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Pointed out as “the man who invented the 70s,” as “a Chuck Berry transfigured for the post-Beatles generation,” as a teenage idol (see the “Bolanmania/Rexmania” or the “T. Rextacy” that qualifies him as the author of super singles), but also overshadowed by the overpowering Ziggy Stardust/Bowie and a certain ostracism, Mark Feld, or, “C” for “K” and contraction of “Bo(b Dy)lan,” Marc Bolan appears today, somewhat unexpectedly, as a cornerstone of rock. See hard rock, heavy metal, punk, new wave and even alternative rock.
Bolan is:
“Cosmic dancer.” His horizon is never the sea, but always and only the cosmos; too little to not wrinkle his nose upwards, always there where the stars tremble in the distance.
“Electric warrior,” when he electrifies his folk, tribal, esoteric, and anti-progressive goods.
“Eccentric” cursor of teenage rock & roll, hard pop, and proto-punk; he called it “cosmic rock,” others glam or glitter.
Son of a fruit vendor and a truck driver, son of the “Children of the Revolution”: ex-mod, ex-hippy, new dandy, epigone of George Bryan "Beau" Brummell, the “This Charming Man” who shined his shoes with champagne.
Bolan was:
shy, ambiguous, fragile.
Melodic talent, ingenious creativity with melodramatic shades, between grandeur and immediacy. Naive combination of sweetness, arrogance, blunt sexuality, stardom, introversion, and magmatic bogging of the soul.
Hypnotic, stylized voice.
Not particularly gifted as a guitarist (he even took lessons from Clapton!) but expressionist and instinctive.
A bohemian minstrel and prolific composer, he always exalted the emotional and introspective side of things. His language is not objectifying; he loved sylvan iconography and Celtic rituals.
He first married June Childs, then one of his three backup singers, Gloria Jones, the charming African-American singer who had brought “Tainted Love” by Ed Cobb to success; at the time—mid '70s—he was toying with the idea of an “interstellar soul music.” If he was always supported by John Peel, he was, however, abandoned by producer Tony Visconti, who permanently favored David Bowie.
After a self-imposed exile in Monaco, during a period of true physical and mental decline, Bolan re-emerged with “Futuristic Dragon” in 1976. A step after the extinction of glam fashion and a step before the rise of punk anarchism, T. Rex was trying to resurface by fixing R&B roots and increasingly opening to a certain intermittent but lavish pop symphonism. It seems that Bolan had (confusedly) decided to transform himself into an “intergalactic Neil Young.”
The LP nonetheless marks a revival compared to its more immediate predecessors (“Zinc Alloy” and “Zip Gun”). Indeed, it still contains some of his best impulses. It is not difficult to become enamored with songs like:
-“Chrome Sitar” sinuous, sinister, astral, visceral like a cosmic belly dance (a courbettian “Origin of the World” translated into disoriented notes);
-“All Alone” playful yet consistent and straightforward (with sax and strings that slide flexuously over the keyboards and even a distracted Bolan);
-“New York City,” which evolves from pseudo-psychedelic residues with tormented honky-tonk pianisms, chromatically lingers on the verse “Did you ever see a woman coming out of New York City with a frog in her hand?”;
-“My Little Baby” (a bubblegum melody between incessant cymbals and piercing guitar);
-“Dreamy Lady” (a neo-funk miniature);
-“Dawn Storm,” a restless hymn to the night with the background singers in prominence, declining ruthless lyricism and sonic majesty in rich tension-filled ups and downs.
Bolan will be.
Then it returns, as in a movie scene, always to that evening. When he was coming home from a London club. The night between September 16th and 17th, 1977.
—You drive, dear. He said, smiling to his wife, the lovely Gloria Jones.
She grimaced. —Ok, no problem. Sing me that song meanwhile.
-Mmmm…
-Come on!
-You won’t fool the children of revolution, na-na-naaa…
Then that fixed gaze, of someone who has already seen beyond things. And can no longer go back. And leaves you with a gentle smile, without turning around, without distractions anymore. A Flash. An unfinished light.
Marc dies in the crash of his car against a tree. Black branches against the moonlight.
Gloria, the dreamy lady, survives.
Marc embraces another woman.
Star light is shining
Silver baby hold me tight
Moon beams are twining
In the portals of my sight
You’re so right
Na, na na na na na na na
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