Armed only with copies of my fanzines Stepping Stone! and Whatever Happened To?, and the kinetic energy of youth. Naturally, on being presented with an eager young Mod, a national publication would instantly hand me a staff writer’s gig. An unlimited expenses account and all the backstage passes I could handle. Anything Paulo Hewitt could do...

I was still bartering my puppyish enthusiasm when an editor with infinite patience suggested I “interview Steve Marriot’s band The Packet of Three who are playing The Venue next week”.

Interview Steve Marriot? Erm, yes, I could probably do that.

The next few days were a haze of unchecked anticipation. Of course, my mate was coming, uncharted terrain, friendly backup required. I prepared precisely no questions; my incisive probing and never-before posed questions would inevitably offer original insights into the life and times of a Small Face. Opening a gateway to the world of Lester Bangs and Hunter S Thomson.

Our arrival was not auspicious.

“We’re from Cut magazine, to interview Steve Marriot.”

Gesturing at my mate, the bouncer asked, “Who’s he then?”

“The cameraman.”

“So where’s his camera?”

“Ah, right enough. He’s forgotten it.”

A long, steely appraisal followed, after some practiced eye-rolling, the golden ticket: “You’d better come in then.”

My Dad had come with some mates. I remember dancing to the Kink’s Set Me Free during the DJ set. Steve played a bluesy gig, that voice in fine fettle. The opening riff of All or Nothing prompted a crowd-burst of shared joy. The encore came and went.

It was time…

I was so intoxicated on lager and expectation that my mate went into panic mode at the prospect of me blowing the interview. He needn’t have feared. Game faces on, we ventured downstairs.

Steve Marriot welcomed us with broad Cockney bonhomie. Onlookers took in the scene as, wine glass in hand, he regaled us with the spark and style of a natural raconteur with tales to burn.

In denim dungarees - this was not vintage ‘65 Marriot! - he was affable throughout, even under fire. My mate, not averse to starting arguments in empty rooms and also the worst for wear, insisted he knew Itchycoo Park better than its co-author. Stevie waved him away, dismissing the Immediate classic as a ‘hippie piss take’.

We’ve all read tales of Marriot as the arrogant and destructive diva. He was a pleasure to spend time with. Complimenting me on my blue mac, anointed by the Hand of Mod.

We’re at the foot of the stairs winding down to the dressing rooms below. Somehow, I still have the C60 recording of our brief exchanges. I treasure it like a rare artefact.

Many of your contemporaries had prolonged global success, any regrets?

“I don’t want their success, And you mustn’t confuse me with what they do. They want the money and adulation, as far as I’m concerned, I belong in clubs. A living and respect are important. Frankly, the rest is bullshit. If they have to have it, I won’t knock them. But don’t knock me either.”

What still drives you to perform and record?

“For the last two years I’ve been working to justify what I do. If I was doing it for nostalgia or money I’d be in a lot of trouble.”

The excesses of the 60s and 70s are well documented, how do you look back on those times?

“I stopped doing drugs the same time I stopped doing the big circuits. It killed a lot of my friends and made legends out of people who shouldn’t be legendary.”

How did the music of the time inspire the Small Faces? Do you see parallels with the scenes young people are into now?

“The heart and soul of 60s music was Tamla Motown, Stax and Atlantic. We don’t have that real backbone of music now. I feel sorry for people who grew up not listening to it.”

4 years later, April 1991, my Dad walked into the kitchen, newspaper in hand.

“Stevie Marriot’s dead. Fire at his home.”

Coda: I love the Who, Kinks, Zombies, the Creation etc. But for me the Small Faces were and remain the blueprint, the textbook Mod band. I wonder if Steve did any more interviews after that night. I hope he did.

A long time ago, for 30 short minutes, me and my mate were lucky enough to blag our way into the presence of greatness…