T. Rex

Close your eyes; spread your arms and let yourself evaporate.

At that point, little by little, you'll rise off the ground. There, like that.

(Paul Auster, "Mr. Vertigo")

Transcendence is a complex process. We've been taught this for millennia. We believe it. And we take for granted the idea that certain furrows on the brow are symptomatic of long-term thinking. Meanwhile, nature slips out of our grasp, and enchantment along with it. Chained to the search for a latent meaning, upstream and downstream of every event, we learn indifference and forget wonder. Beauty becomes an abstract, blurred accident, in the breathless search for something to say about it. The filter between perception and emotion turns into a greenhouse effect, and the joy of experiencing something for its own sake gets lost in a rational haze.

Marc Bolan, or innocence. T. Rex, or the transcendence of that very innocence. But setting aside needle and thread, far from any cerebral embroidery, let's start instead from the heart.

1965 is the culmination of a phantasmagorical existential journey for eighteen-year-old Mark Feld, former prince of the London Mods and baroque dandy by vocation. The background underpinning the hero Elvis, alongside other small, old and new deities – Cliff Richards, Eddie Cochran, Bob Dylan, Syd Barrett – like an Olympus built in his own image, is stirred by the global emergence of a new, decisive and momentous phenomenon: the rise of the Beatles. Mark, an acrobat on the thin line between reality and fantasy, is certainly not afraid to defy the odds, and, picking up his guitar, starts frequenting various recording studios, with a handful of covers as his calling card. The operation yields no contract, but it does land the ambitious dreamer a manager, Mike Puskin, the author of the transition (which will officially mark the beginning of a dream) from the hopes of Mark Feld to the determination of Marc Bolan, with one less k and a surname likely born from the contraction of designer Bohan (another of Mark's many heroes) and songwriter Dylan. The contract between the two lasts a year, during which Marc records "The Wizard" for Decca, his first solo single and a delightful Donovan‑esque psych-garage tune, crosses paths backstage on some pop show with a still-unknown Jimi Hendrix, and amuses himself writing fantasy stories. 1966 isn't even over yet, but clearly Marc doesn't need much time to charm people: Simon Napier Bell becomes his new manager, and it's with him that he records "Hippy Gumbo" for Parlophone, a small and unjust flop.

It's 1967, and Marc becomes guitarist and backing vocalist for John's Children, from whom he'll immediately steal the spotlight, before leaving after just three months and an unhappy support tour with the Who. His new wandering is marked by an illuminating encounter, with the sitar of Ravi Shankar, from which comes a renewed passion for acoustic rock and a wild ad placed in Melody Maker looking for guitar, bass and drums. The first to answer is percussionist and backing vocalist Steve Peregrine Took. Ladies and gentlemen, here are Tyrannosaurus Rex. Between 1968 and 1969, they release "My People Were Fair and Had Sky in Their Hair... But Now They're Content to Wear Stars on Their Brows", "Prophets, Seers & Sages – The Angels of the Ages" and "Unicorn", a sort of saga in three acts for an adult and naive childhood, with a wondrous acoustic clarity narrating the most hidden breaths of air, earth, fire and air, supported by a percussive framework gently sustained by the countless woodland creatures that inhabit Marc's pen. People like Tyrannosaurus Rex, and there's no need to overdo it, just be yourself – it's not yet time to compromise with audiences and producers, to alter one's image and opportunistically forge one's identity according to whichever way the wind blows in the market and in the imagination of fickle fans. Art can still be built around a romantic, ancestral core. It's with this suitcase full of elves, unicorns and dew that they set off on tour across the States. But something isn't working. To experience the enchantment of the woods, Marc doesn't need (at least for now) any additives, but Steve does, and so he's out. Yet another ad in Melody Maker, and yet another new member (this time almost permanent): taking Steve's place is painter Mickey Finn, a fixture until 1975.

Having left behind a 1969 marked not only by a lineup change but also by a marital crisis, resolved through reconciliation with a June Child bordering on devotion, and having crossed his talent with that of Bowie, fresh off the magnificent arrow of "Space Oddity" (for which legend has it Marc plays guitar on "The Prettiest Star"), it's time to lighten the name, making things easier for radio DJs (including John Peel, a sharp early supporter): Tyrannosaurus Rex become, much more nimbly, T. Rex. The stage outfits turn glittering, and the amount of glitter used to emphasize an already unusual look becomes one of the many trademarks that help identify Marc and his music.

