Sex, drums &rock’n’roll
Stardom at 16 with the Small Faces. Debauched parties with Rod Stewart. Clashes with Sharon Osbourne’s dad and Roger Daltrey. Rock legend Kenney Jones reveals everything in his saga of...
IT was over frothy coffee in the hip La Gioconda coffee bar in Soho’s Denmark Street that the yet-to-be-christened Small Faces – me, Ronnie Lane, Steve Marriott and our original organ player, Jimmy Winston – dreamed our dreams of musical success.
The year was 1965 and we were good friends with another of the regulars. He was a short Mod like us, a songwriter and guitarist, into protest songs about banning the bomb, but great fun to be around. I thought of him as the unofficial fifth member of our band.
He’d tell us about the songs he’d been writing, and one day he asked whether he could play some with us. We had a gig in Romford that night, so we said: ‘No problem, come along, provided you help us load and unload the van.’
At the gig, as the interval approached, our keen friend was sitting down at the front, trying to catch Steve’s eye, all expectant. ‘Now?’ ‘Not quite yet.’ ‘Now?’ ‘Nearly.’ Eventually Steve gave him the nod. ‘Now.’ Thrilled, he climbed up onstage, guitar in hand, ready to go… and we climbed down and went for a beer.
We weren’t really looking for another singer in the band. Otherwise, I’m convinced David Jones would have joined the Small Faces. But he was destined to become a star even without us; as David Bowie, he proved that.
So I never backed Bowie, but I do know a few things about lead singers. I’ve had the good fortune to be the drummer for three of the great British bands: the Small Faces, the Faces with Rod Stewart, and The Who. Even to this day I still can’t properly get to grips with how quickly it all got started. At the age of 15 I was just out of school, working in a pickling factory in the East End.
By 16 I was in a band, earning as much as my dad. Within a few months of that show in Romford, we had our first hit with Whatcha Gonna Do About It. A year later, we were at No 1 with All Or Nothing.
The Small Faces, with the addition of organist Ian McLagan, were four great mates on a voyage of discovery. Our house in Pimlico was a magnet for the Swinging London scene – an experimental lab for the new adventure we were all on. You never knew who you might bump into there. It might be Mick Jagger, Paul McCartney, John Lennon or Georgie Fame, trying out new songs.
Marriott was always mucking around, frequently crossing the line. On tour in Berlin, I remember being in a cab, passing war-damaged churches and buildings, with Marriott going: ‘Whoops, we missed that one, we should have flattened that one.’
Our driver pulled over, started shouting at us, then chucked us out. I didn’t know a lot of German, but I think it’s safe to say he was upset. I didn’t blame him. Our manager in the early days was the notorious Don Arden, father of Sharon Osbourne. There was an aura about him, a whiff of the underworld. He offered us royalties, a regular wage, accounts at Carnaby Street clothes shops and money for our parents. Only later did we discover that everything the band spent or did – travel, accommodation, promotion – was charged back to us against record sales. Basically, we got screwed.
When our parents went to his office to ask why we were seeing no money after hit singles and a No3 album, Don was happy to provide an explanation. ‘The reason they don’t have any money,’ he said, ‘is that they have spent it all. You see, they are all on drugs.’ That changed the dynamics of the meeting.
Sure, the other boys were beginning to experiment with acid for creativity, thanks to The Beatles’ influence. But that wasn’t where the money had gone. After we’d calmed our parents down, we severed our ties with Don Arden.
Although I knew them all well from around the music scene, it was during a tour of Australia in early 1968 that I first spent extended time in close quarters with The Who. I was in my hotel room when the phone rang.
Moonie. ‘Come on up here, Ken, I want to show you something.’
Opening the door to Keith’s room, the first thing I saw was a row of ten snare drums. Laughing, he picked one up and threw it towards the closed window. Stop! Keith! Smash! Straight through. We rushed to the win dow in time to watch the drum crash on to Melbourne’s High Street and bounce off down the road, ing as it went.
‘Now, let’s get that drink Street and surveying his handiwork.
Marriott left the Small Faces in 1969, frustrated at our inability to shake the teeny-bopper tag. At a loose end, the three remaining Small Faces found ourselves rehearsing with a new guitarist, Ronnie Wood, who said he wanted to bring a friend down. No
‘Keith picked up one of the snare drums and threw it towards the closed window. Smash!’
problem, Woody. Bring him along. What’s his name? Rod Stewart. He was shy at first, but when he finally did step up to the microphone, the magic was instant and remarkable. The others weren’t sure about inviting him on board – we’d all had enough of prima donna singers. But I persuaded them, and we became the Faces.
Not long after, Rod bought the car of his dreams, a yellow Marcos with a wooden chassis. It cost £1,300 – the exact amount Rod had agreed with Mercury Records to sign as a solo artist. It must have slipped his mind to mention that to the rest of us.
Rod’s solo career quickly went crazy. Often, we’d find ourselves billed as Rod Stewart and the Faces. I wasn’t bothered. We were having too much fun and success for it to matter.
At the end of a gig, Rod would always shout ‘Party back at our hotel!’ – basically an invitation to girls looking for some fun.
We used to book an extra suite we designated the ‘party room’.
Looking back through today’s eyes, our antics might appear debauched, but for everyone – us, the girls, anyone else present – it was regarded purely as a bit of fun.
There was no pretence. Coming back to a Faces party, you knew the score: sex, spliffs, drinks. Any order will do. At home we were family men, on the road we were living the rock ’n’ roll dream. Warped morals, maybe, but that’s how it was. When Woody bought a big house in Richmond, he’d record at all hours and call me when he needed a drummer. I always said yes, not knowing who else would be there. One night it might be Bob Dylan, the next Eric Clapton, or Pete Townshend or Bowie.
On one occasion in late 1973, it was Mick Jagger. He had a riff plus a scattering of lyrics he was working on, and I started to play along. Mick then got it into his head that he wanted something different, but I told him to let it go. ‘Don’t worry, Mick. It’s only rock ’n’ roll.’
‘But I like it,’ he fired straight back. We quickly pulled together the track around that line. It sounded OK, for a demo, and I thought no more about it. Next thing I knew it was a Rolling Stones single, with me drumming. I phoned their drummer Charlie Watts to apologise. He said: ‘Don’t worry Kenney. It sounds like me anyway.’
In 1978, with the Faces finished, Keith Moon died, apparently of an accidental overdose. Not long after, the phone rang. It was Bill Curbishley, The Who’s manager, inviting me to join the band. There was only one possible answer.
It all started well, but I clashed with frontman Roger Daltrey over a bonus payment early on and the rot slowly began to seep into the timbers underpinning the band.
The band split in 1983, only to reform in 1985 for Live Aid, but I knew Roger didn’t like my style. Live Aid was exhilarating, but it had not resolved the situation.
As for the Faces, at Rod’s 70th birthday party in LA I mentioned a concert I was organising in aid of prostate cancer research. Would he be interested in joining me and Woody? Yes, he would.
I didn’t hold my breath. Rod says yes to everything, then checks his diary. But we found a date and Rod turned to me after the session. ‘You haven’t given up drinking, have you Kenney?’ ‘No.’ ‘Thank God for that.’
‘Coming back to a Faces party, you knew the score: sex, spliffs, drinks. Any order will do’