Ah, the shiny warm days, the cool clear evenings and the chilly starry nights are upon us. The equinox has passed. The sun's short rays head south below the equator to the waiting Chileans, Australians, South Africans, et al. May they enjoy the warmth. Perhaps a candlelight dinner would help to put some warmth back into your life...Yes, that would help.

First, arrange a date. Here I am of little or no help. Select a partner with whom you are familiar, but not too familiar. Some groundwork a forehand will alert you as to your modus operandi. Your foible's wants, desires, habits and expectations can be sussed out in, at least, a rudimentary fashion. Second, the preamble. You will require three spliffs. One, a pinner (slender and small) for yourself before the date. Something mellow and not too crazy. Perhaps a Mexican Red-Hair would do the trick. This is best consumed on your balcony or deck about an hour before your date arrives. The sun will be starting its descent to the horizon, a nice Chablis or Sauvignon-Blanc, ice cold, will augment the smoke. From inside your living room The Doors will be howling Peace Frog and setting your emotional pace as you begin your furtive "get ready."

You'll succumb totally to the Red-Hair's buzz as you finish slicing some beefsteak tomatoes. You'll arrange them on a full-sized dinner plate, alternating buffalo-mozzarella and tomatoe slices in an inward spiral. Sort of a cheese and tomatoe roulette wheel. Drizzle some extra-virgin olive oil on the display, grind some coarse black pepper and rock salt and then swirl some balsamic vinegar to colour and taste. A palmful of dried basil should be shredded on top as it's served later. Grab another glass of white wine and head for the shower. Hang on...put on Led Zeppelin IV as you scoot down the hallway; "hey hey mama-ing" as the water heats up. Your shower activity is up to you, I don't want to know, or suggest, your pre-amble too personally. As you towel off, (hopefully having stayed in the shower long enough to miss all but the end of the sometimes painful Stairway to Heaven) your buzz should be in full gear. You'll feel that, regardless of your date's arrival, tonight will be successful. You dress as the album draws to a close then ready your place for the arrival.

Third; on goes Can't Buy a Thrill by Steely Dan. If your date doesn't make the title-connection, everything is going smoothly. Fourth; The doorbell rings and you answer as the strains of Reelin' in the Years echoes around the room. The glass of Chianti you've carried to the door inspires the appropriate raise of your date's eyebrow and you smoothly reach into the kitchen to fetch the already poured sister-goblet. The sofa awaits. You exchange idle chit-chat and invite your guest to select the next music. Ah, eclectic and sensitive, the selection is Something/Anything by Todd Rundgren. "Yah, I haven't heard this in a long time, either." you exclaim. 

Fifth; Time to reach for the next spliff. Something to charge the spirit. Some local N.Y.City or even the brash and pungent Guelph, Ontario college bud awaits. You stroll back onto the balcony and consume the pot; more wine and listen to Todd state his piece in the background. Darkness is falling. You leave your guest to shiver and swoon in the twilight and proceed to the kitchen. Water to the boil, tend to the sauce for a simple spaghetti dinner. Succinct, tasty, fun and great just after the tomatoe and mozzarella appetizer. A spring mix salad with light oil and raspberry vinaigrette to have after the pasta is moved from the refrigerator to the counter. You slice a french stick, crusty and warm, to mop up the sauce at meal's end. On goes Harvest by Neil Young to accompany dinner; reflective, soft and thorough. From Chianti you've moved onto Amarone, that warming "lovey-dovey" wine able to swoop away any unsuspecting imbiber.

Sixth; You resist the urge to sneak In Rock by Deep Purple onto the stereo (maybe a bit too raucous so early in the evening) and instead play A Passion Play by Jethro Tull. Hey, if they picked Rundgren, a little Tull would probably be barking up the same tree. You wander back out onto the deck, full with wine, warm with the food, drunk with love. Seventh; A little Northern California Sensimilla or maybe some Okanogan Skunk weed to get the rest of the evening in motion. You arrest A Passion Play before it gets to "The story of the hare who lost his spectacles," and plunk Peace Frog back on. Your date responds with glee and the pounding primal groove sends you both down the hallway to your awaiting duvet and pillows. "Hang on a sec," you scoot back up the hallway and add Sticky Fingers by the Stones, Cosmos Factory by C.C.R., and Wavelength by Van Morrison to assist your nocturnal session.

Morning light greets you, your date has taken flight? No. The warm aroma of fresh coffee brewing greets your nose as you blissfully wander up the hallway toward the kitchen. The remnants of the night before are tidied and the dishwasher purrs like a kitten. You observe your still naked guest at the stereo and nearly squeal with delight as the choice is Deep Purple In Rock. To top things off, you remember you get to set the clock back an hour. The stereo volume is loud enough to wake the neighbours.

Continued...

The line-up of spot faced youths outside the Alexandra Palace snaked its way down the street and around the block as they anticipated the start of year-end festivities. As a thick evening fog enveloped the switched-on crowd of smartly dressed "faces", the Ally Pally's doors swung open just in time to shelter the eager punters from a cool mist that began to fall. The weather did nothing to dampen their spirits, their mood as optimistic and jubilant as the Season. Unfortunately, the same could not be said for the atmosphere within the Small Faces camp. The unsettled and gloomy weather conditions outside the theatre on this New Year's Eve seemed to mimic perfectly the dark and ominous state of affairs between the group's members.

Alexis Korner took to the cramped stage shortly after 9pm, offering up his high energy, soulful renditions of the R&B classics he had been sharing with young aspiring musicians since his days with Blues Inc, the training ground and launch pad for everyone from Mick Jagger, Brian Jones and Ginger Baker to Andy Fraser, Hughie Flint and Long John Baldry. The packed room danced away the evening's damp chill and worked themselves into a sweaty, near-hypnotic trance. Everyone was having fun. Things were going well. That is, until the headliners appeared. 

The pint-sized "Darlings of Wapping Wharf" took to the stage for what was supposed to be a forty-five minute performance. They charged through an impressive set list that covered the group's history from its initial chart success in 1965 ("Watcha Gonna Do About It?" UK # 14) to the mystical, flowery lyrics of "Green Circles"(1967) and "Lazy Sunday" (1968). The evening was fraught with the technical problems that had irked Steve Marriott from the beginning. Due to the limitations of late sixties portable sound equipment, he found himself unable to hear what the band was playing. The inability to recreate the phasing effects on "Itchycoo Park" did nothing to soothe the rapidly unraveling nerves of the charismatic, powerhouse vocalist. As the evening wore on, things didn't get any better for Marriott and the frustration began to simmer inside the diminutive Cockney. Ear piercing feedback flowed from the amplifiers as the band tore into "Sha La La La Lee" and "Here Comes The Nice", bringing the boys to several unceremonious halts. Things continued to deteriorate, his rage escalating to a furious boil. As the end of their set approached, Marriott was seething. While the band prepped for its final number, and with the new year barely half an hour away, Steve asked Alexis Korner to join them, hoping this would add some much needed levity to the proceedings. This was not to be. A deafening cacophony of distortion soured the closing song. Marriott had had enough. In one wild and vicious swoop, his Fender Telecaster became airborne, landing headfirst and snapping in two, bringing the concert, and his tenure with The Small Faces to a crashing end. A swift kick to the mikestand was Marriott's final act of revulsion as he stormed off the stage, leaving band mates and concertgoers alike shocked and confused. Stunned and bewildered, both Lane and Korner were forced to share vocal duties on that final number, capping off this fateful evening and ushering in an uncertain new year, which by this time, was just a few minutes away.

As his colleagues soldiered on, Steve Marriott quickly found his way to the nearest pub, running into none other than Spooky Tooth bassist Greg Ridley. The two talked about a possible collaboration and by the end of their conversation, Marriott was on the phone to a seventeen year old drummer named Jerry Shirley, who later recalled their conversation: "Steve Marriott called me on New Year's Eve night 1968-1969. He had just come back from a disastrous gig with The Small Faces at Alexander Palace and asked if he could join our band (Shirley and Peter Frampton were planning to start a new band). My first reaction was, 'Oh dear, what about The Small Faces?', because I was a huge fan, but Marriott was adamant. Then he said, 'By the way, I've got a bass player, Greg Ridley, who wants to come with me'. The pair had been crying on each other's shoulders before Marriott finally decided to call me. Needles to say, I was thrilled." And so, hours after indignantly tendering his resignation from The Small Faces, Marriott had already brought together most of the elements for his next band, Humble Pie. Aside from contractually binding gigs in Germany, all future live commitments for The Small Faces were cancelled, including an appearance at The Fillmore East. 

Shortly after the incident, Marriott spoke of the gig at the Alexander Palace: "The whole set was diabolical. It was New Year's Eve, Alexis came on stage, and it got worse. It was my fault, but nobody was taking any notice of each other. They were all in their own little universe- it was a terrible mess, a nightmare. One of those gigs you dream of with your pants down. And as a frontman, I noticed the nightmare more than anybody else." 

The Small Faces helped to create, portray and perpetuate the designer dressed, scooter driving, pill-popping culture that became The Modernists. They were quintessential Mod figureheads and as author and Who biographer Richard Barnes noted, "The Who became Mods as a career move, but The Small Faces became Mods almost before they became a band. They were real, genuine Mods."