Glam-rock

“When I was a boy, more than anything else in the world, I didn't want to be ordinary. I was delighted when, at school, I was told that I was, in fact, a bit different. It was so great for me because I'd look around and think: “Whatever you are, I don't want to be like you, so if you think I'm unbalanced then that can only please me”. All of this was always inside me and, in truth, a lot of it was down to my earliest musical heroes. They were always dramatic in their sexual ambiguity, especially in the early 70s.

Morrissey

David Bowie is David Jones, an aspiring pop star in London's budding mod scene.

His band the King Bees release a single, “Liza Jane”, in 1964, but David leaves them almost immediately to join the Manish Boys, with whom he records “I Pity The Fool”.

Neither track, however, charts, and so the restless Jones moves on to the Lower Third. “Can't Help Thinking About Me” comes out on Pye in 1966, but again nobody seems to notice the new song.

Discouraged, David decides to go solo and, in 1967, gets Deram's permission to record a debut album. “Love You Till Tuesday” is lifted as a single from “David Bowie”, but, predictably, fails to make any impact.

The turning point, though, comes in August, when David meets mime artist Lindsay Kemp and, inspired by Stanley Kubrick's masterpiece “2001: A Space Odyssey”, starts writing material for his next album.

When the wildly imaginative single “Space Oddity” comes out in 1968, the music press goes into a frenzy, and sales follow suit, boosted by the BBC's decision to use the song as the soundtrack to America's moon landing.

Riding the wave of enthusiasm, Bowie forms a new band, Hype, in 1970, and releases the single “Prettiest Star”, dedicated to his wife Angie. It's the prelude to the unsettling “The Man Who Sold The World”, on whose cover David wears a flamboyant dress. The Great Confusion is about to begin.

Marc Bolan is Marc Feld, a flamboyant model for Town magazine with a single ambition: to be the glossy mirror of the new mod trend. His first musical incarnation is as Toby Tyler, before he reverts back to Marc Bolan and signs to Decca, releasing the single “The Wizard” in 1965. The track flops on the charts, as do the following “The Third Degree” and “Hippy Gumbo”.

In 1967 Marc signs to Track and joins John's Children, a band steeped in psychedelic pop, quickly becoming their main songwriter. “Desdemona” wins over insiders but goes nowhere commercially, forcing John's Children to split up.

Bolan then teams up with percussionist Steve “Peregrine” Took and forms an acoustic duo called Tyrannosaurus Rex.

The hippy influences of the summer of love are immediately apparent in the debut single “Debora” and the accompanying album “My People Were Fair And Had Sky In Their Hair, But Now They're Content To Wear Stars On Their Brow”. The visionary folk sound, tinged with psychedelic residue, seems to catch English ears, sending the single to number 34 and the album into the Top 20.

Championed by DJ John Peel, the duo score a second minor hit, “One Inch Rock”, which paves the way for the following LP, “Prophets, Seers And Sages, The Angels Of Ages”.

The magic formula works, and in 1969 Bolan and Took score a hit with "Unicorn", which comes close to cracking the UK Top 10.

In 1970 Took leaves his partner and is replaced by Mickey Finn, who works on "A Beard Of Stars", the final album released under the name Tyrannosaurus Rex. That October, in fact, Bolan decides to sign with Fly Records and shorten the name to the punchier T-Rex, but above all, to electrify his music.

"Ride A White Swan" is the dawn of this new course and, in effect, the dawn of glam-rock.

Rod Stewart is Roderick David Stewart, a young footballer for Brentford Football Club turned busker across Europe and beatnik marching against nuclear weapons at Aldermaston, Berkshire. Better known as "Rod The Mod", the boy has obvious vocal talent, breaking into the English scene first with Long John Baldry & The Hoochie Coochie Men and then with the Jeff Beck Group.

The turning point comes in 1969, when Rod joins the remnants of Small Faces, replacing Steve Marriott and, having dropped the "Small", signing with Warner Brothers.

A few months later, Faces become massively popular, and Rod thrives with his album "Every Picture Tells A Story" and its single "Maggie May", both of which climb the charts in Britain and America.

Like a bolt from the blue, glam now seems to rule the world.

Elton John is Reginald Dwight, a pounding rock and roll pianist ready for the encounter of his life. Thanks to lyricist Bernie Taupin, Elton leaves Bluesology behind and sets off on a radiant solo career, starting with the 1971 hit "Your Song".

His true, flamboyant personality, however, only emerges in May 1972, when he jumps on the bandwagon and releases a track called "Rocket Man".

Gary Glitter is Paul Gadd, aka Paul Raven, a failed rocker who left the music world in the mid-60s to work in commercials and on the pop show "Ready, Steady, Go!". His return to the scene comes at the start of the new decade under the name Paul Monday & Rubber Bucket, but it's an appearance on the soundtrack of the film "Jesus Christ Superstar" that first brings him to the attention of the wider public. Paul Raven transforms into Gary Glitter and, thanks to the single "Rock And Roll", begins his climb into the new, ambiguous world of rock and roll.

Roy Wood is Ulysses Adrian Wood, founding member of the beat-pop group The Move. After a string of more or less innovative songs including "Night Of Fear", "I Can Hear The Grass Grow" and "Flowers In The Rain", the band splits and Wood flies off to form Electric Light Orchestra, with whom he remains until 1972.

That very same year, in fact, his new project is a quirky, pop-centric group called Wizzard.

Alice Cooper is Vincent Furnier, a young singer drifting between small bands like The Earwigs, The Spiders and The Nazz. The ordinariness of these early experiences, however, is violently shattered when Alice starts stroking pythons and strangling dolls on stage. Ladies and gentlemen, the perverse spectacle of the Grand Guignol opens its doors.

Chapter One

Ride the white swan

It's the dawn of a new phenomenon in the colourful world of rock and roll. A strange situation born of a three- or four-year wait in a genuine post-Beatles limbo. A new, real phenomenon, carefully overseen by the usual business machine, yet enthusiastically embraced by a rising new kind of audience, ready to inflate it beyond all measure. T.Rex, Faces and Slade increasingly draw the attention of a sizeable chunk of a public weary of the excesses of "twenty-minute-plus songs" or, more simply, still sitting at their school desks.

In this second case, the new English-speaking kids can have their first, virginal taste of rock and roll. They are, in effect, the younger brothers and sisters of the old fans of the Stones and Dylan, of Led Zeppelin and the Who. Kids who haven't been schooled in the "accepted" rules of a "rock" behaviour that has by now turned snobbish. All they want is to feel the emotion and raw power of a rock music made ever more cerebral by the older generations. As Marc Bolan puts it, they want to hear the "boogie". To react from square one.

So if chart-topping pop artists are now too old to connect with this new wave of pop consumers, the answer is blowing in the wind of bands like Slade and T.Rex. In this wind, the electric echo returns of the days when the Beatles and the Rolling Stones waged war with revolutionary singles.

When it emerges that "Telegram Sam" and "Look Wot You Dun" are set to be released on the same day, Slade's label wisely decides to delay the release by a week, wary of a clash with chart titan Marc Bolan. And indeed, the T.Rex single doesn't think twice: it soars into the starry skies of glam, ever vaster and brighter as they return to the essential thrill of rock success. Watching them, an adolescence that doesn't just stop to listen, but is ready to scream the names of its new musical idols.

The charismatic image looms larger than the musical genre itself, and irreverent, perverse beat checks itself in the mirror to make sure every hair is in place. The lesson of the past lives again through glossy transgression. It's no coincidence, in fact, that there's a fundamental similarity between the Who's early, thunderous singles and those of Slade: success comes the moment a band manages to send out a powerful message, creating a sense of identification with the youth movement of its time. One day they were mods, today they're chasing their own ambiguous identity.

We're talking about glam, ladies and gentlemen.

The importance of being a single

At the dawn of 1970, Marc Bolan is pure cosmic energy. By some strange twist of fate, this is the moment for his T.Rex, ready to devour the British charts, helped along by massive promotional investment from their new label, Fly Records. Cosmos or capital, much of the climb is driven by the irresistible single "Ride A White Swan", which introduces a new schizoid stylistic device somewhere between stuttering handclapping and a vividly coloured backdrop of guitars and strings.

It is, in effect, a new beat wail, lyrically symbolic, melodically catchy to the point of obsession. The electrification of melody is Bolan's not-so-hidden strength, as he works out exactly what his audience wants, feeding on media messages from Radio 1 to Top Of The Pops. Thus the passion for the chart single is reborn, one that, for Marc, "everyone likes because it's easy to make and quick to record". "Energy. That's what a single is made of. All that's left to do is go into a studio and record the emotion, the excitement behind a song".

An excitement that, at the start of 1971, turns Bolan into a glittering star, dressed in silver on the stage of London's Lyceum. The pastiche of rock and roll and poetry, arranged with minimal instrumental technique, is cheered by over two thousand people, ready to lose themselves in the dominant "la la la" of the new hit "Hot Love". Here, the formula is even more commercial, and the song's raw simplicity is the key to established popularity, spurred on by another absolutely irresistible pulse.

Before Ziggy…

David Bowie – “The Man Who Sold The World” (Rca, 1970)

Schizoid, perverse. An effeminate young man in a nightmare of playing cards. Dressed flamboyantly, David Bowie signs off on his first nine significant songs, ready to sell the world or, in extreme cases, to sell himself to it. Amid nihilism, Nietzschean superman posturing and psychoanalysis, his existential nightmares live here, underscored by piercing, claustrophobic sounds that push an already fast-developing hard rock to its limits. His voice is already hysterical, for now merely courting Mick Ronson's wild guitar on "The Width Of A Circle". The horror of "All The Madmen" kisses the skeletal folk of "After All" all the way to the sinister repetition of the title track.

Bowie, however, shows he hasn't fully found himself on this record, and the melody of "The Man Who Sold The World" seems to foreshadow a new, radical change.

The Faces “Long Player” (Warner Bros, 1971)

An English band can have an American heart. Steeped in Memphis blues, in roots rock and roll growing progressively harder-edged, yet still susceptible to the charm of the Motown realm.

The Faces are impetuous, raucous, brilliant in their live funk, but above all they're an immediate collective entity beyond the individual pasts of their musicians. Rod Stewart's swaggering voice and Ronnie Wood's slide guitar, the power of the Lane/Jones rhythm section and Ian McLagan's keyboards. The spirit of the Band mixed with the raw power of the Rolling Stones.

The formula is fully matured and shows itself on “Sweet Lady Mary”, pumped up by the electrifying live versions of “Maybe I’m Amazed” and “I Feel So Good”. There’s no shortage of a more lyrical side either, with the nostalgia of “Richmond” and the touching “Tell Everyone”.

The roots of Albion's new course run through here too.

Rod Stewart “Every Picture Tells A Story” (Mercury, 1971)

When a musician simply can't put a foot wrong. That is, the natural gift of being able to choose everything to perfection, paired with an innate soul sensibility.

“Every Picture Tells A Story” is the record that best captures Rod's emerging status as he sets out to conquer the major international markets. Self-produced with the help of Ronnie Wood, this album stands as clear proof of exuberance and mastery over his own gifts. There's certainly mischief and a touch of underlying vanity, but the singer manages to display the best of himself across ten tracks, at times rough and fiery, at times gentle and melancholic, as in the aching mandolin of “Mandolin Wind”.

What comes through is a genuine feeling for a certain kind of acoustic music, steeped in wholesome autobiography, as the covers unfold a lifetime spanning Dylan, Tim Hardin and the Temptations. Yet we're at the dawn of a new cultural era, and so it's the strange tale of “Maggie May” that claims the top chart spot, an edible first taste of a different kind of pop that would go on to conquer the world.

Violence and extravagance

Between the late '60s and early '70s, Ambrose Slade spend their time chasing fame in the small clubs of Wolverhampton, helped along by manager Chas Chandler, who is trying to launch them into the big league of rock and roll.

