The Glamour Twins were simply passing through, pausing at London Heathrow airport en route to Paris, from Los Angeles. Still the newshounds contrived to be. close at heel, sniffing out The Latest Sensational.

The following morning there was a spectacularly bud fanfare of “controversial" publicity to add intrigue to the already excited speculative gossip which had preceded their arrival. The Daily Mirror reported: “Grim-looking rock star Rod Stewart strides into Britain with his girlfriend Britt Ekland—and an apparent determination to stay single.”

The Twins had booked a honeymoon suite in an Edinburgh hotel. Could they just he shopping in Europe, here to watch the Cup Final, holding A lavish party in swinging London or trying to sell rich Rod's Windsor Mansion?

In the national papers, it went unrecorded that Rod Stewart had also released his seventh solo album, A Night On The Town. And that an important reason for his visit to Britain was topromote the elpee and form a new band to tour here later this year.

Did it escape Rod's attention too?

Is he the innocent manipulated— both by the press and his own publicity agents? Or has he gladly committed himself to the madhouse of rock, pop, film and sports celebrities?

The cynic wouldn't find it difficult to contrive a malicious web of circumstantial evidence with Rod n’ Britt standing accused.

A month after their meeting, for example, Faces guitarist Ron Wood offically accepted the invitation to play with the Rolling Stones, a decision he had been unable to reach previously despite Mick and Keith’s serenading.

"People seem to think I'm out to spoil Rod so mehow," said Britt. "I think what has happened is the complete reverse. I've helped Rod, both in his music and in his life."

That same month, April ’75, Stewart left Britain to live in America, and only weeks later he’d started to record Atlantic Crossing without, for the first time, the assistance of his cohorts in the Faces. And by July, there was drummer Kenny Jones publicly moaning about a decline in his earnings caused by Stewart’s absenteeism.

That summer the Faces toured the States on what was to be their final outing, following which Ian MacLagan claimed Stewart had lost his marbles to the Hollywood lifestyle, and in an act of rebellion against the exiled lead singer described the completed Atlantic Crossing elpee as both “sterile” and “unemotional.”

A Faces farewell seemed inevitable.

World Shock!

“Rod feels he can no longer work in a situation where the group’s lead guitarist seems to be on permanent loan to the Rolling Stones,” announced Tony Toon, Stewart’s publicist, in December. That simple, petulant statement of decision brought an abrupt and unfortunate end to the seven-year-old Faces.

There’s still a lot to clarify.

“People seem to think I’m out to spoil Rod somehow,” Britt Ekland is quoted as saying. “I think what has happened is the complete reverse. I’ve helped Rod, both in his music and his life.”

Unfortunately, all the glamour pinups of the couple, those sort of quotes, and the consistent coverage of their conflicting views on marriage merely exacerbate the situation; drawing them towards a relationship that Britt herself has described as “the last of the great loves. A contemporary Burton and Taylor . . . with all the glamour but none of the diamond-buying drama.”

Do you have faith and respect for a rock ‘n’ roller who decks himself out in blazer, boater and cravat, lives in Hollywood, knocks about with a famous movie starlet, and has just let a band which a lot of people awarded a place in the World’s Top Five slip unceremoniously into oblivion?

Can this man be the same person who humbly and convincingly sang “Take me back/Won’t you carry me home/Down to Gasoline Alley where I started from”?

Does Rod The Mod still convince you that he has credibility?

“As far as I’m concerned,” he indignantly responds. “I’m not a different person to when I made ‘Gasoline Alley.’ And I’m also making better music now.”

On arrival at his rented terraced house in Chelsea, he played the politely attentive host. Once in the living room, which Britt hurriedly vacated as we entered, pausing only to glimmer a faint, welcome smile, he’d told Pennie Smith that he’d rather not have photos taken, because he, to quote, “felt like a piece of shit.” Helpfully he phoned Tony Toon to arrange a special photo session the following day, and then offered drinks.

The routine started, safe and familiar. Yet despite the casual air of self-assurance there was little doubt of Stewart’s sensitivity to certain subjects. A reference to a Stones-type boogie on a track off the new album resulted in an explosive display of indignation.

“But why is it Stones boogie music?” he demanded. “Why the Stones all the time? Is that the only other band you can compare it to? They’re not a yardstick for everybody to measure up against, surely?

“The name of the game is to get people there," he explained, pressing a clenched fist to his chest. “But you never know whether you’ve done it or not. Especially when you’ve lived with an album for three or four months.”

Which brings us to the point of trying to discover if there’s been a change in approach to his music.

“It’s interesting,” he observes in a calmer moment. “It’s the one thing that’s been leveled at me so many times since I’ve been here. The Hollywood thing is what you’re talking about, right? You’re saying: ‘Well, how can he write now?”’

Partly but not totally: the substitution of his Jack the Lad persona of earlier days for the Showbiz Joe of today.

