In the grand scheme of things, Faces will probably always be considered a second-tier British rock band. Overshadowed by what came before (the band is a direct descendant of Small Faces, one of the best and most influential English groups of the ’60s) and what came after (singer Rod Stewart’s huge solo career—which got underway during the Faces’ heyday—and guitarist Ronnie Wood’s post-Faces stint in a little band called the Rolling Stones), their legacy is often considered a sidebar to these larger chapters. And their lifespan falls in the valley between the twin pop-culture peaks of British music, coming after the British Invasion and wrapping it up before punk hit. (Members of the Sex Pistols considered Faces, and Small Faces, to be formative influences, for what that’s worth.)

But as You Can Make Me Dance, Sing or Anything, the new box set from Rhino Records, proves, Faces were a great band on their own terms, any comparisons and context aside. Their rowdy, laddish energy is miles more fun than Stewart’s solo records (except the ones they played on), and their meat-and-potatoes approach to post-British-blues rock ’n’ roll makes them simple, super-enjoyable counterparts to the more complex, prog-inflected music or the teenybopper-friendly glam rock that their early-’70s peers were churning out. Although bassist Ronnie Lane and keyboardist Ian McLagan have died, the other three Faces reunited for a recent show in England, which earned surprisingly good reviews, making this as good a time as any to revisit their output.

The Rhino box is a collection of all four of the Faces’ studio albums, plus a fifth disc of their non-album singles. (Live album Coast to Coast is not included.) The CD version also packs in several bonus tracks to accompany each of the albums, although the vinyl edition—which is what I got to listen to—does not. Each album is given a sumptuous and accurate reprinting of the album jacket (using the artwork from the American versions of the albums, not the British), right down to the risqué poster collage from 1971’s A Nod’s as Good as a Wink… to a Blind Horse (complete with photos of pills and naked groupies) and the moveable face on the elaborate cover of 1973’s Ooh La La.

But even more notably, the vinyl versions of the four albums were mastered from the original analog tapes. Most of these types of classic-rock vinyl reissues are nowadays sourced from high-resolution digital files, which can be fine—and in some cases necessary, when the original magnetic tapes have deteriorated to the point of un-usability. See the recent Simon & Garfunkel vinyl reissues, which are digitally sourced: The analog tapes had been used so many times for countless represses of their incredibly successfully-selling catalog that they’ve basically fallen apart.

Faces obviously never sold as well as Simon & Garfunkel—or even Rod Stewart’s solo stuff—so the original tapes remain in excellent condition. The analog transfers are clean and exemplary, full of life and thump and clarity. (To use the vinyl nerd’s trigger word, the recordings have a great “feel.”) It’s likely that Rhino used the American copies of the masters, one generation removed, rather than the first-generation tapes that were used in England. This theory is supported by a couple snippets of studio ambience trimmed off the beginning of “Stone” and the end of “Around the Plynth,” both of which appeared on the British pressing of Faces’ 1970 debut, First Step, but not on the American version.

Still, this is nitpicking, interesting only to the types of trainspotters who nerd out on matrix numbers and original vinyl pressings. Let it suffice to say that this is an all-analog mastering chain and, as such, it sounds positively terrific. Kenney Jones’ drums are the real revelation here, full of power and punch. It’s no wonder to see why the Who thought he was a fitting replacement for Keith Moon. Recently deceased keyboardist Ian McLagan also comes out in front—he’s an amazing instrumentalist, tastefully fluent on the organ in particular, but also capable of some wonderfully percussive piano. And Ronnie Lane’s bass sounds like a bass should sound, growling and rangy and subliminal.

What’s plainly evident in stacking all four Faces albums up against each other is how the group got better at making them as they went along. Their first two tries, 1970’s First Step and 1971’s Long Player, are decent, but perhaps a bit too unfocused, with more emphasis on blues ’n’ boogie than songcraft. A Nod Is as Good as a Wink is commonly thought of as their finest effort, but Ooh La La is the dark horse and maybe their best. Their last studio album, Ooh La La condenses all their strengths into short, tight, three-minute songs. It also concludes with perhaps the loveliest thing they ever recorded: the Ron Wood-sung title track, which, thanks to Rushmore, has superseded the lyrically dated “Stay with Me” to become Faces’ best-known song.

What’s also undeniable after listening to Faces’ catalog is how undervalued Ronnie Lane was, and is. Writing many of the songs and singing almost as much as Stewart did, Lane’s incredible contributions went far beyond his bass playing. His work was the largest casualty of Stewart’s concurrent superstar solo career, which overshadowed all of the Faces’ individual efforts, and Lane’s in particular. (In an eerie coincidence, he even sounds like George Harrison.) Delicate songs like “Debris” and “Glad and Sorry” and rockers like “You’re So Rude” show that Lane was the complete package, songwriting-wise.

It’s true that Faces made, on the surface, fairly uncomplicated classic rock out of rote ingredients: guitar, drums, organ, and a raspy blue-eyed-soul singer whose voice is fundamentally familiar. But what kept surprising me is how the depth of these songs grew over a couple of weeks of intensive listening. They’re all pretty consistent—there are no outright stinkers in Faces’ catalog—and when all five members were firing on full barrels, which was pretty often, they’ve got as much firepower as any British band from the era you’d care to mention. I think Stewart and his unmistakable voice became a liability for them, not just turning off potential fans who may have had negative associations with his solo career, but also undermining Faces’ collaborative nature and the band’s slightly heavier sound. (Make no mistake: Faces could also turn a teary ballad as well as anyone, particularly the folky “Sweet Lady Mary” and the torch-lit “Love Lives Here.”)

Which is why it’s great news that Rhino’s You Can Make Me Dance, Sing or Anything exists. It’s not the first box-set overview of the Faces; they were subject to another worthy collection a few years ago (the rarity-laden, four-disc Five Guys Walk into a Bar). But the vinyl edition of this box set collects their albums, the actual artifacts that created their legacy, in a wholly authentic way that doesn’t scrimp or cut corners. Either the idea of all-analog transfers onto 180-gram vinyl with accurate album-jacket reproductions gets you going, or it doesn’t. You know who you are.