired to produce such a great moment. Also great, in its very different way, is the frantic rutter’s anthem “Lazy Sunday”—if this is a lazy one, I’d hate to know what an exciting English Sunday’s like—which boasts perhaps the most frenetic vocal performance of Lane’s career, from its opening, “Wouldn’t it be nice to get on with me neighbors/But they make it very clear they don’t get on with ravers.” Meanwhile voices jump in and out, Lane whistles, McLagan contributes some excellent organ, and Jones does some funky things with his drumsticks. My fave lines are “Gor blimey hello Mrs. Jones/How’s old Bert’s lumbago?” To which Mrs. Jones responds, “He mustn’t grumble.” Finally, I hear kazoos, but they’re not listed on the credits, so who knows?

“Afterglow of Your Love” is a stone cold soul psychedelic classic that opens with a cool whistling, crashing, intro, at which point Marriott comes in with some primo screech and badass guitar backed big time by McLagan’s organ and some gigantic drum crash. This is one of the sonically biggest songs you’ll ever hear, with McLagan especially kicking out the jams on keys. And McLagan sings lead on “Long Agos and Worlds Apart,” a purer but gentler slice of psychedelia than “Afterglow.” Slightly reminiscent of the Byrds, the song comes complete with opening handclaps, smooth group harmonies, and even a guitar that brings Roger McGuinn to mind. The tune moves at a middling clip until the tempo takes an uptick and those harmony vocals go, “Hep hep do-wah-de-wah-de” over and over until the false close, after which Marriott lays down some cool licks over Jones’ drum crash.

“Happiness Stan” opens Side Two and begins the conceptual half of Ogden Nut Gone Flake, but unless a concept album has something to do with Altamont, The Manson Family, the Skynyrd plane crash, or the Baader-Meinhof Gang I just can’t be bothered. What’s important about “Happiness Stan” is it opens with a heavenly harp, uses the phrase “Once upon a time,” and goes on about rainbows, and in my book that’s three strikes, you’re out. Or would be except that the twee first half segues into a pretty cool (and big!) section with lots of portentous vocals that sound nothing like The Small Faces. Ah, but things doesn’t end well, for narrator Unwin returns with his sub-Finnegan’s Wake patter and as a result “Happiness Stan” is the one tune on Ogden’s Nut Gone Flake I could happily live without.

“Mad John” features more Unwich, and Unwich (I regret to say) is not a song improver. Fortunately he shuts up and the song that follows is a pulsating and tough acoustic guitar number sung by Marriott. Alas, back comes Unwich, his shtick underscored by guitars, to put the kibosh on what might have been one sublime number. My ultimate conclusion regarding Mr. Unwich is that he was a noble experiment and must have seemed like a good idea at the time, but that ultimately he crimped The Small Faces’ style.

I’m going to venture one final opinion, then shut my gob. So far as I’m concerned Ogden’s Nut Gone Flake is Thee Best concept album of the sixties. Yes, better than The Beatles’ epically overrated Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Heart Club Band, The Who’s Who Sell Out and Tommy, The Kinks’ The Kinks Are the Village Green Preservation Society, The Rolling Stones’ Their Satanic Majesties Request, and even Sgt. Barry Sadler’s Ballads of the Green Berets. I don’t want to have a barney about it, and I may be on my Jack Jones on this one, but when a guv’nor gives up Cap’n Crunch with Crunchberries he needs a great noise in his life, and the best substitute I’ve ever happened upon is Ogden’s Nut Gone Flake. It supplies all seven essential Mod vitamins, including purple hearts and leapers—necessary for a sound body and mind, and for driving your scooter off a seaside cliff—sounds incredible in a Muswell Hill bedsit at dawn, and would make the perfect breakfast if the damned round album cover weren’t always rolling off the kitchen table. Have a bowl today!

GRADED ON A CURVE:
A

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