“How can you maintain that image for the rest of your life?” he responds. “And who wants to come to that? Not that I was ashamed of it, but the person’s improved, the music’s improved and I’m also six years older.”

He continues, “Obviously I wanna earn some money, I don’t wanna be broke. I can’t do anything else, but sing, you know. I don’t wanna be ridiculously wealthy ... I just wanna have a couple of bob. If, for instance, I was a hundred per cent tax exile I’d have joined all the others —actors and actresses—who’ve fled off to Bermuda, Monte Carlo, even Jersey.

“When I read these things: ‘Oh. Rod’s gone to Hollywood and it’s spoiled the music and he’s no longer hungry’ . . . it’s such bullshit!

“I live,” he adds, “such a humble life there. You’ve got no idea. Compared to how I used to live here when I had that huge house down in Windsor on 17 acres with 20-odd bedrooms. But no one criticized me then, right? People have this inborn impression of the Tinsel Town of Hollywood, and it’s such an inaccurate statement.”

But to what extent did he attempt to re-establish his image with A Night On The Town. After all. Never A Dull Moment and Atlantic Crossing, particularly the latter, seemed to reflect these changes in life style.

“Let me just sum it all up: A leopard will never lose its spots, right? How can 1 ever change? I’m working class. I always will be. It’s not like I’m trying to talk like this ...” He affects an upperclass accent. “ . . . and rather well. Then you’d have a good point. But, nothin's changed in me whatsoever!

“I don’t think the person’s been spoiled. It's very difficult for me to say. You should ask someone that’s known me, like my mate Rod downstairs. He’s known me for 14 years. Or the blokes I’m gonna play football with on Wednesday at Hampstead, who’ve known me for 12 years.

“But I don’t want to be the working class hero. I’ve never set out to be that: local lad does well. Although it’s true.”

No, he states, there’s no intention to re-establish Rod the Lad in A Night On The Town.

“If that was the case, I’d make an album of ‘Underneath the Arches,’ and sing things like that.”

There was, however, a time after the making of Smiler when he felt disillusioned with what he describes as “the formularization” of his solo albums.

”I felt I was kidding myself,” he recalls. “I put out four albums in four years. 1 wascompletely exhausted. The river dried up with the people I was working with. I was tired of trying to produce albums myself. I’d also heard some things by other people and I suddenly realized that I could be doing a lot better if I was to branch out and go and work in Muscle Shoals and places. And then I’d met Tom Dowd.

“So many things came together at the time the Faces did their last tour . . . and I knew it was going to be the last tour . . . meeting Britt, moving to America, meeting Tom. All these things happened within four or five months.”

The Faces split, possibly because Stewart's side of the story has never been told. has accrued sufficient speculative gossip to tar Rod pretty blackly.

Woody hates Stewart’s guts, it’s been said, because the distractions of his solo career led him to disregard the band. Ian MacLagan is particularly bitter. And Britt Ekland turned our boy’s head; stole him away. Like Linda and Yoko did to Paul and John.

Stewart attempts to remain coolly detached from all this, even though he professes concern for the welfare and musical standing of Ron Wood. But he admits there are pairticularly hostile feelings between himself and MacLagan —and still with Ronnie Lane.

The conflict with Mac centered around Stewart’s insistence on an elaborate stage act and the pianist’s refusal to cooperate.

"I dread to think of my self as being a playboy, but not for being a bit more than a rock star."

Other factors which contributed to the Faces demise included his relationship with Britt and his move to America. These he readily confesses to. There was a lack of leadership too, an inability to record together, alleged record company disinterest in their product, an unprofessional attitude within the band coupled with jealousies and general apathy.

“The Faces always came first in the first couple of years,” he states, “then I would do my albums on the quiet. But the albums sold so phenomenally well throughout the world it just overpowered them.

“But I did try to stay one of the band. I can tell you stories now, but I could never tell them then.

“Like we used to go to gigs in the States where we were billed as ‘Rod Stewart And The Faces.’ And they’d get the needle and I’d be so embarrassed. I’d say: ‘I dunno lads, it’s nothing to do with me.’ I’d die of embarrassment.

“So we used to have two extra roadies going round changing the signs to just ‘The Faces.’ But the promoters would say: ‘Look, the Faces are unheard of in this country. Rod Stewart’s had two hit singles and two big albums and we need to advertise his name.’ And I was stuck in the middle.

“I had this incredible loyalty and I wanted to stay one of the band . . . but on the other hand, knowing that if they wanted to be successful and earn a few bob, they had to put my name up there.”

The group’s last tour was a sad epitaph, a reflection of their musical decay.

“It was shitty,” he states. “Probably I was as much to blame as anybody, but we were playing things for five years and we shouldn’t have messed ’em up. One guy can make a mistake, but not everybody screwin’ up. The looseness that the Faces were known for . . . just became too loose. It was silly boy night.

“It was such an unprofessional band. I mean, how many times can you get away with being an hour and a half late at a gig for 15,000? You can’t go on doing that, year in and year out.”