Shortened to Slade, the band sniffs out a possible opening in the emerging youth movement of the skinheads, and so they cut their hair and adopt a tough, violent image. The choice, however, turns into a constant stream of bad press, fuelled by an assumed association with dangerous football hooligans. It's one more big headache for Chandler, who is dead set on showing the nation what his boys are really about. Yet nobody wants Slade, who struggle to find gigs to play their adrenaline-fuelled riffs live.

By early 1971 one thing becomes clear: they need to let their hair grow back and ride the white swan alongside Bolan. This way, the four-piece's basic “me Tarzan, you Jane” philosophy can find its fullest expression, dressed up in the extravagant new dictates of glam-rock.

The single “Get Down And Get With It” clearly sums up this further compromise-choice. Belligerent rock and roll steps in time with the pop chorus, and the aggressive attitude gets masked with platform boots, glitter and bow ties. This, today, is the passport to success.

The electric warrior

Once upon a time there was magic, and it wore stars in its hair. In a single night everything can change, moving from the lights of a fantastical world to the artificial glare of a club packed with kids. Marc Bolan is now a bona fide business star, and he has one single, precise ambition: to become the one true electric warrior of rock and roll.

After the album “A Beard Of Stars”, Tyrannosaurus Rex scatter, taking with them the honeyed orchestral tones and strange hippy tales. In early 1970, nobody could have imagined Marc Feld transformed into a howling Hendrix-style guitarist. Then along comes “Hot Love”, which is really just a first extension of his basic approach to the new English pop. The natural evolution carries a scruffy flower-power duo into the glittering realm of the charts.

It's the age of boogie-woogie, and for T.Rex that means daily bread. In 1971 comes the new single “Get It On”, an instant number one that perfectly ties the old way to the new course, with Sun-style arrangements, Tony Visconti's usual strings, and that irresistible, rubbery, fruity guitar tone. If you want to push it, his electric fury isn't so far removed from Dylan's gamble at the Newport Festival. Yet while the bard from Minnesota was met with a merciless hail of boos, the electric warrior finds himself perfectly in step with his times, which, prophetically, were already changing.

Before Ziggy…

The Faces “A Nod's As Good As A Wink To A Blind Horse” (Warner Bros, 1971)

Old, clattering chords for a brilliant rock and roll direction. There's no variation in the Faces formula, and this record is perhaps their most representative work. Captured by the expert hands of producer Glyn Johns, Wood and co. deliver polished, intense performances (well beyond their reputation as booze-soaked troublemakers) of the highest technical caliber.

The fire blazes through “Miss Judy's Farm” and “Stay With Me” all the way to the sweeping “That's All You Need”. Melancholy takes hold of “Love Lives Here”, with Ronnie Lane proving himself a fine songwriter thanks to the elegant “Last Orders Please” and the enchantment of “Debris”.

The Faces are, by now, a mature band, and their rereading of “Memphis” proves it with precision.

Singles. In 1971 Sweet climb the charts with “Co-Co”, disposable pop that reeks of the Archies and bubblegum music. A Latin sound spreads through soft drumming and wins over Britain's most dance-floor-inclined crowds. Better still, though, is the sturdier, more orchestral beat of “Alexander Graham Bell”.

After the beastly roar of “Get Down And Get With It”, Slade seem to refine their foul-mouthed, working-class verve on “Coz I Luv You”, which unwinds in a more relaxed groove between skipping guitars and string flourishes.

The glam stylistic traits, in short, are starting to take clearer shape.

The prophet of the new generation

At the end of 1971 T.Rex triumphantly wrap up a seventeen-date British tour, and an ever more insistent rumor is going around: this is the band that will take the Beatles' place. The phenomenon is, of course, amplified by unprecedented commercial success. Three singles released in a single year have sold more than the Who and Jimi Hendrix combined, accounting for over three percentage points of the entire British record market.

It isn't, however, just a matter of money. The general atmosphere among the crowd at one of their concerts is very similar to the one that greeted the Stones and the Beatles in the early years. DJ Bob Harris puts it plainly: “The explanation? For today's kids, Marc is exactly what the Beatles were in 1964: the projection of all their biggest fantasies. He's a very beautiful man, and his songs are extremely communicative for young people. No one has managed to capture the spirit of these times the way Marc Bolan has.”

In the mid-1960s the Beatles weren't just a fantasy, but managed to embody the figure of the boy next door. In other words, they were living proof that being fifteen or sixteen meant something. Bolan's enormous appeal lies in giving strength to his generation, a sense of identification through raw rock and roll chords. It's not at all strange, then, that his audience is made up mostly of girls between eleven and sixteen, because Bolan looks exactly like one of them. Hence his bisexual, Fellini-esque look, all garish shoes, eyeliner and fur coats. His mystical image, however, doesn't fully account for the phenomenon.

When John Peel receives the acetate of “Hippie Gumbo” and plays it on his show, he gets over four thousand requests from listeners in no time at all. His first book of stories and poems, “Warlock Of Love”, has so far sold twenty thousand copies.

Marc Bolan, then, is seen as a genuine modern poet, torn between rock materialism and spiritual evanescence. All of this is genuine T.Rex sound, which still emerges in the swaggering rhythm of the single “Jeepster”, paving the way for the band's finest record yet.

“Electric Warrior” (Fly, 1971) marks the crucial shift from adolescent rock and roll to a sexless, spacey mysticism. The sweeping array of musical influences serves up the perfect diet for any 1971 rock kid feeding on a proudly trashy ideology. Gone are Chuck Berry, Elvis Presley or Phil Spector, and gone too are the outskirts of Nashville or Memphis. The strings on “Cosmic Dancer” are something blended together, yet completely new, a brilliant glam fetish. Sun Records blues could sound just like this, but it doesn't, and “Jeepster” proves it.

Bolan, then, pens songs that are, in their own way, immortal, ones you inexplicably find impossible to resist.

Era vulgaris

Watching Slade live is like walking into a party with an alarmingly high alcohol content. It's packed and sweltering, but the last thing you want to do is leave. What sets the band apart from everyone else is the sheer joy they take in talking back and forth with their audience. It works like a virtuous circle: the more the crowd lets loose, the more energy and unfiltered mayhem the four of them throw back at it.

It's pop, sure, but there's a raw, unpolishable roughness at the core of Slade that never quite goes away. As frontman Noddy Holder puts it: "Either way, we treat our audience like they're a bunch of mates out on a bender with us."

Slade, then, are quick to realise that their audiences are sick of sitting still and listening - what they need is to let off steam, shouting and stomping their feet with real gusto. That relentless, driving beat becomes something like their trademark, dramatized here by the horror-movie keyboards of the new single "Look Wot You Dun".

It might all be a bit crude, but that's a face glam wears too.

Shifting shapes

By the late Sixties, David Bowie is a true believer in the Dylan-esque gospel: a musician can change the face of the world armed with nothing but a pen and an acoustic guitar. And yet in the modest hit "Space Oddity" he writes: "Planet Earth is blue, and there's nothing I can do."

Still, Bowie seems genuinely earnest about what he's doing, even at the risk of coming off dull with nine-minute epics steeped in hippy sprawl. At least until he decides to take a trip to the United States. New York's skewed, suburban electricity gives him a serious jolt, and eventually convinces him there's no point singing about himself in his own songs. Better to just close your eyes and write down whatever drifts through your head. Ditch the cosmic journeys and Arthur Clarke-style drifting for a descent into the darker suburbs of the human mind.

So his past comes back into view, flavoured with old-school jazz and blues, at the same time miles away from the usual formulas. From his appearance at the Glastonbury festival to an upcoming European mini-tour, David plays, with a loose and casual air, retro numbers like Ron Davies's "It Ain't Easy" and Jacques Brel's "Port Of Amsterdam".

Deep down, all he wants is to be a new kind of entertainer from a bygone age. And yet nobody can help noticing the Hollywood diva outfits, the glittering platform shoes, the Thirties-style hairstyles.

David Bowie comes out as gay, but (who knows why) he has little time for the Gay Liberation movement. Maybe because he doesn't want to be a leader. Maybe because he flatly refuses to be pigeonholed into any category.

A former flower child trying to hold on to his own bisexual individualism.

So who, or what, is David Bowie?

David Bowie is one, no one, and a hundred thousand all at once, a surreal comic-book character brought to life to bewitch rock's new, glammed-up children.

"Hunky Dory" (Rca, 1971) is a breath of fresh air for the classic singer-songwriter format. A redefined decadent aesthetic that ties together irresistible melodies, arrangements steeped in mystery, and lyrics working on multiple levels between narrative, philosophy and allegory. In the melodramatic sweep of "Oh! You Pretty Things", the arrival of a homo superior singing refrains as unsettling as they are catchy. Bowie flaunts his kitsch taste for parody and, after mocking Bolan's vibrato on "Black Country Rock", dares to send up his new idol Lou Reed on the messy, brazen "Queen Bitch".

Musician, entertainer, or a dazzling actor? Simply an effeminate man with no fixed direction, and so the perfect pop of "Changes" becomes almost a mission statement. An intellectual unconscious seems to take hold of songs now skeletal ("Quicksand" and the terrifying "The Bewlay Brothers"), now shimmering (the horns of "Fill Your Heart" and the languid guitar of "Andy Warhol").

A bit like taking Syd Barrett's mind and letting it loose with Lou Reed's deviant skin. Hard to talk about glam, hard to talk about pop.

Rebel youth

It's a Tuesday afternoon like any other at the Granada in London, and many people have shown up just for the bingo. For Roxy Music, however, it's a very important Tuesday afternoon, because David Enthoven, manager of Elp and King Crimson, is coming to hear them play.

There are many ways for a band to enter the golden realm of the rock business. Many toil for years in small clubs with small-time managers before ditching them once they land on TV or at the Roundhouse. What Roxy Music want, instead, is to skip that long passage altogether and go straight to the top.

The reason is simple: they're good, and above all, they know it. The only problem is fully translating their sound live, overcoming considerable technical difficulties caused by the man who juggles VCS3 synthesizers, tape recorders, an eight-channel mixer and other electronic gadgetry.

And yet Roxy Music display a fresh, flexible sound that beats the tedium of so many other existing bands, paired with a rare knowledge of pop's historical roots. Amid vibrant guitars, husky saxophones and doo-wop harmonies, the band's sonic formula proves delightful in its refusal to be ordinary. Credit goes partly to the imagination of singer Bryan Ferry, a fine arts graduate from Newcastle University, where he began playing with a soul band called Gasworks. Having moved to London, Bryan juggled various jobs, teaching, driving trucks, and unwinding with painting and sculpture. In the capital he joined up with his old friend, bassist Graham Simpson, and jazz-loving teacher Andy Mackay (sax, oboe).

Rounding out the band's core is the pale Brian Eno, an electronics genius who immediately takes his place in the background to dazzle Roxy Music's chords with his astral synthesizer. Later on, former Nice guitar prodigy David O'List joins, along with Dexter Lloyd on drums, who will soon leave the world of rock for classical music, replaced by young veteran Paul Thompson.

With this first line-up, the band begins experimenting with its natural, unconscious approach to pop harmony, shining on DJ John Peel's Top Gear programme in early 1972.

From the Humphrey Bogart of "2HB" to the synthesized wave of "The Dream Of Olwen", Roxy Music's stance is utterly unexpected. A bit like John Cage deciding to write pop songs for the new glam crowds.

Before Ziggy…

Singles. At the start of 1972, T. Rex have no intention of loosening their grip on the top of the British charts. Mass success is by now solid and mature, and for Bolan there seem to be no good reasons to change course.

Like all the singles before it, “Telegram Sam” conceals an irresistible trap for pointless repeat listens. Gaudy guitars, stammering horns and string flourishes: the winning formula keeps on winning.

At the same time, the formidable communicative instinct of the Elton John-Bernie Taupin duo is winning over markets worldwide with a remarkably effective sonic gimmick. The melodramatic piano of “Rocket Man” sends pop into space and tells another astronaut story, paving the way for rock's imminent discovery of Mars.

The alien is, by now, about to land on our planet.

