by Simon Philo
Chapter 2
“Get It On”
T. Rex would build an all-conquering eighteen months on the success of “Ride a White Swan.” During this time, as Slade would prove, glam was not just about one act. However, 1971 was undeniably Bolan’s year; and it is for this reason that he and his band are at the very heart of a chapter exploring glam’s first full calendar year. As subsequent chapters will demonstrate, though, while a single act could be said to headline each of the glam years to come—so, David Bowie in 1972 or Roxy Music in 1973—there will of course be other acts orbiting around them. The year 1971, for example, witnessed the release of two Bowie albums (The Man Who Sold the World and Hunky Dory), the first number one single from Slade (“Coz I Luv You”), and the morphing of Sweet from bubblegum act into a bona fide glam outfit. All told, glam singles would be the UK’s best-sellers for an impressive fourteen weeks; and although often disregarded (and dismissed) as a genre ill suited to the longer format, T. Rex’s Electric Warrior would spend a month and a half at number one and go on to be the year’s biggest-selling album in the UK. George Harrison’s “My Sweet Lord” might have sold more copies, but its five weeks at number one represented one fewer than T. Rex’s “Hot Love,” which would enjoy the year’s longest residency at the top of the chart and so contribute to the band’s unrivaled status as the UK’s biggest-selling singles act of 1971.
So the metrics are impressive; but they are only statistical markers pointing to Bolan’s deeper cultural significance—a significance that did not go unnoticed by a few shrewd contemporaries. “The most important person in Europe and England today,” David Bowie told Creem magazine, “is Marc Bolan, not because of what he says but because he is the first person who has latched on to the energy of the young once again” (qtd. in Heylin, Madmen, 166). Serving up an appreciation of his friend and rival’s achievements with just the merest hint of jealousy, Bowie—as is perhaps to be expected—clearly understood what lay at the heart of Bolan’s appeal. And if this is not all about the music, then what of it? Even some of Marc Bolan’s most loyal supporters—then and now—have described him as an opportunist, a “musical chancer” (Doggett, Shock, 429). Such judgments, though, usually result from the application of criteria that derive from a rock orthodoxy that can only value artists deemed to be “authentic” and “true.” Glam, as we know, would choose not to play by such rules. As Jeff Dexter said of Bolan, he “never talked about being a musician. He wanted to be a star”—possessing a proto-glam (self-)consciousness that was evident as early as October 1965, when the then-unknown singer told the London Evening Standard’s Maureen Cleave that “the prospect of being immortal doesn’t excite me, but the prospect of being a materialistic idol for four years does appeal” (qtd. in Paytress, Bolan, 31, 50).
Bolan was nothing if not consistently open in his commitment to stardom. Honestly insincere, one might say. Indeed, in his earliest encounter with the British media three years earlier—which indicatively had absolutely nothing to do with music-making but much to do with being a dandy—the then-fourteen-year-old Mark Feld had told Town magazine:
I’ve got 10 suits, eight sports jackets, 15 pairs of slacks, 30 to 35 good shirts, about 20 jumpers, three leather jackets, two suede jackets, five or six pairs of shoes and 30 exceptionally good ties. (Qtd. in Paytress, Bolan, 17)
In the same feature, young Mark was asked for his opinion on politics and, specifically, on demonstrations. Coming across very much like a glamster-in-the-making—and, not coincidentally, expressing near-identical views to those rock imperialist Mick Jagger would offer up in the wake of rioting in central London in the spring of ’68—Feld/Bolan noted that it was “all exhibitionist,” and therefore that he was “all for that” (qtd. in Paytress, Bolan, 24). For the mod—for the subculture with which he was then affiliated—clothes and style were politics. As Paytress explains, “It was consumption, and shameless consumption at that, but in pampering an essentially ungratified self it provided a perfect boost to troubled egos,” since “staying sharp was, on one level, a symbolic refusal of their class position, the drive to become an ace face simply old-fashioned upward mobility in (literally) new clothing.” Furthermore, one could arguably map the distinctive gender/sexual “politics” of mod onto those of glam, particularly so since
