From Uncut’s July 2011 subject (Take 170). We inform the story of the Mod legends and their complicated, gifted entrance man Steve Marriott. From The Small Faces to Humble Pie, to his unusual final days on the pub circuit, what was it that drove Marriott to self-destruct? “He was essentially the most proficient individual I’ve ever identified,” recollects his Humble Pie bandmate, Peter Frampton, “however there was one thing in his psyche. Some big downside.”
“Good”: that was their favorite phrase. And it’s true – musically, sartorially, psychedelically, The Small Faces had been good. However by the Nineteen Eighties, they had been a distant reminiscence. Their singer Steve Marriott – the erstwhile Clever Dodger now extra of an Arthur Daley – might often be present in London boozers, enjoying gigs for money, ducking and diving. Whereas previous rivals like Rod Stewart lived penthouse existence, Marriott’s elevator was caught within the basement. The oce immaculate Ace Face carried out on stage in dungarees.
Then in 1991, got here an opportunity to show his life round. He was invited to LA to make an LP with Peter Frampton, his former Humble Pie bandmate. This surprising reunion – it was the primary time they’d recorded collectively since ’71 – was the 44-year-old Marriott’s probability to rejoin the foremost league. He stood to earn a small fortune in recording and publishing advances. It was an open purpose: he couldn’t miss. Frampton was thrilled to assist. “I used to be again with my idol,” he says. “It was my second probability to work with the best British singer of all time.” However Frampton, who’d heard tales about Marriott’s decline, laid down some floor guidelines. No alcohol within the studio. No going AWOL. Above all, no cocaine. Marriott agreed. Inside days, he’d damaged his promise. He was drunk, snorting coke, belligerent, demonic. Frampton stopped the classes and despatched Marriott again to England. He’d missed his open purpose.
Flying residence from LA, Marriott arrived jet-lagged at his cottage in Arkesden, Essex, within the early hours of April 20. A passing motorist, seeing flames billowing from the property at 6.30am, referred to as the hearth brigade. Marriott’s physique was recovered from an upstairs bed room. The inquest’s verdict was unintentional demise from smoke inhalation: he had most likely fallen asleep with a cigarette burning. His funeral was held on April 30, on a wet, stormy day in Harlow, whereas a posse of scooter boys stood guard outdoors.
Marriott left many unanswered questions, some merely intriguing, some downright chilling. What impulses drove him? Why did he sabotage a profitable comeback? Had his downward spiral been intentionally engineered? “He was essentially the most proficient individual I’ve ever identified,” says Frampton sadly. “However there was one thing in his psyche. Some big downside.”
FIND THE FULL INTERVIEW FROM UNCUT JULY 2011/TAKE 170 IN THE ARCHIVE