Finally, he claims, he alone made the decision to disband.

“We would still probably have been together, just drifting on and on and on if I hadn’t put my foot down and said, that's it!"

But .was his period with the Faces worthwhile? It has been suggested that it was a mistake for Stewart to have ever joined the band: that instead he should have concentrated on his solo work.

“Oh yes,” he answers with genuine affection. “Christ! How can you say that? I don’t even think you should ask me that. I’m sure as much as we might hate each other now—Mac and I, and even Ronnie and me—I’ve still got a lot of admiration for them. They’ve brought out a lot of great things in me. I’d even go so far as to say they made me what I am, to an extent. I owe those guys a lot.”

TURN TO PAGE 67.

CONTINUED FROM PAGE 31.

Of these, only Kenny Jones will join Rod in his new band.

“There certainly won’t be any comparison to the Faces,” he asserts.

“I'd be a fool to go and find a load of drunkards who’re going to fall over the place: That’s cruel. But what I’m saying is that I don’t want an imitation of the Faces. It’d be pointless.”

Is it painful recalling the split?

“Christ no. Why should it be?”

Because you’ve said the Faces were your first concern and very dear to you.

“And that’s the only reason I’m talking about them now. I could have easily turned round and said to you: I don’t want to talk about ’em, they’re a load of shit. I could have put them down just as easy. But I’m trying to say they were a great bunch of lads through all their mistakes and all the things we did wrong. I don’t regret the six years I was with them. I hope they feel the same. But I hope they’re also mature enough to realize that it was getting bad.”

He chuckles on the understatement.

“Once malice comes into it, or you lose your respect for one of the other guys, or there’s bad vibes—for want of a better word— then it’s time to call it a day.”

But had his involvement with Britt struck him as being on a similar level to that of the McCartneys and Lennons? The lady comes up front, shoots a few stray quotes at the press, and is then later blamed for meddling in “men’s business.”

Britt seems to attract press as a cowpile does flies.

“That she’ll take the can back?” he queries. “I shouldn’t think so. I’m sure things would have been said by now. She’s such a newcomer really.

“When you’re talking about Yoko and Linda, they’d been there for a long time. If they did stir the shit, they had plenty of time to do it in. She never commented either way. In fact, if anything, she would have probably liked to have kept the band together. And I wouldn’t let my old lady sing on the stage either. Not like them two.”

But you have let her sing on record. On Tonight’s The Night.

“And that’s about as near as she’s gonna get as well,” he asserts. “And if I hadn’t put a credit on the album for her you wouldn’t,have known, wouldja?”

By now it’s the early hours of the morning. Rod is wearily reclining on the settee, his conversation punctuated by long, ponderous pauses, the occasional yawn and sometimes a startling burst of invective. To some degree he exhibits the reaction of a guy who has fallen foul of his own profession; a rock ‘n’ roll outcast unfairly chastised for losing touch with the reality of his environment.

Soon Britt joins us. All in white, she stands legs astride Rod, her arms resting on his shoulders as he casually runs his fingers along her thighs.

Together, they lay the blame on publicist Tony Toon. Britt claims Toon is their own built-in gossip writer. Later Rod declares quite forcefully that “She’s a silly bitch” over the Burton-Taylor quote.

“But it’s very easy when you’re in love and you’ve met someone and everything is fantastic . . . ” she says.

Minutes later, he temporarily quiets her tongue.

“Shut up Britt! Why don’t you shut up? Let the men get on with the interview.”

Britt, pouting a little, exits. Stewart continues to appraise the consequences of the image being portrayed in the national press.

“All I can say is that it hasn’t affected my song writing so far, Perhaps in a year’s time it may do. But as it is, I haven't been wealthy enough, long enough, for it to spoil what I’m doing.”

Is it a potential danger?

“You make it sound like it is, and perhaps it is. But I really don’t feel it.

“I dread to think of myself as being a playboy, but not for being a bit more than simply a rock star.

“But not assholing and hobnobbing with Princess Anne and all that shit. Just a little bit more than that.”

A three-way conversation then trots over the English coverage again with Britt explaining that the Sunday Mirror account of their meeting and falling in love was slightly exaggerated. Their affair developed more slowly, she asserts.

“ft wasn’t exactly a one night stand darlin’,” Rod tells her. “I must admit you took a bit of pulling.”

“Whaaat?” she exclaims.

“I say you took a bit of pulling, didn’t you?"

“We just realized that it all seemed too good to be true,” he continues, unperturbed. “All those things sound dumb in print anyway. It’s very hard to be truthful and emotional when people are later going to read it in black print.”

Rod has picked up a rpusic box, wound it, and it’s now playing soft love music into the microphone. He stares mocktenderly at Britt, laughs and switches off the microphone. Britt doesn’t catch on to the joke and continues talking.

“That’s enough darling,” he says. “We’ve finished the interview now.”

(Reprint Courtesy of New Musical Express)