From Uncut’s July 2011 issue (Take 170). We tell the story of the Mod legends and their complex, gifted front man Steve Marriott. From The Small Faces to Humble Pie, to his strange last days on the pub circuit, what was it that drove Marriott to self-destruct? “He was the most talented person I’ve ever known,” recalls his Humble Pie bandmate, Peter Frampton, “but there was something in his psyche. Some huge problem.”

“Nice”: that was their favourite word. And it’s true – musically, sartorially, psychedelically, The Small Faces were nice. But by the 1980s, they were a distant memory. Their singer Steve Marriott – the erstwhile Artful Dodger now more of an Arthur Daley – could usually be found in London boozers, playing gigs for cash, ducking and diving. While old rivals like Rod Stewart lived penthouse lifestyles, Marriott’s elevator was stuck in the basement. The oce immaculate Ace Face performed on stage in dungarees.

Then in 1991, came a chance to turn his life around. He was invited to LA to make an LP with Peter Frampton, his former Humble Pie bandmate. This unexpected reunion – it was the first time they’d recorded together since ’71 – was the 44-year-old Marriott’s chance to rejoin the major league. He stood to earn a small fortune in recording and publishing advances. It was an open goal: he couldn’t miss. Frampton was thrilled to help. “I was back with my idol,” he says. “It was my second chance to work with the greatest British singer of all time.” But Frampton, who’d heard stories about Marriott’s decline, laid down some ground rules. No alcohol in the studio. No going AWOL. Above all, no cocaine. Marriott agreed. Within days, he’d broken his promise. He was drunk, snorting coke, belligerent, demonic. Frampton stopped the sessions and sent Marriott back to England. He’d missed his open goal.

Flying home from LA, Marriott arrived jet-lagged at his cottage in Arkesden, Essex, in the early hours of April 20. A passing motorist, seeing flames billowing from the property at 6.30am, called the fire brigade. Marriott’s body was recovered from an upstairs bedroom. The inquest’s verdict was accidental death from smoke inhalation: he had probably fallen asleep with a cigarette burning. His funeral was held on April 30, on a rainy, stormy day in Harlow, while a posse of scooter boys stood guard outside.

Marriott left many unanswered questions, some merely intriguing, some downright chilling. What impulses drove him? Why did he sabotage a lucrative comeback? Had his downward spiral been deliberately engineered? “He was the most talented person I’ve ever known,” says Frampton sadly. “But there was something in his psyche. Some huge problem.”

FIND THE FULL INTERVIEW FROM UNCUT JULY 2011/TAKE 170 IN THE ARCHIVE