the world of the urban modernist, individualist and hipster had much in common with elements within the gay community. Defying conventions through the wardrobe; the willingness to use cosmetics to enhance the sense of disguise; the emphasis on consumption; and the abnormal amount of attention devoted to self-image. All, in the eyes of the mainstream, were regarded as “feminine” pursuits. (Paytress, Bolan, 18, 25, 43)
As an arch-mod in the early ’60s, then, fashion was far more important than music to whom the young Mark Feld believed he was. However, by the middle of the decade, it was evident that a pop world now radically transformed by the likes of the Beatles and Bob Dylan could provide similarly genuine opportunities for youthful self-expression. In the late summer of 1965, perhaps directly inspired by Dylan’s very public metamorphosis from folksinger to rock star, Mark Feld became Marc Bolan. There has been much debate as to the derivation of this new name. Did it, for example, come from his friendship with the British actor James Bolam? Or from his record company’s suggestion of “Bowland”? Or even from a voguish French fashion designer called Marc Bohan? It might, of course, have simply been plucked out of thin air. However, given both his formative mod history and recent musical discovery, the theory that it emerged from a fusion of Euro-glamour (“Marc”) with his new idol—“Bo(b Dy)lan”—seems highly plausible. Whatever the truth about its provenance, the record shows that in August 1965, Marc Bolan was offered a one-single deal with Decca Records. “The Wizard” was released in November. With an arrangement by future Gary Glitter producer Mike Leander, the track—at barely one minute, forty-five seconds—was a blink-and-you-miss-it piece of folk-pop whimsy. While Bolan approximated Dylan’s characteristically nasal vocal delivery, the song possessed none of the latter’s bite or wit. Publicity shots at the time showed him in full beatnik garb—all stevedore jackets and black polo-neck sweaters—but, if anything, the lyrics of “The Wizard” suggested a different affiliation. “Walking in the woods one day,” he “met a man who was magic” with a “pointed hat on his head,” who “turned and melted in the sky.” Apparently without the aid of powerful lysergics, Bolan had managed to preempt the lyrical concerns of the UK underground. Indeed, some have even viewed “The Wizard” as the movement’s first vinyl outing.
Possibly because it was so ahead of its time, “The Wizard” failed to chart. However, Bolan was not deterred by its lack of commercial success—so utterly convinced as he was that he would be a star—and a track like “Observations” (1966) would seem to have represented a much stronger vehicle to realize his dream. Hindsight is a wonderful thing, of course, but one never has to look and listen too hard to catch the glamness in Bolan’s pre-glam output. There are all manner of continuities that—if nothing else—counter those accusations that Bolan was a “sellout,” a chancer, an opportunist. Closer now to the wordy Dylan of “Subterranean Homesick Blues” (1965), “Observations” is a straightforward talking blues featuring just an acoustic guitar and solo voice. Yet, it is its lyric—more than the simplicity of its musical frame—that is of major interest here, and particularly in its anticipation of the Technicolor palette of T. Rex in its glam pomp. With its references to “boppin’ and shoppin’,” “jivin’” and “groovin’,” this hip picaresque “Day in the Life” name-dropped with lively intertextual abandon—whether it be places (Brighton and Maida Vale), celebrities (Barbra Streisand), or rock ’n’ roll songs (“See Ya Later, Alligator”). At one point, Bolan even orders us to “throw away [our] zip gun.” Eight years later, T. Rex would release a single, “Zip Gun Boogie” (1974), from an album called Bolan’s Zip Gun (1975). The exhortation of “Observations” to “make like a rocker” also helps explain h
ow and why Bolan could briefly serve as a guitarist in the psych-rock group John’s Children. Released as a single in 1967, the Bolan-penned “Desdemona” did not chart, but did gain a certain rock ’n’ roll cachet when the BBC banned it for the line “lift up your skirt and fly.”