Chapter Two

England, 1972. Diary of an ordinary fifteen-year-old girl. “I used to like Keith Emerson. Now, for me, only Marc Bolan exists. The way he moves, his wild curls. He couldn't be sexier. What he does best is pump real feelings and emotions into you, while you let yourself go completely. His clothes are fantastic. A lot of people just look at the fact that he wears women's shoes, but really he just wears whatever suits him, because he doesn't care what people think. His music is original and he's a brilliant poet. Marc genuinely believes in ordinary people and helps them remember that completely different worlds can exist. That's why, for me, only Marc Bolan exists.”

Anyone under twenty – maybe even under thirty – gets tangled up in the melodic chains of “Metal Guru”, an alluring beachside monotony somewhere between swing and boogie. A single scrap of that delirious diary entry is enough to explain the success of idol Bolan, ever more the Elvis of glam, and of his new chart-smashing (and heart-smashing) single.

…Why love Slade

With a little help from their friend, manager Chas Chandler, by the middle of 1972 Slade could almost be compared to the 1964 Rolling Stones.

If Marc Bolan, with his tremendous pop appeal, is the glam heir to the Beatles, then the four lads from Wolverhampton embody almost perfectly the role of the classic anti-heroes. In psycho-sexual terms, good girls love Bolan, bad girls love Slade. They're no longer skinheads, sure, but the Luciferian aura around the band is still very much alive, and the animalistic, obscene writhing of singer Noddy Holder isn't all that far removed from the raw manners of Mick “Mephistopheles” Jagger.

Once again it's erotic ecstasy providing the backdrop, and it's no surprise that Polydor asks Slade to change some of the lyrics in the provocative “Do You Want Me”.

The hit-single philosophy theorized by Bolan is much appreciated by the band, who prefer to build themselves up calmly, step by step. “Get Down And Get With It” is pure rock and roll fired off at a hundred miles an hour, while violin and piano work up a more elaborate sound on “Coz I Luv You” and “Look Wot You Dun”.

With the new track “Take Me Bak 'Ome”, the Slade saga marches on unstoppably, with no fewer than three guitars proudly on display behind a screamed vocal, drowned in a sound bordering on noise. This rock and roll goes straight back to primal simplicity, and in doing so justifies every bad girl's love for this band.

On June 21, 1972, the Vogue-style alien astronaut brings his space odyssey to the stage of the Civic Hall in Dunstable, England.

Journalists from planet Earth are ready, pens in hand, to describe one of the most important turning points in David Bowie's incredible story. Some are already prepared to call it "the biggest thing currently around."

The trouble is that, on stage, it isn't the former David Jones, but a strange, mesmerizing creature in a white jumpsuit with red hair. It's the dawn of the stardust alien, who kicks off his show like any old rock and roll whore before getting into his thousand transformations. The apocalypse of "Five Years" is his message, steeped in interstellar acoustic journeys and more or less twisted idols.

Ziggy isn't just his gaunt, androgynous face, and the cosmic energy of his manifesto-single, "Starman", can't wait to take flight in search of new, hysterical pop horizons.

It's time for the encore on the stage of the Civic Hall in Dunstable, England.

The drugged-out chords of "Waiting For The Man" kick in, and explosive guitarist Mick Ronson slinks lasciviously up to the alien. Journalists from planet Earth are nowhere near ready, their pens dropped who knows where after witnessing one of the most explicit examples of fellatio ever performed on a musical instrument.

Ladies and gentlemen, the rise of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars.

The sound of surprise

The Roxy Music formula is as simple as it is surprising, a tightly compressed blend of beguiling lyrics, sophisticated chords and typically British sense of humour.

All this might sound like plain rock revivalism, but it's anything but, despite the abundance of references to stone-age pop music running through many of their songs.

Bryan Ferry is talkative: "It seems really nice to create something rich and varied, to bring back to light many things from the past that are now forgotten. To bring real violins on stage to play 'Will You Love Me Tomorrow'. We're eclectic, certainly, and our various elements are used with a very specific purpose in mind. That's the real strength of our band." What certainly surprises the singer and his bandmates is how well these basic musical memories resonate with an audience too young to actually remember them.

In 1972, everything moves at double speed for Roxy Music. Just a few months earlier the band had neither a manager nor an agent, limiting themselves to sparse gigs in small clubs. Now, with a brand-new bassist (Rik Kenton), they'll open Alice Cooper's show at Wembley's Empire Pool. Credit goes to the sensual groove of the single "Virginia Plain" which, amid its offbeat sound effects, paves the way for Roxy Music's self-titled debut album.

"Roxy Music" (Island, 1972) is the sonic conglomerate that betrays the band's true intentions, caught between soft atmospheres and electric vitamins. The rock turns urgent, vivid and manages to vibrate right in the middle ground of styles and quotations.

"Re-Make/Re-Model" is the right place to encounter their insolent magic, amid synth bubbles and Lou Reed-style lyrics. Guitars and sax read the more ironic side of the Beatles, Robert Moog and Duane Eddy. From the erotic/exotic cover art all the way to the Moroccan nightclub of "2HB", the record conjures up the hottest fantasies ("Sea Breezes") over an extremely intelligent instrumental backdrop. The noise of "The Bob (Medley)" dances over the doo-wop of "Would You Believe" and turns into apocalypse in the guitar of "Ladytron", not exactly your classic love song.

The main point is fairly clear: Roxy Music have no intention whatsoever of standing still in front of a winning formula.

A little lesson for Marc Bolan.

The theatre of horrors

The scene is Wembley, on a mild Friday evening at the Empire Pool. The sun is setting and, inside the auditorium, more than seven thousand oddly dressed kids wait for the deepest darkness to fall over their eyes. A voice with an American accent shouts: "Here he is, the legendary Alice Cooper".

The elusive sorcerer who so troubles the parents of half of America is living his most magical moment, the mass-produced product of a rancid youth subculture. His horror movie unfolds over powerful, aggressive rock, paired with bizarre lyrics that are, more often than not, morbid.

It's no coincidence that, in 1971, the album "Love It To Death" sparked such outrage among adults and music critics that it was banned across the United States.

This is exactly what Alice Cooper wants, and so his success is guaranteed.

When the rock and roll chords of "I'm 18" kick in, the crowd is already in raptures, yet another testament to how much empathetic connection with new generations of listeners really counts. It doesn't matter, then, that the band plays rather mediocrely, because the show operates on other, more metaphorical levels, like the savage mutilation of a doll with an axe.

The organ swells, wreathed in Mephistophelian smoke, and Alice starts writhing to the perverse notes of "Killer". Stealing the scene, however, is the incredible appearance of a boa constrictor slithering around the singer's neck before ending up straight in his mouth.

The school-trip hard rock of the single "School's Out" is the American sorcerer's "My Generation", but it doesn't quite manage to define anything genuinely new. What Cooper does is play on the visceral incompatibility between young people and adults, but, after all, the Rolling Stones had already been doing that ten years earlier. And yet the kids of 1972 discover, in Auntie Alice, a new generational hero, and that's more than enough to turn him into a new pop legend.

A bit of glitter

Gary Glitter's beginnings aren't all that different from those of any other entertainer. A young freak looking at himself in the mirror, striking poses in front of a Buddy Holly record.

While employment offices try to slot English high schoolers into "job boxes", the outspoken Paul Raven stands up in class ranting about his future as a music star. The kid is outrageous, modelling his image on the myths of Elvis and Ray Charles, and, astonishingly, manages to record his first record at just fourteen with a rock and roll band.

Between 1965 and 1969, Glitter chased success in Germany, playing hour after hour in clubs like the Top Ten Club before sharing the bill with old-school stars like Little Richard, Bill Haley and Tony Ashton.

In one of his many brief returns to England, Gary makes a happy appearance on the soundtrack of the film “Jesus Christ Superstar” and meets producer Mike Leander from the record label behind the album, MCA. Leander becomes fascinated by the eccentric Glitter and decides to capture on record the humble energy of his German shows. The result is “Rock and Roll Part I & II”, a fifteen-minute jam that gets trimmed down into two singles with more commercial appeal.

His almost instrumental tribal glam is released in 1972 and becomes a resounding success on both sides of the Atlantic. Glitter thus cleverly slots into the general backlash against the old progressive era, sporting a 1950s rock star look, outrageous furs and garish socks. His “rock and roll show” seems to appeal to an almost nostalgic audience, but above all it's his stage image, full of theatrical, melodramatic flair, that fits perfectly with the taste of the times.

A star is born

July 1972. At London's Royal Festival Hall, the decadent and ambiguous stellar journey of David Bowie reaches, perhaps, its most intense and significant moment.

Red-haired and scantily dressed, the alien from the stars presents himself as a living flashback, recalling the most outrageous and theatrical pop stars, the forbidden fruit of his audience's unbridled passion.

Bowie's fascinating, untouchable image feeds on subterranean vice, welcoming onto the stage the unexpected figure of Lou Reed. Their mutual admiration gives birth to a jam that belongs to an era, moving between the electric drift of “White Light/White Heat” and “Sweet Jane”. It's just a small summary of the masterful lesson of Velvet Underground, who, through David's flair, receive a belated and grudging measure of recognition. The London show, however, belongs entirely to the new astral entity and to his manifesto-album.

“The Rise And Fall Of Ziggy Stardust And The Spiders From Mars” (Rca, 1972) is the indecipherable sexual DNA of 70s art-rock. A futuristic singer-songwriter, David Bowie slips into his glamour garb, pushing the accelerator on a new musical decadence, somewhere between Marc Bolan-style pop and Oscar Wilde-branded aestheticism.

Starting with the apocalyptic ballad “Five Years”, out come songs of explosive, theatrical, moody impact, pairing hard-edged guitar riffs (“Hang On To Yourself”) with bittersweet symphonic arrangements (“Starman”). Sonic inventions follow one another along a delicate thread of paradox, but what emerges above all is a virulent rock and roll that detonates thanks to Mick Ronson's work on “Suffragette City”.

A perverse, sensual gem, the record achieves its precise aim of turning Bowie into a superstar, while concealing its own unstable soul right up to the ruthless self-annihilation, blues-style, of “Rock And Roll Suicide”.

It's an unsettling, precise mixture of fragility and desperate intensity that transforms a gifted English musician into a smoking star of the new world pop scene.

With Ziggy...

Singles. A brilliant pop showcase, “All The Young Dudes” is the song that relaunches Ian Hunter's Mott The Hoople who, under Bowie's golden wing, bet everything on a muscular rock sound laced with candid homosexual allusions. The new musical direction pays off handsomely in its ambiguity, and the track effectively becomes the anthem of the glam generations.

The “young dudes”, in fact, are a generation of neo-freaks who turn their hippie cousins' dreary eco-pacifist gatherings into an unbridled festival of kitsch. It's still “peace and love”, in short, but without any ideological or political strings attached anymore. What triumphs is disengagement, cross-dressing and sexual ambiguity, in a flood of glitter and sequins, feathers and mascara, boots and space-age jumpsuits.

Ever more flashy and noisy, Slade waste no time chasing absolute supremacy in matters of style. The Stones-esque riff of “Mama Weer All Crazee Now” secures the four another number one on the charts, confirming the general excitement surrounding the 45rpm single market.

Marc Bolan's winning formula is by now recognisable from the very first chord. This time it's the young soldiers of the “Teenage Westland” who carry “Children Of The Revolution” to success, a choral melange built on an obsessive orchestral riff.

Producer Tony Visconti's “invisible” hand is a trademark, and T.Rex show no concern whatsoever about endlessly replicating the formula, once again breaking the speed limit with “Solid Gold Easy Action”.

Eager to become president of all this is the dark, unhinged Alice Cooper who, after putting Anglo-American schools to the sword, aims straight for the white house of androgynous rock and roll.

“Elected” snarls and thrashes about, but pays its dues to the spirit of Jimi Hendrix and, above all, echoes the symphonic arrangements of “Tommy” more than faithfully in another choral, rebellious finale (chart-wise).

Wars in leopard skin

Summer 1972.

