On the road to oblivion

As early as the author's by-line, you can tell this is going to be a chummy read, and indeed Ian "Mac" McLagan doesn't disappoint. McLagan, for those who may not be aware of the name, used to be a member of the Small Faces and the Faces, two British rock bands of the Sixties and Seventies which took the art of falling apart very seriously.

The Small Faces were a wiry little pop group, neither as famous or innovative as the Beatles nor as dynamic or threatening as the Who. They were, however, a cracking singles band who released some of the most enduring British pop singles of the midto late Sixties. In the early Seventies, the band metamorphosed into the Faces, a charmed but ramshackle outfit whose slackness was made even more slack by frequent cheery visits down the local. Unsurprisingly, the Faces' motto was, says McLagan in this breezy, involving memoir, "Go to the pub!"

Born on May 12th, 1945, half-Irish McLagan (his mother was born in Mountrath, Co Laois) went through the London Art School system, where, like many others, he was inspired by American rock'n'roll, blues, skiffle, and, latterly, the Rolling Stones. Primarily focused in London, the British blues boom quickly became the breeding ground for many of the bands who have since become household, if not semi-legendary, names. Through no fault of their own (inexperience and naivety notwithstanding), the Small Faces were slow to cash in on the Sixties Brit-Pop phenomenon. While the likes of the Rolling Stones and the Who appeared to have matters well and truly mapped out, the Small Faces were dogged by bad luck and even worse management. But these were pioneering, halcyon days, and McLagan recalls them in a hectic sequence of events: 10 gigs in a week; the band's debut album, recorded, mixed and mastered in three days; all the girls and drugs that fame could provide. While there is an overall feeling of McLagan using his book as a genuine reminiscence as much as an excuse to bemoan the fact that he and his mates were ripped off by a succession of managers and record companies, his tone is balanced by a distinct sense of sentimentality - an unusual trait for such a hardened on-the-road warrior.

The other major and probably most important aspect of the book is the confessed sense of personal dysfunction. McLagan lists the first rule of damaging hotel property - "Never do it on your own floor" - as if it were a pearl of wisdom from a juvenile delinquent. Through a series of relationships that bite the proverbial dust, via a frankly unwise approach to chasing the perfect high ("I was stoned, coked, drunk and sedated on a daily basis - I could never seem to get high enough"), McLagan travels from one city to the next in an apparently never-lifting haze.

As the author eventually surfaces from the nightmare of addiction (including, it shocks me to recount it, snorting coke on an Aer Lingus flight to London; something from the duty free - I ask you!) into the loving and extremely understanding arms of his wife, you can't help but admit that he's a lucky guy. His resentment, aggravation and bewilderment are reserved for the main players (specifically, Mick Jagger, Bob Dylan and Rod Stewart), but even these are tempered with a so-what attitude. All the Rage is a cosy, occasionally eyebrow-raising read of the life and times of a sideman. Holiday Inns might never see his like again.

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