Nevertheless, while all this suggests that Bolan’s journey to pop glory might well have been undertaken in full view, it is perhaps the case that it becomes less easy to spot the glam way-markers the closer one gets to home. For, after his flirtation with garage rock, Bolan settles into life in an acoustic duo, alongside percussionist Steve Peregrin Took. Between 1967 and 1970, as Tyrannosaurus Rex, the duo would not sell many records, but their four albums would see them become “darlings of Britain’s hippie underground” (Stanley 328). Enthusiastically championed by the Radio One DJ John Peel, who would play their records and often insist that they be booked as support for his own gigs, Tyrannosaurus Rex achieved cult status. Marc Bolan might well have been a “limited musician” who “only knew seven chords,” but as Tony Visconti notes, “he was mesmerising and his audience was fiercely loyal” (qtd. in Chapman, “Waiting,” 49). It was Visconti who, in July 1968, produced the duo’s first LP, My People Were Fair and Had Sky in Their Hair . . . but Now They’re Content to Wear Stars on Their Brows. Recorded in just four days, the album seemed to capture the very psych-folk essence of Tyrannosaurus Rex on tracks like the six-minute closer “Frowning Atahuallpa (My Inca Love),” which featured John Peel reading a Bolan-penned children’s story and plenty of Hare Krishna chanting. Yet, the LP opened with the decidedly unchilled “Hot Rod Mama,” a basic blues rocker recounting a familiar blues story of ill treatment at the hands of a woman that made reference to “mustangs,” “motorcycles,” and “steel chrome.” Elsewhere on the record, “Chateau in Virginia Waters” was arguably more on message in its gentle parochialism and pastoralism; but then “Mustang Ford” returned to an apparently lifelong fascination with “carburetors” and “alligator leather” that would have made Chuck Berry proud. Add bass, drums, and electric guitar, and clearly neither this track nor “Hot Rod Mama” would have been out of place on Electric Warrior (1971) or The Slider (1972).
October 1968 saw the release of Prophets, Seers and Sages: The Angels of the Ages. It took just eighteen days to record. Unlike the previous LP, which had managed to scrape into the UK Top 20, this one failed to chart. Even the underground scene appeared to be (in) a different place in late 1968. So, if Bolan was such an opportunist, so desperate to be a star at all costs, one might ask why he persevered with this style of music. On Prophets, Seers and Sages, Peregrin Took played bongos, African drums, kazoos, and a Chinese gong on songs such as “Salamanda Palaganda,” “Trelawny Lawn,” “Aznageel the Mage,” and “Juniper Suction”! Commercial fortunes improved, however, with the May 1969 release of the noticeably less lo-fi—although by no means less “away with the fairies”—Unicorn (UK no. 12). “Cat Black (The Wizard’s Hat)” featured a piano, double-tracked vocals, and some emphatic drumming; while the droney groove of “She Was Born to Be My Unicorn” offered yet more evidence of the proto-glam in Bolan’s late ’60s material. These roots were also on show on the positively fuzz-drenched, anthemic single “King of the Rumbling Spires” (UK no. 44, summer 1969)—which featured Bolan on electric guitar for the very first time and Peregrin Took hammering out an Adam and the Ants–style tribal stomp on a full drum kit.
March 1970’s A Beard of Stars was the first Tyrannosaurus Rex LP to make extensive, albeit often rudimentary use of the electric guitar (e.g., “Woodland Bop,” “Lofty Skies,” “Pavilions of Sun”); and so, while many consider it to be Bolan’s last long-form underground offering, there is still plenty here to suggest that a fuller musical reboot was already under way and possibly imminent. At one minute thirty-nine seconds, “Woodland Bop” might have been the shortest of the fourteen tracks on the album; but they were all—with the exception of “Elemental Child”—very brief indeed and, in this respect, indicative of a pop sensibility at work. As David Hepworth points out, even as an acoustic duo Tyrannosaurus Rex “always had hooks.” In his view, though, what was noteworthy was that from 1970 onward, Bolan “places these hooks in the shop window” (185). While plugging in helped achieve this, though, this crucial shift in musical practice was nowhere near as abrupt as Hepworth suggests. Still, there could be no denying that 1970 witnessed a number of highly significant “moments” that quickened the pace of change. In September, explaining what looked like a hurried change of label, Bolan declared:
People associated us with Flower Power, and that was a long-gone era. I wanted people to look at the thing in a new light, and the only way to do that was to have a label change. Change the music and change the name but not lose any identity. (Qtd. in Paytress, Bolan, 165, my italics)