Journalist: “Was it a coincidence that “Never A Dull Moment” was released so quickly, in the same week as Bolan's new record, “The Slider”?

Rod Stewart: “They wanted to release it before I got back to the States, so they could take it on tour.”

Journalist: “Weren't you aware they'd be coming out on the same day?”

Rod: “Not until I read your paper, where my record got a good review, unlike Bolan's.”

Journalist: “Do you think you and Bolan are at war for the same market?”

Rod: “There's competition, obviously, but that's the case in plenty of other professions too.”

Despite the bad review, “The Slider” manages, for a brief spell, to edge slightly ahead of “Hot Rod”'s new solo effort on the UK charts.

Rod: “Bastards. I know one place where Bolan could never beat me: the United States.”

“The Slider” (Emi, 1972) rides the wave of success left by the previous “Electric Warrior” and, in short order, becomes T.Rex's best-loved and most popular record.

The “repeat yourself” motto seems to be gospel for Marc Bolan, but everything can be forgiven for a work that, for better or worse, stands as glam-rock's second masterpiece after “Ziggy Stardust”.

The underlying ideas aren't exactly brand new (more or less blatant nods to Led Zeppelin and Frank Zappa), but the result is a sprawling, over-the-top, cabaret-like whole, as decadent English rock demands. The symphonic trash of “Metal Guru”, the vicious ballads “Mystic Lady”, “Rabbit Fighter” and “Ballrooms Of Mars”, the camp stammer of “Rock On”, the foundation-caked blues of the title track. Bolan reaches peak indecency, poking fun at Elvis on “Baby Boomerang”, cooking up a sort of hit-and-run hard rock with “Buick Mackane”, and fleshing out the glam creed with “Telegram Sam” and “Baby Strange”.

If “The Slider” is the obsessive squeal of the new English wave, “Never A Dull Moment” (Mercury, 1972) is the seagull soaring over the American market.

Stewart's fourth solo album is another meticulous, handcrafted piece of work that hones in on the singer's sensibility as arranger and interpreter of both his own material and other people's.

While the Faces' records end up looking rather alike by the end, Rod's strength lies in knowing how to tell a good story, honouring the original spirit of Jimi Hendrix's “Angel” and yet another Bob Dylan cover (“Mama You Been On My Mind”).

It's the proof of the single that warms up the crowd, earning applause with a mix of tenderness and raw intensity. The acoustic rock of “You Wear It Well” hits immediately and launches “Hot Rod” into real business, American style.

Working-class idols

Noddy Holder, Dave Hill, Jim Lea, Don Powell. Four young men delivering a raw, gritty excitement that revitalizes a period of relative stagnation in the world of pop singles after the fall of the Beatles.

The album question remains an open one for Slade, but it's also true that their first live record, “Slade Alive!” (Polydor, 1972), becomes one of the year's biggest bestsellers.

From the tribal din of “Hear Me Calling” to the rock and roll of “Keep On Rocking”, the band's sound is one of a kind, packed with slang and fiery lyrics for a decidedly working-class approach that wins over most young Europeans.

Erotic frenzy takes hold of every one of their concerts with Holder's raucous scream, as he tries to establish real, primal contact with the fans.

A crescendo that explodes with “Get Down And Get With It”, where thousands of feet make the hall tremble in unison before the final release, during the encores, on the explosive cover of “Born To Be Wild”.

At the end of the concert, Slade embrace their fans and, autograph after autograph, help them better endure a hard and unsatisfying everyday life.

More dead than alive

“I hear about these bands claiming to be influenced by my music, but I don't see it at all. I sent them questionnaires asking if they really understand my work, and they answered no”.

It's hard for the pale face of Lou Reed to reveal anything. The kind of man who rarely laughs, and when he does, he couldn't look more sinister. His perversion comes straight from the deep undergrounds of metropolitan rock.

Reed has no models – other than himself – and yet the new world of English rock owes him a great deal. Discussing his recent records, David Bowie compares the New Yorker's influence to that of Chuck Berry on the Stones. It's impossible to ignore his signature detached vocal style in the inflections of Bryan Ferry, just as it's impossible to overlook Brian Eno's comments about an upcoming Roxy Music album falling in line with the deviant minimalism of “White Light/White Heat”.

Everyone, from Alice Cooper to Iggy Pop, speaks of Lou Reed with a certain underlying reverence. And the story behind the cross-dressing “Sister Ray” alone is enough to show just how many years ahead of their time the Velvet Underground were in anticipating the ambiguity that defines rock and roll today.

“The thing about my new album is that all its songs are hate songs. My first solo record was made entirely of love songs. Now they're just hate songs”.

“Transformer” (Rca, 1972) is the record that definitively elevates Lou Reed to the rank of decadent rock's one and only drag queen.

David Bowie and Mick Ronson, devoted admirers of the Velvet Underground's schizoid art, manage the easy feat of shaping a sound that was already urbanized, focused entirely on sexual ambiguity. The gay Frankenstein in jeans, a white t-shirt and an erect banana presents himself (for the first time) to the masses with a wonderfully irritating record, a collection of songs that are trivial, sad and, in true Warholian fashion, frivolous.

The raw, razor-sharp rock of “Vicious” and “I'm So Free” frequently gives way to more bittersweet, theatrical moods. “Satellite Of Love” and “Goodnight Ladies” are gems of a different, obsessive and desperate way of understanding glam-rock.

In the black heart of this odyssey of transgression stand true masterpieces. The moving melody of "Perfect Day" pairs with the swinging "Walk On The Wild Side", a poignant déjà vu dedicated to the Factory's cast of characters.

In its own way, "Blockbuster" is something that could even be called a masterpiece. Sweet's first number-one single is noisy, synthetic and tremendously blunt, chiming with unsettling grace with a type of pop music very close to the "disposable" philosophy. The track has an irresistibly banal appeal that, within a few months, will lose all its force, awaiting a worthy (?) successor.

Sweet assemble a soft, trivial and artistically flimsy rock, but reach the top thanks to various TV appearances for the hungry mouths of English teenagers. Drummer Mick Tucker states fearlessly: "Sweet are the band everyone's afraid to love".

He may well be right, but the album "The Sweet" (Rca, 1973) fails to sell as well as its corresponding single, and the four keep repeating that their vision is to create as many hits as possible. Everything else is therefore secondary, and the band is increasingly surrounded by writers, producers and image consultants to stay on the long, narrow road to success.

The record, however, proves all too pretentious in its guise as a concept album, steeped in a collegiate hard rock somewhere between Chuck Berry, Elvis and Deep Purple. This chew-on-it music appeals to the younger fans, but, for now, can't break free of a quiet Saturday night of disco madness.

With Ziggy...

Film. "Born To Boogie" is an extremely narcissistic and decidedly pretentious film. Much of it captures T.Rex's grandiose concert at Wembley, obsessively following the key figure of Marc Bolan. It's practically a one-man show, with the rest of the band seeming to vanish behind a haze of glitter and flashy outfits.

The crowd is in raptures, and the hysteria of hundreds of girls dressed like their idol can't help but evoke the joyful era of early Beatlemania-style pop. Ringo Starr, director and fan, heightens the surreal tone of the concert, with Bolan having tea during the acoustic interlude, inspired by Alice and her wonderland.

The music, in short, takes a back seat, only coming back into play when Ringo himself and Elton John join the band for an overflowing rendition of "Tutti Frutti".

Single. At the start of 1973, many believe T.Rex have lost their initial shine, merely repeating ad infinitum a musical formula that's by now well-established and a sure bet for success. In reality, Bolan is preparing an album quite different from the irresistible tropes of "Electric Warrior" and "The Slider", working on a darker, more mature sound.

The thundering guitar of "20th Century Boy" begins to break away from simple pop melody and, amid unsettling gospel choirs, tries to show the world that yes, change is possible. What doesn't change, for now, is the band's success, as they keep riding the beloved white swan of glam rock.

Who will love wise Aladdin?

It's rock and roll day on the Russell Harty Plus show.

In boots and yellow trousers, David Bowie gets ready for the show, putting the finishing touches to his gaunt, insect-like face.

The Spiders From Mars are positioned behind the microphone, moving in sync with the new schizoid rhythm of "Drive-in Saturday", a single due out in 1973.

Bowie's psychic eye turns up the volume, going solo on the Jacques Brel number, "My Death". The theatricality is further redefined as the band's line-up expands to include horns, piano and backing vocals. Something, in short, is changing once again. But, above all, the feeling is that the stardust alien is undergoing a radical metamorphosis, feeding on Bowie's new alter ego.

The creature with the psychic eye is called Aladdin Sane, carrot-coloured hair and thin lines in place of eyebrows. "There's a general feeling on my next album that I still can't explain; a feeling I've never reproduced on any of my records. I think it's the most interesting work I've ever made."

The feeling Bowie is talking about probably concerns his new character, less defined but more musical than Ziggy Stardust. And yet the hair is the same, as are certain slabs of deviant rock and roll.

Written in New York during the triumphant American tour, "The Jean Genie" is a fairly typical electric blues, recalling the Yardbirds' version of "I'm A Man". Bowie's voice keeps up its hysterical tone, sexually drawn to Mick Ronson's raw guitar. And yet you can sense David is starting to tire of the glazed cage he's stepped into.

The trap, however, remains a benign one, filled with excitement on Valentine's Day for the show at New York's Radio City Music Hall. Bowie shows off his new costume, Ronson screams through his electric guitar, and huge silver globes create an atmosphere worthy of Captain Kirk's landing. The extra-terrestrial allure demands that the men on stage be not merely theatrical stars, but genuine figures beyond crude normality. Among them, the added force of Mick Garson on piano, who helps the alien lend a more sophisticated edge to raw rock and roll with new numbers like "Time" and "Aladdin Sane".

"This one's for Mick." The cover of "Let's Spend The Night Together" is all too by-the-book and, together with the rock-blues of "The Jean Genie", shows just how much Bowie needs to change planets. The crowd, however, goes completely wild for the slender creature and doesn't let up even after the band leaves the stage following the electric short-circuit of "Suffragette City".

Between the end of 1972 and the start of 1973, the world seems to need David Bowie, and it's a woman with a Warholian name — Cherry Vanilla — who's tasked with spreading word to this world of what David Bowie does and thinks. What the world perhaps doesn't know is that Ziggy-Aladdin is sick of his life and his music, and that soon he'll carry out his ultimate plan: a rock and roll suicide.

With Ziggy...

Album. "Billion Dollar Babies" (Warner Bros, 1973) is a step forward on the road to success for Alice Cooper. Less outrageous than its predecessors, the record is more considered, more elaborate and, in effect, tries to make a kind of shift towards poppier, more commercial tones.

What strikes the imagination of his audience is the attempt to fuse hard rock and theatre, between the full-throated singing of "Hello Hooray" and the perversion of "Sick Things" and "I Love The Dead". The provocation reaches exasperated levels, and the appetite for subversive riffs and generational anthems ("Elected" and "No More Mister Nice Guy") seems directly proportional to the desire for worldwide fame. True necrophiles, in fact, wouldn't waste a minute on any of his albums.

With "Tanx" (EMI, 1973), T.Rex try to get close to the creative apotheosis of "The Slider", but end up merely reaping its rewards, producing a series of clone-tracks that work just fine on the charts.

More a basket of songs than a true album, "Tanx" gathers its material calmly from the solid ground of media and artistic fame. Bolan's songwriting seems more mature, wrapped in a dark aura that, before long, would mark his life as well as that of glam rock itself.

The sweet string melody of "Lectric Slim And The Factory Hen" is a way of tracing an entire career backwards, going all the way back to the Beatles-esque myth on "Tenement Lady".

An icon for a whole generation, Marc Bolan has fun taking everyone for a ride with tracks that present themselves as outright "glam-larks". "Rock Shock" thus becomes an indictment of the new forced-glam recruits, fake and plasticised. "If you can rock, you don't need to shock."

"Tanx", ultimately, is an enjoyable record, but it reveals to the world that T.Rex's run is running out of steam.

