A Rough-Edged Plea for One More Night: Faces’ “Stay with Me”
In the waning days of 1971, Faces, Britain’s rollicking bar-band troubadours, unleashed “Stay with Me”, a single that charged to #6 on the UK Singles Chart and #17 on the Billboard Hot 100, released on December 3 by Warner Bros. Pulled from their third album, A Nod Is As Good As a Wink… to a Blind Horse, which hit #6 in the U.S. and #2 in the UK, this track was a gritty triumph for Rod Stewart, Ronnie Wood, Ronnie Lane, Ian McLagan, and Kenney Jones—a peak before their boozy brotherhood began to fray. For those of us who stumbled through the early ‘70s, when rock was a sweaty, unscripted revelry, this song is a battered souvenir—a night of reckless passion, a shout into the dawn that still rattles the bones. It’s the sound of a jukebox blazing in a packed pub, a memory of fleeting thrills and the ache of wanting more, tugging at the heart of anyone who’s ever chased a moment past its time.
The birth of “Stay with Me” is a tale soaked in the band’s chaotic camaraderie. By late 1971, Faces were riding high—touring hard, drinking harder—while Stewart’s solo star was rising with Every Picture Tells a Story. Written by Stewart and Wood in a drunken jam at Wood’s Essex pile, The Wick, it spilled out fast—Wood’s riff a spark, Rod’s lyrics a leer scratched on a bar napkin. Recorded at Olympic Studios in London, producer Glyn Johns caught the magic in a single, raucous take—Lane’s bass thumping, McLagan’s piano jangling, Jones’ drums a heartbeat on the edge. The band was a mess of egos and ale, yet here they clicked, channeling their barroom swagger into a three-minute brawl of lust and charm. It hit the airwaves as winter closed in, a raw counterpoint to the era’s polished pop, and became their calling card—though Lane’s exit loomed just a year away, signaling the end of their golden stumble.
At its soul, “Stay with Me” is a rascal’s plea wrapped in a grin—a one-night stand begging for an encore. “In the morning, don’t say you love me, ’cause I’ll only kick you out of the door,” Stewart growls, his voice a smoky taunt over Wood’s slashing chords, “I know your name is Rita, ’cause your perfume’s smelling sweeter.” It’s a rogue’s confession—“Stay with me, stay with me”—crude yet tender, a man too rough to keep her but too smitten to let go: “Red hair flaming, well, I’ve had my share of taming.” For older listeners, it’s a window to those ‘70s nights—spilling from gigs into the streets, the air thick with lager and lust, the rush of a stranger’s laugh in the dark. It’s the clatter of pint glasses, the sway of a dance too close, the moment you lived for now, not tomorrow. As the final “stay with me” crashes out, you’re left with a ragged glow—a nostalgia for when every fling was a story, and the night held you tighter than any promise ever could.