The Small Faces 1968 – Song Of A Baker

The air in the studio, Olympic or perhaps Trident in London, must have been thick with the residual charge of Mod energy and the newly-arrived haze of psychedelia. It was 1968, and The Small Faces, a band whose very name once screamed sharply tailored London grit and Maximum R&B, were deep into the creation of their masterpiece, Ogdens’ Nut Gone Flake. This was their ambitious, bizarre, and utterly brilliant concept album released on Andrew Loog Oldham’s Immediate label, a work that would define the final, glorious flourish of the group’s classic lineup.

Most of the world knew Steve Marriott’s searing, soulful howl and his blistering, blues-derived work. He was the volatile, charismatic frontman, the undisputed voice of the band’s most frantic hits. But nestled quietly on the album’s first side, between the orchestral swirl of “Rene” and the Cockney music-hall stomp of “Lazy Sunday,” sits a that offers an essential, beautiful contrast: “Song Of A Baker.”

This track is an anomaly and a key. It is Ronnie Lane’s moment of pastoral, profound reflection. Lane, the bassist and Marriott’s co-songwriter, steps forward to take lead vocals on his own composition (co-credited to Marriott), delivering a performance that is unhurried, warm, and deeply earthy. It’s the sound of a band, at their creative and chemical peak, briefly looking up from the urban kaleidoscope to find inspiration in a simple, eternal craft. The song, reportedly inspired by a book of Sufi wisdom, concerns itself not with chart positions or teenage angst, but with the cyclical nature of life and the humble process of turning into sustenance.

The arrangement is where the true genius lies. Unlike the dense sonic tapestry and phased drums of their biggest psychedelic tracks, “Song Of A Baker” is relatively spare, yet rich in texture. It begins with the simple, declarative thud of Kenney Jones’s drums, almost tribal in its steady heartbeat. Ian McLagan’s then enters, a warm, rolling arpeggio that grounds the whole affair in a kind of gentle, almost medieval folk-rock sensibility. It sounds less like a trip through a park and more like a walk through a village green at sunrise.

The rhythm section, Lane on bass and Jones on drums, drives the song with a quiet authority, a deep, melodic pocket far removed from the sharp attack of their R&B past. Lane’s bass line is a constant, undulating current, less a supportive anchor and more a graceful, winding counter-melody to his own vocal. This is for anyone who values a perfectly mixed, deeply felt rhythmic performance. The tones are full, round, and clear, suggesting a focus on the fundamental elements of the music without excessive studio trickery.

McLagan’s role is critical. While his organ work defined the band’s psychedelic phase, here he weaves a complex pattern on the . It’s a series of cascading phrases that are at once formal and free, giving the song a sense of both structure and expansion. Later, the enters, a brief, soaring solo, executed with Marriott’s signature blend of blues grit and melodic precision. It’s a flash of electric lightning across a calm, grey sky.

The mood is introspective, even spiritual. Lane’s voice is gentle, slightly nasal, utterly sincere. He sings of the bread being made, the seed being sown, the light that “shines on everything the same.” In the midst of the chaos and self-absorption of late 60s psychedelia, “Song Of A Baker” offers a moment of restorative clarity. It’s an act of restraint, which, paradoxically, makes it one of the most powerful tracks on the . It showcases a side of the Small Faces—and Ronnie Lane specifically—that often gets overshadowed by Marriott’s flash and fury.

“It is the sound of an artist finding his equilibrium in the simple mechanics of existence, a gentle reminder that even in the greatest storm of creativity, there is peace in the soil.”

This remains a poignant testament to the band’s collective talent, highlighting the compositional range of Lane and the instrumental nuance of the entire quartet. It is, perhaps, the perfect soundtrack for those micro-moments of modern life where the pace finally slows. Imagine driving on an empty motorway at 4 AM, the headlights cutting through mist, or sitting in a quiet kitchen as the first coffee brews: “Song Of A Baker” finds the profound in the mundane.

Its inclusion on an album titled Ogdens’ Nut Gone Flake—with its whimsical concept about a character named Happiness Stan searching for the missing half of the moon—is no accident. It serves as a necessary anchor, connecting the high-flying fantasy back to the earth. It is the wisdom gleaned after the journey, the quiet revelation that the world’s truth is often baked into the most fundamental acts. For anyone considering to understand the melodic brilliance of the era, the counterpoint between Marriott’s brief, searing line and Lane’s grounded bass on this track is a study in complementary arrangement.

The Small Faces were a band that burned brightly and briefly, a unit whose creative dissolution was hastened by their intensity. But in this track, there is a sense of calm inevitability, a forward motion powered by a gentle, internal light. It reminds us that beneath the surface of the Mod clothes and the psychedelic excesses, there was a deep, folk-rooted poetry in the songwriting of Ronnie Lane, a poetry that would blossom more fully in his later, solo work. This song is the seed from which that future grew.

Listening Recommendations

1. The Faces – Ooh La La: Also written and sung by Ronnie Lane, sharing the same gentle, rustic, and introspective quality.
2. Traffic – Forty Thousand Headmen: A similar blend of earthy folk, jazz-infused rock, and psychedelic atmosphere from the same era.
3. Nick Drake – River Man: For a comparable sense of deep, sophisticated melancholy and a sparse, beautiful arrangement anchored by acoustic instruments.
4. The Kinks – Sitting in My Hotel: A quiet, poignant track from a conceptually ambitious album, showing a similar contrast to the band’s louder hits.
5. Small Faces – Long Agos and Worlds Apart: Another deep cut from Ogdens’ Nut Gone Flake featuring Ian McLagan on lead vocal, offering a different but equally meditative mood.
6. The Zombies – Butcher’s Tale (Western Front 1914): A uniquely arranged track from a psychedelic masterwork (Odessey and Oracle) that grounds its subject in a stark, narrative vocal.