“For Your Pleasure” (Island, 1973) is the work of a group, but it's also the brainchild of Bryan Ferry who, signing all eight tracks by himself, establishes himself as the sole artistic director of Roxy Music.

You can't live on toll-paying alone, and so a new sound becomes essential, one that, groove after groove, expresses itself with off-kilter class. The band walks a thin line with ease: the record isn't a set of songs in the same style as the debut, nor is it a change of direction. It's, simply, a Roxy Music album — perhaps less experimental, but certainly more compact and coherent, if not outright mature.

The hallucinated “Do The Strand” is the futuristic anthem of a musical nostalgia, the creation of a group of high-schoolers catapulted into the twenty-first century. Ever more the decadent aesthete, Ferry seems to have stepped out of a 1930s Hollywood film, and his voice fuels desperate tracks like “In Every Dream Home A Heartache”.

The skewed lesson of the man who sold the world permeates the album toward its close, between the romantic hammering of “Grey Lagoons” and, above all, the paranoid apotheosis of “The Bogus Man”, which, in the form of a deranged collage, stages all of Ferry and company's sonic fragments.

A trio of gurus

Brian Eno, Todd Rundgren, John Cale. For them, glam is just one of the infinite variables of an omnivorous approach, thrown headlong into the pursuit of every possible experiment in popular music. Partly noble fathers of the movement, partly themselves infected by the new climate, they would go on to produce works that, though not strictly classifiable within the genre, remain in some way traceable to the spirit of those years.

A pioneer within the intrepid Roxy Music, Brian Eno clashes with Bryan Ferry over the group's future plans, so he drops everything and goes solo. If his partnership with the crimson king Robert Fripp (“No Pussyfooting”) is pure avant-garde full-immersion, the spirit of “Here Comes The Warm Jets” (E.G. Records, 1973) still carries traces of the glam intoxication of early Roxy. “Needles In The Camel's Eye”, for instance, brandishes Phil Manzanera's cutting guitars again (he also co-wrote the track), drowning them in languid Bowie-esque swoons. “The Paw Paw Negro Blowtorch” is another absurdist sketch: theatrical madness and deranged keyboards seal a murky piece. And then there's the acid-tinged fifties enchantment of “Cindy Tells Me”, the keyboard-driven free-glam of “On Some Faraway Beach”, the astonishing sax performance from fellow Roxy man Andy MacKay on “Some Of Them Are Old”, the psychedelic anthem “Baby's On Fire”, and the guitar apotheosis of the title track. All gems of a (post-)glam by now derailed along the “oblique strategies” of the non-musician from Woodbridge.

A year goes by. And the new venture is called “Taking Tiger Mountain (By Strategy)” (Island, 1974), with Robert Wyatt on percussion and Phil Manzanera on guitars. Still with a dandy's detached irony, Eno combines new studio techniques with Wyatt's cerebral dadaism, forging an authentic post-modern “musical treatise”. Surreal pastiches follow one another, like the martial waltz of “Back In Judy's Jungle” and the pub-choir title track, alongside ambitious experiments (“Fat Lady Of Limbourg”, “Great Pretender” and “China My China”) that wed Eastern tradition (Japanese laments, Chinese drumsticks, gongs etc.) to rock instrumentation. Rounding out the set are neurotic nursery rhymes like “Mother Whale Eyeless” and “Burning Airlines”, with their obsessive refrains, sung in a detached, android-like voice. Eno bends the language of the avant-garde with pop and retro elements, playing recklessly with sounds and abstractions.

Todd Rundgren is one of the first and greatest sorcerers of rock, capable at just seventeen of carving out a place in the ragged psychedelic garage universe of the 60s with the Nazz, of churning out genuine melodic masterpieces as a solo artist in the early 70s, and at the same time of throwing himself into the wildest “hard-prog” under the Utopia banner. All this while indulging in the luxury of producing an endless string of albums for the most disparate artists.

His music is avant-garde and, at the same time, self-involuted, because right in the middle of a proto-punk suite he turns to reflect on himself, indulging and blending into a sudden break dominated by the atmosphere of a romantic dance beneath the stars.

Rundgren anticipates punk by a few years, pokes fun at hard-rock. With him, surf music takes flight again on the crest of the waves. He's on first-name terms with glam. And progressive music takes on new forms in his hands. The frills and the baroque flourishes are set aside in favor of a sound that probes the future. The purest, most melodic pop is elevated to an art form free of any disposable, throwaway intent. Cabaret theatrics find new life, merging with rock as in a performance from some new Hollywood.

All of this is “Something/Anything?” (Bearsville, 1972). For Rundgren it represents a lifelong dream: to shape and merge genres, subgenres, styles and past fads into a single whole. Hence elegant essays in Beatles-esque pop (“I Saw The Light”, “It Takes Two To Tango”), soul numbers (“It Wouldn't Have Made Any Difference”, “Sweeter Memories”), torrential r&b (“Wolfman Jack”, “Slut”), romantic ballads (“Cold Morning Light”, “Torch Song”), bizarre electronic experiments (“Breathless”), circus-theater carousels (“The Night The Carousel Burnt Down”), mini-suites (“Song For The Viking”), guitar assaults (“Little Red Lights”, “Some Folks Is Even Whiter Than Me”).

His career would go on through ups and downs, but the search for new sources of inspiration would always allow him to reinvent himself and rise again.

Just as the glam movement had been inspired by the dark rock of the Velvet Underground, the two leading minds of that group found new artistic stimuli in early-70s London among the finest exponents of glam itself: Lou Reed found a mentor in the icon David Bowie, while John Cale grew close to the circle of other champions of decadent rock, namely Roxy Music, in the persons of Brian Eno and Phil Manzanera.

A year earlier, however, Cale had already offered his own personal variation on the theme with “Paris 1919” (Warner, 1973), the fruit of a perfect fusion between his “classical” soul and his rock one. It ranges from the almost Beatles-esque pop of “A Child's Christmas In Wales” to the chamber mini-suite of the title track, from the rarefied folk atmospheres of “Hanky Panky Nohow” and “Andalucia” to the hard-rock country of “Macbeth”, from the orchestral emphasis of the dramatic “Endless Plain Of Fortune” to the dreamlike atmospheres of “Antarctica Starts Here”, the album's masterpiece, driven by electric piano and Cale's whispered vocals, before opening into a crescendo of harmonium and drums, then fading out almost immediately after. Cale's compositional maturity draws on a pronounced sense of melody and meticulous arrangements, even if at times a bit too overwrought.

Signed to Island Records, Cale releases three albums that would prove crucial to his career (collected in "The Island Years", released in 1996), in which his art as a songwriter merges with certain electronic and noise-driven leanings, influenced by his collaboration with Eno and Manzanera. This is evident above all on the first of these records, "Fear" (Island, 1974), whose title track is perhaps the ultimate synthesis of his art: a piano ballad that spirals into pure delirium, noise and convulsive, psychotic screams, encapsulating the paranoia and claustrophobia that always accompanied him. Alongside the strong imprint of Eno's work, the album also features one of Cale's major influences, the Beach Boys, paid tribute to on "The Man Who Couldn't Afford To Orgy".

Chapter Three

Almost a year after his breakthrough, David Bowie is extremely prolific in writing about himself as a rock artist. His candid bisexuality and glittering clothes provoke a genuine rift, caught between adulation bordering on hysteria and orthodox intolerance toward an entire, deliberately artificial showbiz. It thus becomes impossible either to reject or accept his stylish, trivial image.

"The Man Who Sold The World", "Hunky Dory", "Ziggy Stardust": the creature behind this trio of intellectual albums is light years away from the traditional notion of a poetic songwriter. Somewhat like Colin Wilson, Bowie pursues the primary goal of disconnecting from a pulsing humanity in order to analyze absolute values rather than dull everyday concerns.

It's a живой interest in the future, in the possibilities of abstract concepts like the philosophical definition of "sane" or the notion of mental evolution and a sixth sense. And it's precisely this desire for disconnection that most irritates the anti-Bowie faction, united in branding him as more than pretentious, spatially egocentric.

David breaks Bob Dylan's folk continuum and brings to rock and roll an intellectualism that amounts to a genuine revolution: original thought combined with exciting music. As if to say that "Life On Mars?" has more in common with Sartre than with Chuck Berry.

The new melancholy cabaret of life stages the agony of Ziggy Stardust through a delightful succession of highs and lows.

"Aladdin Sane" (Rca, 1973) is the sonic welcoming committee for Bowie's next alter ego, grinding out riffs to complete its metamorphosis.

Stardust rock and roll still runs through Ziggy's veins, and Ronson's guitar roars commandingly right from the start on "Watch That Man". On the title track, however, Mike Garson's piano creates a leaden, unsettling atmosphere, feeling less like a stage bathed in lights and more like a night-club the day after a nuclear catastrophe. Bowie's voice is melancholy, but quickly regains its nervous edge in the restless pop of "Drive-in Saturday" and in the Stones-Yardbirds blend of "Panic In Detroit".

The new direction, then, seems to look to the future with eyes fixed on the past, moving between the usual Lou Reed-style tale of aging film stars ("Cracked Actor") and illuminating Brechtian insights ("Time"). The sentimentality of "The Prettiest Star" and "Lady Grinning Soul" is interspersed with the perverse energy of the faithful cover of "Let's Spend The Night Together" and the proto-garage of "The Jean Genie".

In "Aladdin Sane", then, there's not just bisexuality and a desire to provoke, but a more refined authorial sophistication behind a new musical change of costume.

With Ziggy...

Album. The American East Coast discovers the new British sound.

"A Woofer In Tweeter's Clothing" (Bearsville, 1973) is the second offering from Sparks, the eccentric project of Los Angeles brothers Ron and Russell Mael. The two were struck by a bolt of lightning on the road to English art-glitter-rock and gradually set to work developing a neurotic, futuristic music-hall sound, rich in black humor and cabaret-like flourishes.

Marc Bolan's lessons can prove truly valuable, and so Russell's falsetto slips perfectly into tracks like "Girl From Germany" and "Beavy O'Lindy". Their sense of melody edges toward Dadaism: "The Louvre" and "Angus Desire" go beyond Bolan, drawing on the exotic atmospheres of Ferry and Eno. In these terms, one might well concede that the long-haired one and the strange Hitler-Chaplin figure were simply bold admirers.

Sparks, however, are much more than this, and this album already gives us a glimpse of it.

Singles. Left off the second album, "Pyjamarama" is another sensual piece in Roxy Music's clever sonic mosaic. Opening in Who-style fashion, the track unfolds tribal and wild, yet sophisticated and terribly pop at the same time. A rupture, though, tears through its fabric, and the ragged sax disturbs/delights, reaffirming that Ferry's band is a cut above everyone else on the current music scene.

There are, indeed, those who stick rigidly to the rules. Gary Glitter tries to ride the wave of "Rock And Roll Part 2" and settles for copying and pasting his own formula. "Hello! Hello! I'm Back Again" rehashes a tribal sound bordering on the robotic, while "I'm The Leader Of The Gang" apes old generational anthems for rebellious youth.

Better, at least, the sexy, playful talent of Suzi Quatro, who tastes success for the first time with "Can The Can". The track is clearly built along Glitter's lines, made even bluesier by the American-postcard sound of Canned Heat's "On The Road Again". Suzi, however, seems unconcerned with all that, simply enjoying her first chart hit.

Slade keep their minds on the charts too, returning to '60s vocal harmonies on "Skweeze Me, Pleeze Me", which sounds very close to Alice Cooper's recent "Elected".

The feeling is that a great confusion is about to descend on glam-rock: with "Hell Raiser", Sweet try to grab the attention of a tougher, more metallic audience.

Shouts and guitar explosions betray, however, an unconscious attempt to follow the new Bowie.

Is Marc Bolan perhaps right, then?

Roxyrama

Roxy Music love luxury hotels, but they're not chasing money, especially when it comes to music. Cash pours in from record sales, and so a tour is merely spectacle, staged for fun and to present new songs to the audience.

