Ian McLagan & the Bump Band with special guests Ronnie Wood & pals
Continental Club, Houston TX
December 1, 2005

Pop Culture Press
Spring 2006 (Issue #62)

By Jon Notarthomas

©Amy Bobruk Mac, Ivan Neville, Chuck Leavell and Ronnie Wood Continental Club, Houston, TX (12/1/05)

From the front corner of the Continental Club, Ron Wood stands on a bar stool, hands cupped to his mouth, excitedly shouting over the music and the crowd. It is ultimately an ineffective effort to get the attention of his long time friend and onetime Faces band mate, Ian McLagan. “Back here, Mac…Mac, I’m here!” Behind him, several people in his entourage sit looking up, amused at Wood’s burst of enthusiasm.Along side of them,a bodyguard systematically turns people away from the makeshift VIP area with the stern ease of a tank. The Rolling Stones had just played Houston’s Toyota Center.

While twenty thousand people shuffled out of the stadium, across town McLagan and The Bump Band worked a purposeful set. Even if the connection isn’t apparent, McLagan plays a pretty good role in the periphery of The Rolling Stones history. As the keyboardist for The Small Faces, and later the Faces with Wood and Rod Stewart, his name may not be as recognizable as his work. He could arguably be the key link that helped meld the boogie-woogie piano of Johnnie Johnson with the soulful expressiveness of Billy Preston’s and Booker T. Jones’ organ playing, in a signature style continues to inspire young hip rockers. But if McLagan isn’t playing stadium shows, it isn’t for any shortcomings in his music, performance, or spirit for that matter. McLagan is at home in the more personal environs of smoke filled honky-tonks that fostered the music that both the Stones and Faces were weaned on. After all, the setting invokes a tradition that brought about the blues and soul-singing heroes that British art students once emulated--ultimately, artists whose styles resurfaced in the British Invasion.

For some, the coincidence of McLagan’s scheduled Houston performance seems too unlikely to be chance. With a wink, McLagan asks, “What do they think we booked the gig for?” But if an appearance by one or more Stones seems a sure bet, McLagan himself expresses doubt whether any of his old mates will make it. Having toured with the Stones for the ‘78 Some Girls and ‘81 Tattoo You tours, McLagan knows that getting out after a stadium show isn’t always that easy. Still, in the club, rumors fuel a hushed frenzy of conjecture that prompts inquisitive looks throughout the night. There is, in essence, a vibe.

***

At the happy hour, a less than enthusiastic Beatle tribute band is kicking out the familiar songs with disfigured nuances of the fab four. A few regulars are drinking. The room is a little too well-lit. People arrive looking mildly lost and assess the room. There’s a guy with vinyl records under his arm. He wields a sharpie and looks like he’s hiding from having to buy a drink, but disinterested bartenders busy themselves preparing for the night. McLagan and the band arrive to drop off gear before heading out for Vietnamese around the block. As they leave, there are discerning glances.

By ten o’clock, people are shuffling in at a steady rate, and within a half-hour there is a murmur in the room. The crowd grows and people begin to stake out their position near the front. The Bump Band takes the stage around eleven with the casual aloofness of a working band. They break into “Little Girl,” a Chuck Berry tinged rocker that could easily have been a Faces cut. It’s a McLagan/ Wood co-write but nobody seems to notice. Still, people move closer and foot tapping replaces the locked-kneed tension of their standing wait.

McLagan may not have had the name recognition of his musical counterparts, but he’s cut from the same bolt of cloth. TheNehru jackets and mod wear are long gone, but his looks are still rock’n’roll. Somehow, his spiked hair is the tell-tale indicator of his past--except that it’s vibrant silver now. Though he’s put out several solo records, cynics still commonly attend his shows. After all, his biggest successes have been as an instrumentalist or a supportive player. But McLagan’s energetic and soulful set soon puts doubt to rest and substantiates his contribution to music history (a history that includes his share of the hotel-room-wrecking-pot-busted-sex-laden-drug-induced rock clichés—only he was there long before the clichés were cliché). Now, the emphasis is on the music and McLagan’s band is a perfectly honed vehicle.