"T. Rex", in 1970, is nothing more than the pleasant antechamber to what's about to happen the following year. The effort to energize the sound – up until the Tyrannosaurus Rex era proudly rooted in acoustic frugality – succeeds perfectly, and "Electric Warrior", in 1971, becomes its unrepeatable final essay.

The project, strengthened by Bolan's steady rise and irresistible charisma, is born already ambitious: the lineup expands, with Steve Currie on electric bass, Bill Legend on drums, and an appearance by producer Tony Visconti on violins. It's as if the most beautiful elf in the woods had lost his innocence, becoming aware of his own charm, amplified by an innocently provocative attitude, driven by the will to seduce the whole world once and for all. The knowing androgyny doesn't push the audience away, but rather unleashes their imagination even more violently. Everyone wants to be Marc, less languid than Bowie and more visceral than the future Bryan Ferry.

The glam rock of "Electric Warrior" is light personified, and it will only be a few years down the line that unfortunate circumstances cast shadows over it. The launching pad is "Get It On", and the shift toward a denser, more electrified sound is immediately obvious. The T. Rex of "Electric Warrior" are a new creature, brazen and vain, rightfully vain, and Marc has by now shelved his old woodland languor, launching instead into a whispered vibrato nibbling at the listener's ear ("Mambo Sun"). The cohesion of the individual parts – despite the recent lineup – is absolutely perfect, every musician excels in their role, propelling at full speed a Marc turned cowboy in the country-pop of "Jeepster".

But why not dare even further? How diametrically opposed can the DNA of a bluesman be from that of a rock star lavishly made up and dressed in paillettes? If you try to imagine what might come of such a mix, the only thing that springs to mind is a probably quite ridiculous hybrid. But Marc is no ordinary artist. And beneath those stage clothes lives no opportunistic chameleon. The blues of "Lean Woman Blues" transcends every genre boundary, set against thoroughly masculine guitar work and that deliciously coquettish vocal delivery, capable of seducing any creature, even one from another planet altogether. Another absolutely essential feature in understanding this masterpiece is the importance given to the backing vocals, which in "Planet Queen" stretch out into an infinite extension, ultimately becoming co-protagonists alongside Marc's voice. In "Motivator" the guitar interplay is relentlessly tight, almost filling the empty spaces entirely on its own.

Toward the end, the hard-rock appetizer of "Rip It Off" scratches harder than ever, Marc has fun thickening his voice, and the closing word is entrusted to the fine saxophone of Ian Mc Donald (already a veteran of Fairport Convention, King Crimson and the Zappa crowd), whom the Andy Mackay of the soon-to-debut Roxy Music seems to be listening to closely. But the last of the matryoshka dolls is the most astonishing, small and full of beauty. It's no accident that the Bolan-esque ballads were left for the end, emotional journeys through galaxies in which to float with absolute, unspeakable, disarming joy of the spirit. The enveloping violins of "Cosmic Dancer" alone would be enough to look down on earthly burdens from above and learn not only to twirl over rooftops like Billy Elliot (the protagonist of the film of the same name, whose soundtrack the song would become part of), but also to defy gravity like a modern-day Mr. Vertigo, mindful of our embryonic being and curling back into the fluidity of the maternal womb.

If "Monolith" is a sticky soul dedication, the immaculate sensuality of "Girl", with its return to the essentialism of acoustic guitar, recaptures that magical dimension à la "Unicorn". At this point, all that's left is to dance to "Life's A Gas", pressed close together in complicity, without adding a single word, just a few smiles and knowing glances.

Afterwards comes Gloria, in name and in fact. Marc, absolute monarch amid feathers and glitter, rides the wave of his own ego, losing his bearings and starting to wallow in the weakness of addiction. Although success still smiles on him for a few more years, critics are not so generous with his new work, and alcohol and drugs are right there within reach.

Marc starts over with love, rebuilding his life from scratch with Gloria Jones, the beautiful Northern Soul vocalist (the same one behind the original, later widely covered, 1964 "Tainted Love") whom he had met a few years earlier in America.

Death would choose to entrust Gloria herself with the car in which Marc would take his final ride: on the night of September 16, 1977 — exactly one month after Elvis's passing — the purple Mini GT the couple was travelling in crashed into an oak tree. The star had completed its trajectory, too brief, though intense, to leave behind any glimmer of consolation.

We would have liked to say much more, but all that remains to us is the treasure of a pure glow, and for that, forever magnificent, along with a few complete reissues with bonus tracks and a deluxe edition, released for the thirtieth anniversary.

In memory of Marc Bolan and all his light

Ride the wave of great music

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08/01/2012