The band is in Paris, and Amanda Lear, the sensual star of the "For Your Pleasure" cover, wants to arrange a meeting with a certain Salvador Dalí. Ferry's intellectualism surely runs through this too. From surrealism to the ghost of Edith Piaf, Roxy step into 1973's pop culture, waiting backstage in the old Olympia ballroom. The show begins, and with it, the meticulous attention to sonic detail that makes this band great.

The treated guitar and alto sax of "Do The Strand", the synthesizer swoops of "Editions Of You", the vocal control on "Beauty Queen".

Bryan Ferry is, by now, the undisputed master of ceremonies of Roxy's art, a mesmerizing stage animal, an eccentric human charisma. One can no longer speak of a flash in the pan, of ordinary songs, of average musicians. The Paris concert is, essentially, the same as the last English tour, but it's the band's overall approach, concealing thorough preparation behind it.

At London's Rainbow, Roxy prove they know their songs inside out, reinforcing a show next to which the bold attempts of a year earlier now look like a pale memory.

What makes it so glam – the shimmering jackets, the silk – becomes something trivial because, obviously, the most important thing is the music. And here, all hesitation has vanished, following Ferry's feline moves between keyboards, microphone and guitar. The pale little mermaid Brian Eno, the Gibson authority of Manzanera, Mackay's sax storms.

"Re-Make/Re-Model" brings the house down, and the crowd shows no sign of leaving — not before hearing the encore of "Virginia Plain".

Roxyrama reigns triumphant.

Suzi Q

When the single "Can The Can" hits number six on Melody Maker's Pop 30, little Susan Kay Quatrocchio from Detroit, Michigan shows up beaming at her boss's desk.

In the early '70s, Mickie Most flies to the United States to produce a Jeff Beck record and, in his spare time, catches a gig by an all-female band called Suzi Soul & The Pleasure Seekers.

The band's leader, Suzi Quatro, is tired of being sidelined by musical machismo, and tells Most about her desire to prove she's as good as any man.

In 1971 the musician leaves the girls behind, packs her bags and crosses the ocean to walk straight into a London recording studio. Suzi, though, is hungry for the stage — a sharp observer of the musical ferment of the moment, and utterly unintimidated by the competition, ambiguous as it is, yet still "phallocentric". This time her band is of the opposite sex, and with a bass slung between her legs, the girl wants to play hard, raw rock and roll, free of intellectualism, free of ego. Just Suzi and her men.

After the failure of the first single, "Rolling Stone", Most hands her over to the songwriting duo Nicky Chinn/Mike Chapman: "Can The Can" hits number one across half of Europe. It's the springboard to fame, fueled by a tour with Slade and, above all, by constant rumors casting her as the female answer to Marc "White Swan" Bolan.

The last show

London, July 3rd, 1973.

On the stage of the Hammersmith Odeon, the bonfire of vanities lights up one last time — Ziggy Stardust, or Aladdin Sane, or simply David Bowie. It's the final act in the life of a star, a melodramatic genius, a rock and roll master of ceremonies.

With the last two London shows, Bowie saves himself and, by killing off his alien creature, saves the future of millions of followers around the world.

The carrot-haired monster, in fact, wouldn't stop drinking from the vital cup of decadence, erasing the individuality of all his young disciples, ready to follow him into any galaxy.

If Mick Jagger is a true, hot-blooded rebel, David Bowie seems to drag every chance of individual rebirth down into the abyss. Like watching "A Clockwork Orange" and beating a homeless man to death, or letting yourself be hypnotized by the Orwellian eye of "1984".

Bowie realizes that perversion isn't fun anymore, and so he blows up the alien star in the house of horrors that is the Hammersmith Odeon show.

The collective adrenaline is captured and pulverized over the solemn notes of Ludwig Van.

In London, then, the true identity of a charismatic, intelligent, non-human artist emerges. In plain jeans, Jeff Beck seems almost a non-entity, though magnificent in the bluesiest passages of "White Light/White Heat" and "The Jean Genie".

The vain tension is aimed solely at Bowie, who broods over his imminent artistic suicide. "This is not only the last show of the tour, but the last show we'll ever do." "Rock And Roll Suicide" is Piaf lighting a cigarette on the rooftop of the pop world. Even the girls' tears seem delightfully, meticulously choreographed.

With Ziggy/Aladdin/Bowie, a vital organ of glam dies, but it's spider Mick Ronson who rationally explains what will happen next. "No. We haven't even started. David needs to change, he can't always be the same. We'll miss the adoring crowds and the glamour, but carrying on wouldn't be right. Bowie has to become a legend, and this is the only way to do it."

Youthful Fury

We're trying to represent a shift in kids' behaviour, who are now more aware of being angry. It's a social critique, and it speaks to the fact that kids feel like an autonomous force capable of impacting people's lives beyond all expectations. And you have to consider that they have more money, and therefore greater purchasing power. We're talking about fourteen to sixteen-year-olds rather than nineteen-year-olds, who already have a job and an established lifestyle and have probably already grown out of the phase we're singing about. Songwriters write for a market and they're aware of what's happening around them. Making a track like 'Teenage Rampage' is like telling kids that they're recognised, and above all respected, in today's society. I don't know Marc Bolan, and maybe he even copied us, but nothing has happened to the youthful dream, because it's absolutely not a phenomenon on the verge of dying.

Nicky Chinn (co-writer of "Teenage Rampage", Sweet's last hit)

"I think Sweet's "Teenage Rampage" is a fantastic track. Not just because I love Sweet, but because it's about a genuine revolution led by the young against the older generations."

Linda, seventeen, from Cardiff

Standing for the Queen

In the early '70s, two friends, Freddie Mercury and Brian May, put together a theatrical band, convinced they could take glam-rock to a new level by dismantling it from within.

The early music of the Queen sounds particularly hard, aggressive and, therefore, decidedly masculine. There are no deliberately homosexual colours, but rather an unsettling opposition of black and white which, in the minds of the four, represents a dual nature of darkness and light. From the wavering early days of Smile, the band insists on this more or less original concept, but it can't ignore the fact that it may have arrived too late on the English music scene.

It's producers John Anthony and Roy Baker who push Queen to record some demos, but the difficulty in finding a label is enormous. At least until EMI's fateful decision.

May and his bandmates, however, work hard to break into the great cauldron of glam showbiz, and have just the right presumption to win people over, despite Bowie and Bolan having already taken the era's stereotypical image to great success.

The concept behind Queen is being regal and majestic. Glamour is part of us and we want to be dandies. We want to shock and be outrageous. We don't care whether people love us or not, as long as they form a strong opinion when they come to see us.

The first of the four's albums, "Queen" (Emi, 1973), reflects their artistic intentions in a somewhat confused way, offering a string of songs that differ wildly from one another. The blazing rock and roll is softened by sweet, melancholy ballads, and what comes to mind isn't so much the Beatles or the Rolling Stones as certain mannerisms of Yes and the deviated fury of Black Sabbath.

The chromatic riff of "Keep Yourself Alive" is the original manifesto (?) of a band that doesn't want to limit itself to repeating the tropes of commercial glam-rock. Yet the power of the single, as prophesied by Bolan, still matters to Queen, even as they go on about wanting to move beyond the pop of the Sweet.

After Ziggy…

Singles. Riding the international success of "Can The Can", Suzi Quatro steps up the pace, releasing a new chart-bound anthem, "48 Crush". The celebrated Chinn/Chapman partnership, however, settles into the rock and roll comfort zone, offering only minimal variation on the tribal stomp of the previous single.

More than a Bolan with breasts, Quatro edges closer to the gaudy stylings of Gary Glitter, and indeed the following single, "Daytona Demon", is a horror-tinged version of "Leader Of The Gang". A bit too late, then, to keep milking the same formula, but the girl's aggressive sensuality wins people over and works a treat on the charts.

The Slade, meanwhile, seem to have lost their initial working-class bite, giving in to an increasingly bland and commercial pop sound. The old "stomping" is watered down on "My Friend Stan", but the Beatles-esque march of "Merry Xmas Everybody" has just the right appeal, warmly soundtracking Christmas 1973.

Meanwhile, the Sweet keep hardening their sound, reaching number one again with the proto-punk "Ballroom Blitz".

Eccentric glam soloists David Essex and Gary Glitter cement an appeal that's gaudy and utterly shameless. "Rock On" defies any musical logic, with its bass, bongos and reverb-drenched vocals that would make any 1950s musician furious. "I Love You Love Me Love", meanwhile, sounds like the drunken result of an attempt to sing an old doo-wop ballad.

The decline of a certain overblown and all-too-fake strain of glam worries and dampens the natural talent of Marc Bolan, who can do little more than keep repeating himself on "Truck On (Tyke)".

The right dose of freshness, on the other hand, comes from Roxy Music, who with "Street Life" craft a nervy, hysterical pop worthy of peak Lou Reed.

Crocodile rock

On the stage of the Hollywood Bowl in Los Angeles, Elton John outdoes himself, treating a thousand-strong crowd to one of the most intense and vividly colourful concerts of his career. His wild, outrageous style paves the way for the music, amid outlandish glasses, top hats and sequined waistcoats. A perfect character for a surreal Lewis Carroll story.

Linda Lovelace, star of the controversial adult film "Deep Throat", makes a sultry introduction: "Ladies and gentlemen, in the tradition of old Hollywood, allow me to introduce the Queen of England". Down comes Elizabeth II, followed in quick succession by Elvis Presley, Batman and Robin, Frankenstein, Groucho Marx and Mae West. Just actors, there to precede the final act of the show: Elton John.

The crowd goes wild, towered over by five coloured pianos and swept up by the opening notes of "Elderberry Wine". The pantomime is over, and the music takes centre stage for a tight two-hour set, running through old and new songs all the way to a double encore with a cover of "Honky Tonk Women".

Elton is like a steamroller, and his flashes of inspiration have at least the virtue of immediacy, simplicity, and sheer playful pleasure. There's no search for the revolutionary here — pure fun is enough, as in the tender "Daniel" or the goofy, irresistible "Crocodile Rock". It's genial, populist pop, made of instantly gratifying songs that, on a night like this one in Los Angeles, know how to win over eyes, ears and hearts.

Pin-Ups

After the suicide/murder of the stardust alien, David Bowie walks free again in the world of rock.

As if to capture the true essence of his glory, a crew from the American TV network NBC lands at the Marquee in London ahead of a lavish episode of "Midnight Special".

There's quite a crowd around the slight figure of David who, despite the dramatic stunt at the Hammersmith Odeon, keeps riding the wave of success. Marianne Faithfull sings "As Tears Go By", the Troggs hit hard, and a trio of dancers — the Astronettes — make the show more airy and theatrical.

Mick Ronson and Trevor Bolder still tie Bowie to his recent past, joined by new drummer Aynsley Dunbar, already a veteran of John Mayall and Frank Zappa. The first song is a spirited version of the old Mojos classic "Everything's All Right". Then comes the riff of the Who's "I Can't Explain".

Perhaps to catch his breath after the alien whirlwind, Bowie releases "Pin Ups" (RCA, 1973), an album made entirely of covers of more or less well-known classics. The record is a breath of fresh air amid the idols of his youth, and also a way of celebrating the creativity of rock's golden age between 1963 and 1967.

By the middle of the 1970s, however, the music business changes abruptly, and a fast, direct, action-packed way of making music disappears. Gone too is the old uncertainty of the charts, which now become essential in an ongoing mirage of the promised land.

See Slade. See Sweet. See Suzi Quatro.

"Pin Ups" follows the rules of 1973, delivering to the glam faithful gems like "Shapes Of Thing" (Yardbirds) and "Where Have All The Good Times Gone" (Kinks).

Where, exactly, have the good times gone? Because the album is mediocre and, above all, fails to justify its own necessity.

Bowie, however, looks serene and inspired on the Marquee stage.

"We've written a musical, and this is the title track, '1984'.

After Ziggy…

Album. With "Stranded" (Island, 1973), the ambiguous Chinese boxes of Roxy Music open up once again, and this time there's a will to fight to become a genuine rock and roll band. The sinister experimentation seems to sink along with the depths of Brian Eno's mind, as he leaves the group over an irreconcilable difference in artistic vision.

Without electronic trickery, the mephistophelian Bryan Ferry can now run free, following his decadent mood wherever it leads, reigning unchallenged over his many lyrical obsessions. The Great Clash, in effect, reshapes Roxy Music into a general sonic idea made in Ferry's own image and likeness.

Predictably, "Stranded" is thus a more classic record, less daring and experimental, much closer to the traditional song format. All of this, of course, doesn't mean the band's third official work should be dismissed as "minor". "Stranded" is, perhaps, the album Bryan Ferry had been chasing for longest, one that puts an end to the sonic game of Chinese boxes in favour of strong, intimate, sinuous atmospheres.

It's an old-new sense of spatiality, driven by violinist Eddie Jobson's (ex-Curved Air) synthesizer on the melodious, heart-stealing single "Street Life". It's the immediacy of Ferry's voice, which now more than ever favours delicate ballads like "Just Like You" or endless dark architectures like "Psalm".

The record remains, however, a tight group effort: "Amazona", Manzanera's first creative offspring, widens Roxy's scope, veering towards a sensual funk. A romantic, desperate sensuality that climbs the polyglot, vaguely Spectorian anthem of "A Song For Europe" and reaches full grandeur in "Mother Of Pearl", which, somewhere between Beefheart and the Stones, rises choral with genius and ambition.

1973 would certainly be a poorer year without this record.

Stars or shooting stars?

Who is Alvin Stardust, the mysterious Elvis who suddenly climbs the British charts at furious speed? With a band of oddballs in tight t-shirts, Alvin delivers an instantly catchy track, "My Coo Ca Choo", whose frivolous 50s rock and roll flavour becomes a hit with the most commercially-minded tastes.

Shane Fenton, fronting the Fentones, tastes his first success in the early 60s with two songs, "Moody Guy" and "Cindy's Birthday". A star of "Saturday Club", the man in black gloves ends his musical run with his last hit, "It's All Over Now".

1973, however, proves to be fertile ground for a rebirth, making the name more glamorous and carving out a small role in the grand cabaret of glam-rock.

The response to his old-fashioned rock and roll surprises everyone – Alvin himself first and foremost – and so a new star finds itself shining without even being on the map. It will be, as Jerry Brandt puts it, a matter of style, taste, elegance and beauty. Qualities forgotten, he insists, in a world dominated by ugliness and vulgarity.

Brandt is the mad manager and mentor of a plasticized creature bearing the curious name Jobriath. "The reason I let myself get involved, the source of all my excitement, is the chance to turn this whole mess into something beautiful, artistic, theatrical. A kind of fairy tale. Jobriath is the fairy of this fairy tale".

The American fairy Bruce Wayne Campbell seems to have many faces and, perhaps, none at all: composer, arranger, singer, dancer, painter, mime, man, woman. More simply – and more realistically – one of the first mass-market pop stars to be openly gay and explicitly marketed as such to the point of excess.

Fired from the musical "Hair", Bruce catches the attention of ambitious promoter Jerry Brandt who, convinced he has discovered the Greta Garbo of pop, offers him a half-a-million-dollar contract with Elektra Records. The two fly off to the glam ferment of London to record a first, forgettable album, "Jobriath", meant to make Bruce "the greatest artist in the world".

"Jobriath is Crosby, Sinatra, Presley and the Beatles all rolled into one". It might even be true, but the Garbo of pop arrives too late: the curtain on glam-rock itself is already falling inexorably.

The New York dolls

Painting rock and roll's nails with lipstick in 1973 are the New York Dolls, a visceral band of full-blown cross-dressers.

The band formed in New York in 1971 when the Actress, led by cursed guitarist Johnny Thunders, crossed paths with foul-mouthed singer David Johansen in the city's seediest, most disreputable clubs. Rounded out by Arthur "Killer" Kane's Bo Diddley-à-la bass and Syl Sylvain's razor-blade guitar, the group adopted a style like the Rolling Stones on overdose, presenting themselves onstage as a bunch of streetwalking hustlers.

The visual outrage is matched by the sonic one, delivered with a wild, ferocious performing spirit reminiscent of the epileptic neuroses of the Stooges and the carnage of MC5. New York Dolls' queer rock is the degenerate, suburban face of English decadence, all riffs fired off at breakneck speed, tectonic distortion and tribal screams.

"New York Dolls" (Mercury, 1973) is the perfect choral synthesis of dirty 60s beat and 70s cursed rock, pushing glam and kitsch well past every limit. A gut-punch of songs produced by Todd Rundgren, destined, amid deviance and uncontrolled vomiting, to define an era.

The old Chuck Berry riff, later reworked by the Stones, is twisted and turned into dynamite, as in the vertigo of "Subway Train". The Dolls favour the epileptic, martial, venomous anthem, and the triptych of "Personality Crisis" – "Looking For A Kiss" – "Trash" relentlessly dissects every possible expression of it.

Eight tracks, then, for a crucial musical encounter: the decadence of the Velvet Underground meeting the violent madness of the Stooges, Marc Bolan's poses colliding with the fury of MC5. In a word: punk.

Inside the hit factory

On the sixth floor of an exclusive building in the heart of Mayfair work the songwriting duo of the moment, who over the past twelve months have racked up an impressive string of chart-topping pop hits. Australian Mike Chapman and the well-heeled Nicky Chinn don't do things by halves, writing songs like true perfectionists, glam-pop artisans in the service of minor stars such as Suzi Quatro, Sweet and Mud.

The explicit vision of an ongoing youth revolution takes shape in the martial pop-and-roll of "Teenage Rampage", which definitively launches Sweet's pseudo-hard-rock schoolboy image. The song is little more than a faded, plasticised copy of the various generational anthems already out there, but Chinn and Chapman are more determined than ever. "It's the song that sums up everything that's happening. Kids are learning very fast, and there's a lot of aggression, a lot of tension in the air. By writing aggressive songs we manage to capture the true feelings of these kids, who can then let it all out by dancing."

It is indeed for dancing that "Tiger Feet" by Mud is unleashed, its artificial boogie taking over Top Of The Pops and, above all, discos across half of England. Chapman continues along the same lines: "It's the huge recognition that young people deserve today. There's a real youth movement in music. Each of these songs represents a youthful state of mind. All we do is give kids the chance to recognise themselves through the songs. A mirror to see themselves in."

Rock royalty

Freddie Mercury is a sensitive, delicate young man, but above all, attentive to detail. The black nail polish on just one hand symbolises the dual nature of Queen, who, in his view, have no need to fight their way to greatness because, quite simply, they already are great. Even though the NME's Nick Kent describes the debut album as "musical urine", the four are ranked second among the best emerging bands in the same magazine's poll. What really matters, in the end, is success with the public, and the piano's headlong flight in "Seven Seas Of Rhye" seems to go down very well with plenty of people in England.

Queen's early sonic architecture is certainly nothing to write home about in terms of originality, caught between Sabbath/Zeppelin-style electric excursions and baroque, progressive flourishes à-la Yes. Yet the decadent, dandyish force of it all captivates listeners who appreciate the high, rough-edged tones mixed with certain lyrical softness.

On "Queen II" (EMI, 1974), the band's ambitious ideas develop further, revealing a certain leaning towards excess in the regal march of "Procession". The hard rock of the Who is filtered through the tragic shadow of a chromatic Manichaeism that sets the hypnotic tenderness of "White Queen" against the unsettling baroque pop of "The March Of The Black Queen". Two different sonic approaches united by falsetto harmonies, dark chords and melodic folk-song touches, showing a growing awareness of their own abilities bordering on collective self-obsession.

Queen are essentially forging a recognisable trademark, their own take on glam-tinged rock, though they still occasionally lose themselves amid a whirl of ideas, as in the stuttering rock and roll of "The Loser In The End" or the drum-heavy pop of "Funny How Love Is".

After Ziggy…

Singles. In 1974, Suzi Quatro continues her feminist crusade with chart-topping hits. In a sexy, skin-tight leather outfit, the little American girl wields her bass like a phallus, ordering her musicians around like a true rock and roll leader. Beyond the appeal, though, there's a new single, "Devil Gate Drive", which painstakingly retraces the same tribal rock-and-blues steps as "Can The Can" and "48 Crash".

More intriguing, then, is the icy sensuality of Lulu, a Bowie-esque man-woman and a minor star broadcasting straight from the 60s. What captures the imagination is her cover of "The Man Who Sold The World", which, amid funky sax and detached tones, makes the alien's unease more exotic and danceable.

Caught in the tempting grip of the market's python, Alice Cooper again tries the well-trodden path of the generational anthem. Gone, however, seems the electric fire of "School's Out" or the megalomaniac perversion of "Elected". "Teenage Lament '74" is a nonsensical doo-wop ballad from an unlikely 50s-style idol.

By comparison, "Teenage Rampage" is Sweet's own "My Generation".

Pop is starting to head in strange directions, caught between a lack of originality and a mad dash for the top spot.

Gary Glitter hits rock bottom with "Remember Me This Way", a hallucinatory lament of longing eyes chasing the near-ghost of Elvis Presley.

The Bay City Rollers unleash a qualitatively deranged r&b verve with "Shang-A-Lang", which nonetheless becomes an earworm for screaming, silly little girls.

Fortunately, the former alien-aladdin David Bowie is getting ready to return to earth with the maddening Rolling Stones-esque riff of "Rebel Rebel", which recalls old generational disputes and new transsexual androgyny. The track sounds like a rewrite of "Satisfaction", but Bowie is further than ever from the schemes of "Aladdin Sane" and, with the album on the way, will mark a first, gradual break from lipstick rock and roll.

Sparks

A gentleman in a pullover with a curious look, half Charlie Chaplin, half Adolf Hitler. A broken-toothed clone of Marc Bolan, with disheveled hair and a white dressing gown. A strange pair indeed, formed by brothers Ron and Russell Mael, straight from Los Angeles, California, to stir up new sonic sensations on English soil.

Much of the credit goes to the wild, irresistible rhythm of the single "This Town Ain't Big Enough For The Both Of Us", which charges ahead, all bluster, amid keyboard flashes and falsetto vocals.

Sparks start out as Halfnelson in 1968, while the two Mael brothers are studying graphic design, literature and film at UCLA. The group records a few tracks and sends them to Todd Rundgren, who immediately decides to produce them for a first album under the name "Halfnelson". The record goes unnoticed and the two brothers abandon the project, trying again more decisively under a new name.

"Sparks" (Bearsville, 1971) is, in fact, the same record with a different cover, but its offbeat songs, full of dark humour and cabaret-like shades, win over audiences with great success.

Times, evidently, have changed and now favour the band's creativity, which, in early 1973, releases their second album "A Woofer In Tweeter's Clothing" (Bearsville, 1973).

The United States, however, doesn't take to glam atmospheres the way England does, so Sparks' European pop sensibility needs other shores. It's John Hewlett, founder of John's Children, who helps the Mael brothers put together a European tour and, above all, sign with Island Records.

The duo then flies off to London and forms a new version of Sparks with English musicians, under the watchful direction of Muff Winwood, previously of the Spencer Davis Group. It's a genuine stroke of luck: the fledgling band finally has room to breathe and to make the first great album of its career.

Detroit Glam City

The glam aesthetic sweeping England, born of the ambiguous, perverse beauty of early icons like Mick Jagger and Brian Jones, doesn't fully take hold in the New World. America doesn't embrace the brazen self-awareness of androgynous rock with the same decadent relish as its cousins across the ocean.

American hard rock is still steeped in chords à-la Deep Purple or roughed up by the blues of bands like the Allman Brothers. The new wave of "Hang On To Yourself" and "Suffragette City" certainly gains popularity, but it doesn't fully dismantle a certain macho ideology within rock and roll. That's why Sparks fly off to London to unleash their falsetto, music-hall verve.