The Bump’s musical prowess is sharp enough that they can almost elude attention and for good reason. The band highlights some of Austin’s best musicians. Mark Andes, a founding member of Canned Heat, Spirit, and Jo Jo Gunne (before taking up with stadium rockers Heart) is the model of tasteful bass playing—and unshakable; and if less traveled, the competent and brilliantly economical guitar of Scrappy Jud Newcomb lends a perfect balance to the playfulness of McLagan’s piano and B-3 organ styles. “And building the perfect shed,” as McLagan says, Don Harvey pounds out a steady foundation. The band is tight, yet there is a soulful looseness and the audience is responsive.

By 11:30 the club’s at half capacity. The house is pulsing and the band increasingly takes liberties soloing. Between songs, there’s the mutter of voices whispered to neighbor’s ears followed by quick stolen glances over shoulders. Outside, a tour bus parked at the side of the building draws eyes from curious onlookers. In fact, it’s a chartered bus from Austin; still, it feeds a sense of mystery. There are a number of people with cameras; a few of which resemble military artillery. In the next twenty minutes, another hundred people have come through the door.

There’s a chaotic crowd at the entrance and a guy says he’s with the Neville Brothers. The doorman becomes restive trying to keep order. The Neville’s guy turns his luck to one of the Bump Band crew. He says “Ian and Ivan are driving around with Keith” and assures him that they’ll be there in a bit. Expectations build. At the stage, the Bump Band is shakin’ the rafters between soulful mid-tempo numbers.

By the end of the set, the social dynamic of the club has changed. Ivan and Ian Neville are hanging out sidestage. Several local music celebrities are rubbing shoulders and bending their ears. There’s no Keith Richards, but the presence of several security guards assessing the stage access feeds suspicions. They’re clad in black with black baseball caps; they invoke an image of secret service agents on ‘casual Friday.’ In their way is a stocky middle aged guy wearing a vintage Rolling Stones shirt. He won’t yield. He’s got a stake hold on his position by the sidestage stairs and plans to keep it. He watches closely to everyone in the area and smiles conspiratorially. He asks a stagehand “Is it on?” as if in on some secret plan. He looks frustrated when he can’t get a straight answer. “Come on,” he pleas. He is the definition of fanatic.

***

Inherently, live shows hold a special allure for those die hard fans, but more rare are the shows that touch on history and impress the insiders: the shows that instill bragging rights; the guest appearances and surprise sit-ins; shows that eventually make the history books and rock’n’roll biographies. As fans, these shows are the prize of fellow musicians, industry scenesters and jaded music critics alike. They instill envy in friends and an irrational pride. The night is taking on that feel.

Into their second set, The Bumps break into “Judy Judy Judy,” from McLagan’s solo period, and follow it with “You’re so rude,” a McLagan/Lane composition from the Faces days. Engaged and unhampered, they playfully pull out a sauntering version of Little Walter’s “Temperature.” The atmosphere is growing more festive and McLagan holds up a pint of Guinness and toasts, “Your very good health” he says, taking a swig. His silk shirt is visibly soaked with sweat.

In front of the club, a white passenger van pulls up. There’s a guest list, but the guests aren’t on the list--the doorman knows the names. Several people shuffle into the club. The band is playing the Faces, “Cindy Incidentally.”

On stage, McLagan seems to sense the crowd’s anticipation. “Well, I know if some of you’ve been to see The Stones tonight…” he says, hanging the sentence. “I know they was good, I know they was great” he finishes and pauses. He imparts a little of his own history and bragging rights. “Back in 62, 63…I used to be one of the lugs, just like you…standin’ right in front of the stage when they played the Station Hotel in Richmond many years ago,” referring to the club residency where the Stones honed their craft, “…they were always great!” he adds, sounding sincere in reflection. “I got a song for you. It was written by a very dear friend of mine, many years ago. I remember him playing it for us in the Faces and Rod’s (Stewart) reaction was, ‘ehhh, nah,’” McLagan displays an exaggerated expression of disgust before saying, “Well Rod was wrong!”

“Ronnie, this one’s for you if you’re out there,” McLagan says.

***

Wood and McLagan met in 1967 when The Small Faces’ Steve Marriot introduced them during a session. McLagan would later form the Faces with Wood and Rod Stewart after they departed the Jeff Beck Group. Wood later joined the Stones and the Faces disbanded, but the kinship is has remained between the two. It is the sort of kinship of uncorrupted youth, yet corruptible mischief.

