T. Rex
Electric Warrior

It's a shame that among the DeGeneri present on DeBaser, the definition "glam" is missing: it might not certainly be a label that could perfectly match a "musical style," but if I had to describe this album in one word, no better qualification would come to mind. Because T.Rex, previously known as those Tyrannosaurus Rex who had so little luck during the "folk" phase of their deus ex machina Marc Bolan, with this album have to put it mildly CREATED glam.
A brief but very intense era that, as we know, invaded the austere Great Britain of the early '70s and branded the costumes and musical scene of those years, bringing to the fore (those were the years of the "university" rock of progressive bands and the serious hard rock of Led Zeppelin, Deep Purple, etc.) a taste for decadence, unrestrained hedonism, provocation and sexual ambiguity, shameless disengagement, and heightened interest in excess, extravagance, sequins, and glitter.

Much (and not always well) has been written about those years, and there have been several attempts to launch some "revival" with little success: surely the lightness in content (even though Roxy Music and David Bowie, the scene stealers, would reveal themselves to be artists of a whole different caliber) and the cynical frenzy with which "popular myths" are created and destroyed in a quarter of an hour (especially, it is a historical fact, in England) contributed to the end of that golden era, which would then serve a few years later as a base and inspiration both for the first wave of New York disco music, and in certain aspects for the punk movement that would ignite the "generation" in 1977.
Marc Bolan would only have enough time to give his blessing to this passing of the torch: indeed, that same year, his tumultuous and novel-like life, almost too surreal to be true, would come to an end due to a car accident. But his "immortality," Bolan had already secured a long time ago.

Beginning with this album, which confirmed in the first half of 1971 what was already becoming "T.Rexmania," at least in the U.K., powered by catchy and brash singles, transforming sexual tensions and the sarcastic grin into a whimsical, esoteric, and eccentric bubblegum that in America had become the trademark of another "historical" group, the New York Dolls. The music of T.Rex represents for me almost a kind of "familial witness": my mother lived in England in the early '70s, and I owe it to her that I now experience that "movement" almost with the same "nostalgic" tone as those who "went through it" (although in Italy few at the time knew what was happening before the advent of Ziggy Stardust: in '71, at most we listened to "Aqualung" or "In The Court Of King Crimson"), and my personal quest on Bolan, this mysterious electro-acoustic and schizophrenic dandy elf, leaves me with questions I still can't answer.
The love-hate relationship with Bowie, the many dark and ambivalent sides of his personality (highlighted in his most difficult-to-interpret lyrics), the real purpose of his artistic project, coasting through tumultuous lineup changes: all elements that maintain the allure and mystery of this character. Although in this album Bolan refers to himself as an "electric warrior," there's no true "electricity" of the future classics ("20th Century Boy," "Metal Guru" etc.) which are much more robust and grandiose, but a perpetual opposition between intimate and spiritual moments (the gospel of "Monolith," the whispered "Planet Queen," the epic and bitter "Girl," not to mention the sublime, indolent fatalism in "Life's A Gas"), irresistible nods to '50s rock'n'roll ("Jeepster," one of many hits), bubblegum scratches concealing a voluptuous eroticism (the famed "Bang A Gong," supported by one of the most copied riffs in rock history, and "The Motivator"). Among all the tracks, what stands out (and deserves a chapter of its own) is that sweet, desperate, romantic space ballad which is "Cosmic Dancer": often included in numerous film soundtracks and, in my opinion, the most beautiful love song ever written (as Bolan defined it, though it might not be). It's the track where it seems the "elf" for a moment sheds the mask, takes off the top hat and shiny clothes, and decides to reveal to "common mortals" the hidden folds of his soul.
But it wasn't time to cry: the party, which began with the drumming of "Mambo Sun" (almost a tribute to the "acoustic" period of the late '60s) ended the same way, but much wilder, with the frenzied tribal dance of "Rip Off," punctuated by Bolan's hysterical voice, definitively assuming the role of glam rock's master of ceremonies, accompanied by the majestic march of a "fat and roaring" horn section that Bowie would borrow for several of his "mighty performances" of those years ("Rock'n'Roll Suicide," just to name one).

A legendary album for a band (if it's appropriate to call it a "band") often judged "by singles." Marc Bolan's T.Rex reached the masses but not with the same immediacy and intensity that "those who came after" achieved: the reason for so much ostracism outside of the United Kingdom remains another mystery. Perhaps the "Master of Ceremonies" was at heart still pure and truly "out of this world" to fully compromise with the logic of the market, the mechanism of cover stars, born to sell and make sell. Perhaps he just wanted to have fun, and dream. And entertain, and make dream. So now, folks, get yourself this album or download something this elf left on planet Earth over 30 years ago: even though time has passed, we're still invited to the party.