Faces. Perfect name, dilating like Lit tle Orphan Annie's pupils into four cheery offwhite nubbins bouncing around in back of an amiably fey horse, who prances and preens and pulls up his baggy silk trousers like Charlie Chaplin, amazingly enough, just in time to run his bony fingers back through his hair and fling the sweat off with a bal lerina bow. Rod Stewart still sings with the same grainy grace and hard-knocks sensitivity, and the band is tighter than they used to be. Ron Wood is still chopping out those same chunks of Chuck Berry and Keith Richard with that cigar ette screwed in his mouth like a peg. Tetsu is looser than Free ever allowed, Ian MacLagan is comping and whomp ing with characteristic insouciance, and Kenny Jones has a new haircut that makes him look even more like a shop clerk trying to go hip.