At the opposite end of the club, the introduction has Wood’s ear. The first discernable notes of “Mystifies Me” incites his reaction—one not unlike a child for a puppy on Christmas morning. Rushing to join his old mate, in an ironic twist, Wood struggles to push past his own security entourage. Waving his hands toward the stage, he repeatedly yells, “straight through, straight through…” while the security guards abandon their plans to escort him round the back of the building to the stage door. Now, they push through from the back of the capacity crowd in mambo line fashion and into the midst of a blockade of tables and people.

“You fuck- king cunt!” McLagan screams, his cockney accent more pronounced.

McLagan’s raspy croon may not have the sweetest timbre, but most could guess that this declaration was not the chorus of Wood’s beautiful and alluring ballad. Yet clearly, it is meant as a term of endearment, if not the honest response to seeing his old mate push through the shoulders of the front row with a two-fisted flip of the bird.

As Wood is boosted to the stage, the puzzled crowd responds with an ovation worthy of a top-of-the-ninth home run. The two embrace while a sea of cell phone cameras shoot above the crowd in a strange Gestapo-like salute. The band falls back into the song now with Wood screeching out the chorus in his Dylan-esque grit-- barely reaching the pitch, and McLagan tripping over several notes as Wood hangs over his shoulder as he plays.

The bond of their friendship is like that of adolescents. The two appear yet to be jaded and share a sense of mischief. Throughout the song, they lock on each other’s gaze with the audience left to guess what secrets are being exchanged. Certainly, there are many. But in the first several minutes, there is a charisma that can neither be attributed to Wood’s animated stadium gestures, nor McLagan’s humble and disarming personality. What remains voyeuristically infectious is the glimpse of the playful and unaffected manner that may have set them on their course some forty years earlier. A condition of youth: fun.

“Ron Wood…and he always does…” McLagan puns.

“E’ry time” Woody says on cue and laughing. Joking with each other between songs. Wood plays a few bars of the riff to “Cindy incidentally.” The riff reminds him, “Oh, tha’s wha you were playin when I waulked in. Fuck-ing brilliant”

McLagan laughs. The two are like teenagers at a rehearsal. He suggests a blues number.

“No, Fuck that,” Woody responds, “le’s dew Cindy again.” He toys with the riff against Macs playing in another key, “Oh, you don’ do it in that key anymore, right?”

“C” Mac yells.

“O k, bollocks to that idea. This is your band, not mine…”

They settle on a version of Carl Levy’s “Truly” and Stones sidemen Blondie Chaplan and Bernard Fowler jump to the stage to join in the fun.

***

For many, memory will later tell them that that this was an incredible show. The Houston Chronicle has listed it as the fifth best show of the year. And the Bump Band was as solid as they could be, but it isn’t for their musical brilliance that the show will be most notable. When Ron Wood joined the stage, there were muddled notes, a false start, and missed riffs. It was, frankly, a bit sloppy. But for whatever gaffs may have been played, authenticity overrode their effect. Without question, what was most apparent was the affection between two friends. And given that there are no pretensions for the burden of proof here, the honesty of their performance and actions was as affecting as Brando. Perhaps the reason many that night claimed the show trumped the Stones.

McLagan might be the only member of the Faces not to have become a household name, though he’s still a bona fide member of the club. He may not have millions in the bank, yet if musical integrity holds value, his inheritance has none-the-less left him rich.

The Houston Chronicle’s review of the Stones performance called it “the most spectacular, massive and expensive version of musical sleep-walking known to concert-goers.” If the Stones hold the title of greatest rock n-roll band, these days, it’s echoed more through their business prowess and a grown-up fan base that can appreciate a $450 ticket as privilege rather than elitist pandering. But they’re still the Stones. On the other hand, McLagan wears the calloused hands of digging rocks in the trenches, and yet he appears un-jaded for the effort. For McLagan, it’s still about the music. And in turn, perhaps it’s the reason Ron Wood seemed so thrilled to be on McLagan’s stage. For those smart enough or lucky enough to attend the show, there will be bragging rights. They won’t recall missed notes or pitchy vocals, but they’ll get it right. They’ll recall the vibe—the energy. And they’ll recall a angst filled version of The Small Faces, “What You Gonna Do About It”…and that it was all for ten measly bucks.

Jon Notarthomas is an Austin based musician who doubles as a tour manager for Ian McLagan. He is also an English Writing and Rhetoric major at St. Edward’s University.