Such statements make it hard to disagree with the widely held view that the final months of 1970 “marked a brutal, crucial break with the past” (Paytress, Bolan, 165): with “Ride a White Swan” set for release (and presumably constituting that musical “change” Bolan refers to); with the band name now shortened to T. Rex; and with Steve Peregrin Took now permanently ousted by the supposedly more photogenic Mickey Finn. Yet, if December’s T. Rex LP did mark a giant leap toward fully fledged glam, it could not be said to signal that “brutal, crucial break” identified by Mark Paytress and many others. For glam was already in the bloodstream, and those underground ties continued to bind. “Children of Rarn” kicks off the album with a message for the “heads” and the hip, reaching out to “seekers of space” with its reference to “our master’s face that is young and gold and silvery old”; “Diamond Meadows” is delicate, orchestral stuff; “Root of Star” sees the narrator addressing “thee” and singing about a “shield of bronze”; “The Visit” features archetypal acoustic strumming; while “The Time of Love Is Now” has minimal amplified input but plenty of bongos. So far, so Tyrannosaurus Rex. Perhaps this is how and why, despite undeniable changes in other respects, Bolan could claim that the band would not “lose any identity”? Elsewhere, though, the new T. Rex is on show. “Childe,” for example, captures the essence of glam in a Bolan-franked two-line mission statement: “I want to give every child the chance to dance / I want to spread my feet in the silver heat.” T. Rex is still a two-piece at this point, and so the music is not thickened out by a full rock lineup, but “Childe” still manages to showcase a number of Bolan’s glam signatures—that minimal, crunchy lead guitar with its economical solo, those wailing banshee BVs (backing vocals), and handclaps. “One Inch Rock” had appeared as a single in 1968 and was now reworked into a chugging boogie. “Is It Love?” features a classic “1-2-3-4” count-in, the repeated line “We’re gonna rock,” and combines some fuzzy electric guitar with an effective but brief solo. Like “One Inch Rock,” it is barely more than a jam. Most glam of all, though, chiefly courtesy of what would subsequently become a very familiar string arrangement, was “Beltane Walk”—a genuinely catchy two-and-a-half-minute strut that builds to a fuzzy crescendo.
In the view of onetime Pink Floyd manager Patrick Jenner, Marc Bolan was a sellout and a fraud:
[He] was a complete arsehole, the way he turned over Peel and everything else. Quite clearly he was just a very ambitious little kid who wanted to become a pop star. . . . He sussed that the way through for him was by being a little hippie. He used me and he used John Peel. (Qtd. in Paytress, Bolan, 191–92)
If this is true, then Bolan surely played a very long game indeed. He was, concluded John Peel, “just a quite ambitious lad with a small gift and a lot of good reference points who enjoyed being mildly famous” (qtd. in Hoskyns 16). Was this characteristically laconic but no less withering assessment from a supposed friend the product of Peel’s status as a classic rock ideologue? From the late 1960s, effectively operating as BBC Radio’s in-house “freak,” Peel had been given license to play underground music—music that he lived and breathed but which evidently Bolan now no longer did. Li
ke Jenner, he too felt betrayed. (Although, he did perhaps have more personal cause for grievance here, as Bolan is said to have failed to return the DJ’s calls when he became a star.) For the believers, it seemed that Bolan was “mock[ing] the counter-culture’s emphasis on the value of spontaneity, and”—much to their disgust—in the process laying “the foundations for a new kind of rock performance that courted overt theatricality” (Auslander 98). Yet, he would never become totally disconnected from his underground past. Indeed, full-blown glam works like Electric Warrior (1971) and The Slider (1972) would continue to channel some of its colors and flavors. Bolan did not feel it necessary to sever his ties with the UK underground because—much more so than the North American variant—it was essentially optimistic and celebratory. Its politics were of the predominantly cultural kind, firmly fixed on the quest for personal freedom rather than any desire to smash “the system.” Furthermore, it was also the case that the “velvets, lace and dandyism of the original London underground had shifted [its] focus away from the disgraced statements of political and social liberation towards sexual liberation” (Thompson 20). In 1967 homosexuality had been decriminalized, and this had been followed by further relaxations in censorship. In this liberalizing context, one could argue that Bolan was one of the “first to take all these elements—sexual ambiguity, sartorial sensuality, literary art and theatrical cinema—and blend them into a cohesive whole” (Thompson 22).
Of course, this was completely missed at the time. Instead the focus was often on the band’s perplexing, if not downright shocking, regression. For many, this represented, at best, a rather contrary move in these days of rock virtuosity. “T. Rex are a strange band,” wrote the NME’s Roy Carr:
