Small Faces
– Small Faces
Small Faces’ 1967 self-titled album is where the band shook off the sweaty mod suits and tumbled headfirst into a technicolor daydream. They didn’t just grow up — they exploded, with all the slapdash beauty of a firework you light too close to your own sneakers. Gone is the scrappy R&B of their debut; here, they juggle pastoral psychedelia, sharp soul, and bruised romanticism like kids who suddenly realized the carnival wasn’t going to stay forever.
Best of…
Steve Marriott’s voice, always more than his small frame should allow, takes center stage, roaring and purring through a record that feels stitched together from last night’s pub fights and this morning’s hallucinations. Ronnie Lane steps up too, offering songs that hum with a bittersweet ache, like he’s smiling while pulling out the knife. Even their goofiest detours feel lived-in — there’s real heart behind the weirdness. And while the production isn’t exactly polished, that’s part of the magic: it feels like you’re eavesdropping on a group of friends chasing something bigger than themselves.
The miracle here isn’t just the sound — it’s how Small Faces managed to bottle a moment. They caught a brief, golden sliver of time when rock bands believed anything was possible, even if they were too wrecked to fully explain it. This album doesn’t stand on ceremony or try to show off. It simply exists, alive and kicking, in all its ragged, shining glory.
Choice Tracks
Green Circles
An understated gem that sounds like it was recorded inside a snow globe, “Green Circles” floats along on soft harmonies and a sleepy guitar shimmer. Ronnie Lane’s writing here plants its feet in psychedelia but never loses its human pulse.
Get Yourself Together
The closest thing this album has to a punch in the mouth. Marriott barrels through with swagger, but it’s the wiry guitar and choppy beat that give the song its grinning, desperate energy.
My Way of Giving
A bruised little soul song that Marriott croons like he’s singing into a cracked mirror. It’s messy, sweet, and hits harder because of it — less love letter, more drunk confession.
Up the Wooden Hills to Bedfordshire
Short, strange, and beautiful. This is Lane’s fairy tale turned inside out, where the nursery rhymes come with a slow, sad wink instead of a happy ending. It’s over in a flash but sticks in your teeth.
I Feel Much Better
Proof that Small Faces could out-stomp almost anyone when they felt like it. Blistering organ, big drums, Marriott in full howl — it’s the sound of a band blowing the doors off and not worrying about who has to clean up after.
Small Faces isn’t about finesse — it’s about feeling. Every song sounds like it was played a little too loud, a little too fast, with a grin and a sneer. And somehow, that’s exactly why it still crackles today.