The United States, then, doesn't seem to possess a deep grasp of this new aesthetic of elegance, perhaps because it had Scott Fitzgerald rather than Oscar Wilde. Alice Cooper's masked depravity, in other words, amounts to little more than a meticulous rehash of the past and, above all, calculated stage gimmicks.

It is true, however, that the suburban deviance of more European-minded cities like New York shows greater empathy for the idea of androgynous rock. David Johansen is the true heir to Jagger, and his Dolls embody the raw sense of a delirious, feral transvestism that flings open the anarchic, furious doors of punk.

This is the most innovative, avant-garde side of America, rising up from the underbelly in memory of the Velvet Underground.

Only a crystalline madman like James Newell Osterberg Jr, better known as Iggy Pop, can thrash about on stage like this, out of his mind, naked, made-up and dripping with sweat.

The philosophy of "sex, drugs and rock and roll" has been howling up from the sewers of Detroit ever since "Kick Out The Jams" in 1966. In 1973 the iguana of rock, increasingly strung out, arrives in London to complete an unholy, perverse trinity with Lou Reed and David Bowie.

He's the near-Aladdin who helps Iggy pull himself back up, working with him on an album that's not yet a solo effort, but no longer credited to the Stooges either.

"Raw Power" (Columbia, 1973) is Detroit's sonic filth attempting a more lavish, elegant path. The two urges, however, never quite reconcile, and glam's fashionable sirens fail to charm "the godfather of punk," who reaffirms his feral attitude toward an ultrasonic, venomous rock and roll.

"Search And Destroy" and "Raw Power" are proto-punk assaults on the arteries, and the untamed tribalism of "Shake Appeal" sits uneasily with Bowie's intellectualism.

Iggy Pop is explosive, savage in his war paint, but his sense of melody never goes further than the harsh, hypnotic ballad "Gimme Danger." Bowie's pop dressing gown, in other words, cages the animal fury so much that Iggy himself, finally clear-headed again, will go back and remix the album to make it louder and more searing.

From one attempt to another, back on the opposite shore of the ocean.

At the end of January 1973, Kiss, led by bassist Gene Simmons and rhythm guitarist Paul Stanley, play their first show in Queens, New York, in front of an audience of three people. Fascinated by the poses of the New York Dolls, the four begin experimenting curiously with their image, piling on heavy makeup, leather costumes and assorted stage gimmicks.

In the clubs of the Big Apple, decadent rock was running rampant, fueled by the commercial success of Alice Cooper. This gave Kiss the perfect platform to unleash a perverse brand of heavy metal, steeped in sex and, essentially, devoid of any social or existential content.

In “Kiss” (Casablanca, 1974) a granite-hard, brutal, monochord riff emerges, expanding into pure energy while betraying a certain technical inexperience. The band's strength seems to stem, rather, from a macabre exhibitionism that ties directly into the grand guignol of Aunt Alice. “Strutter” and “Black Diamond” are small classics of pure, couldn't-care-less youthful fun.

The album is a massive success, prompting Simmons and co. to record a follow-up at record speed, “Hotter Than Hell” (Casablanca, 1974). The record is virtually identical to its predecessor, but the haste with which it was recorded strips away some of the freshness of the songs, which end up sounding like mere leftovers. The metallic epos is, in substance, softened by an underlying easy-listening quality that borders on the pop inanity of bubblegum.

In other words, a metal variant of glam-rock.

Also infecting America – San Francisco, to be precise – with glamorous germs were the Tubes, musicians-turned-actors known for their outrageous, surreal performances. Their pantomimes revolve around the disguises of singer Fee Waybill, who takes on improbable characters such as Cowboy Fee, a parody of country & western, and Quay Lewd, a glam-star through and through. Amid spaceships, dancers, chains, whips and other S&M paraphernalia, a festival of kitsch unfolds, skillfully orchestrated by the satyr Fee.

Their self-titled debut album, “The Tubes” (1975), is a shock to the system, blending parodic pop-rock under the deft guiding hand of Al Cooper in the producer's chair. Gems abound, from the power-pop of “Haloes” – Todd Rundgren on a collision course with Roxy Music – to the guitar verve of “Boy Crazy”, from the anthem “White Punks On Dope” to the wacky flamenco cover of “Malagueña Salerosa”. Dominic Frontiere's horns and string arrangements add depth to the sound without ever weighing it down too much. The only limitation would remain the difficulty of translating the explosive impact of their live shows onto vinyl.

In the summer of 1973, David Bowie announced to the world his retirement from the stage, privately admitting he was fed up with traditional rock concerts and wanted to experiment more with theatre. Thus was born the ambitious idea of a musical inspired by George Orwell's famous novel “1984”, which would instead turn into one of his most paranoid albums.

In mid-1974, David Bowie put together a high-impact rock and roll show that toured North America far and wide, and this time the audience seemed to embrace the gimmick. Perhaps because the new album shot up to number nineteen on the charts. Perhaps because of the gigantic stage rising amid futuristic aluminum buildings, blood effects and unsettling metropolitan bridges.

Gone are the aliens and spiders from Mars. Mick Ronson's stockings are, by now, a memory. Bowie's new vision is lycanthropy for the masses, a futuristic nightmare that looks to Big Brother and to Richard Matheson's last man on earth.

It's the year of “Diamond Dogs” (Rca, 1974), opened by the half-man, half-animal howl that wipes out rock and roll in favor of an impending genocide. The old alien is now a sonic mutant who turns glitter into an endless “after dark”, a post-atomic apocalypse that takes “Drive-In Saturday” and “Panic In Detroit” and fires them miles and miles out of the city.

David returns to the nightmares of “The Man Who Sold The World” rather than the philosophical elegance of “Life On Mars?”, yet he refuses to give up on Rolling Stones-style rock and roll, from the riff of the title track to the anthem “Rebel Rebel”. In between, the long melodrama of “Sweet Thing/Candidate”, new Isaac Hayes-esque ideas on “1984” and the ghostly choral quality of “Big Brother”. The sabbath of broken bones and freak voices in “Chant Of The Ever Circling Skeletal Family” closes the circle and, on an obsessive loop, swallows the entire record whole.

Rock theatre or theatrical rock and roll? The doubt arises immediately: Bowie says he wants to make theatre, but his true talent lies in rock and roll.

Halfway between “Ziggy Stardust” and “Diamond Dogs,” the double live album “David Live” (RCA, 1974) chronicles a July concert at Philadelphia's Tower Theatre. The record isn't blessed with great sound quality, but above all it gives off an air of detachment, its hoarse, ravaged vocals never quite landing.

Bowie, in truth, is worn out by his own hits, which seem to have lost their original meaning, drowned in a heavy theatricality just to avoid coming across as utterly powerless. “Moonage Daydream” turns almost into self-parody, while the glam anthem “All The Young Dudes” is flipped with a shameless soul aftertaste.

Earl Slick clearly lacks Ronson's raw power, but that doesn't seem to bother Bowie, who leans hard into Hamlet-esque skulls, carnival masks and horn arrangements. Still, some of the old cosmic magic survives in Mike Garson's melodramatic piano on “Sweet Thing” and “Changes,” and in the Greek tragedy of “Rock And Roll Suicide.” Yet these echoes are ultimately beside the point, since Bowie is no longer chasing the hellish rock and roll of London or Santa Monica, but a softer soul warmth instead. Just listen to the driving cover of “Knock On Wood.”

After Ziggy…

Album. After the commercial flop of his self-titled debut, Jobriath decides to give it another shot, piecing together tracks from his earliest recording sessions. On “Creatures Of The Street” (Elektra, 1974), the stylistic variety is undeniable, but pop's alien homosexual comes across as little more than a plasticized stand-in for Aladdin Sane. Weighed down by theatrical, overwrought posturing, the music stays stuck in the background, recycling moods already familiar from glam-rock itself. “Heartbeat” and “Street Corner Love” ape Bowie aping Jagger. On “Liten Up,” Mike Garson's ecstatic piano makes a comeback, and “Good Times” even reverts to old vocal harmonies à-la Page/Plant. In the end, too many pieces of sonic mosaic spoil its finer craftsmanship.

Singles. Careless of any musical restraint, Sweet's generational output carries on, wrung dry by the celebrated Chinn/Chapman firm. On “The Six Teens,” however, the initial larking about seems to have vanished, and the four start taking themselves far too seriously, caught between pseudo-hard flourishes and a voice like a kick in the groin. Perhaps too much even for angry teenagers.

That the spirit of glam is starting to fade is also confirmed by Marc Bolan's growing loss of clarity: with “Zip Gun Boogie,” he shows just how bored the pop world has become. The guitar slinks in, vicious, over a bed of organ, and the appeal seems guaranteed, but after repeated listens the track burns through its charm—something that was never a problem for T.Rex before.

Fresher, then, is the outrageous rock and roll of “The Bitch Is Back,” with which Elton John continues his commercial climb, chased by a demonic Suzi Quatro who barks but doesn't bite on “The Wild One.”

Mr. Soft

Young Steve Harley began his career in the late '60s, playing around the streets of London alongside vagabond guitarist John Crocker.

The real turning point came in 1972, when the two joined forces with drummer Stuart Elliott, bassist Paul Jeffreys and keyboardist Milton Reame-James.

After just five gigs, Cockney Rebel signed a juicy deal with EMI, immediately releasing the single “Sebastian.” The epic ballad became a huge hit across Europe, but failed to climb the British charts.

Following in the footsteps of David Bowie's and Roxy Music's intellectualism, the band pushed sexual ambiguity to the extreme, riding a wave of Mitteleuropean cabaret theatrics.

The debut album “The Human Menagerie” (EMI, 1973) was well received by critics, moving between electric outbursts and symphonic openings. Above all stands the camp elegy of “Sebastian,” flanked by the disorienting rock and roll of “Crazy Raver” and the folk-trash minuets of “Loretta's Tale” and “Muriel The Actor.”

Despite the positive reviews, Harley's schizoid personality took over, lashing out at the press with irritating egocentrism and, above all, treating his own band as mere instrumental backing. It hardly mattered, then, that “Judy Teen” also became a hit, just like “Mr. Soft,” which paved the way for Cockney Rebel's second album.

In “The Psychomodo” (Emi, 1974), Harley's Dylanesque voice reaffirms his aesthetic cravings with the circus cabaret of “Mr. Soft”, the jazz inflections of “Singular Band”, the symphonic rock and roll of “Sweet Dreams” and the winking glam perfume of the title track. The decadent epilogue of “Tumbling Down” is memorable.

At the end, however, of a successful English tour, the band decides enough is enough and abandons Harley en masse, leaving him with only Stuart Elliott. Cockney Rebel carries on, but it's clear that, by now, it's purely Steve's solo project.

“The Best Years Of Our Lives” (Emi, 1975) is an album with plenty of shadows and few bright spots, though it does boast the gorgeous catchiness of the single “Make Me Smile (Come Up And See Me)”, which this time climbs the charts in record time.

There's no shortage, though, of small glam gems like “Mr. Raffles” and “The Best Years Of Our Lives”. The best years indeed, because from here on Steve Harley's talent would gradually fade from the scene.

The House and the Kimono

In 1974 Sparks were widely regarded, in England, as a cosmic awakening within the world of rock, finally capturing the imagination of the youth and of the charts. Singer Russell Mael put it this way: “We love this sort of confusion and diversity. The truly extraordinary thing is that people don't even need to talk about it. It's really exciting because, for us, it's just Sparks doing the same things we were doing five years ago. We're playing with different musicians, sure, and we're in England five years later, but the essence is the same, Sparks are the same, and it's really strange to get this kind of enthusiasm.”

The originality of the extraordinary single “This Town Ain't Big Enough For The Both Of Us” brought, in effect, a breath of fresh air to chart-topping glam-pop, paving the way for what could undoubtedly be considered Sparks' masterpiece.

“Kimono My House” (Island, 1974) is the Mael brothers' big shot, one that justifies both the transatlantic leap and their tie to the glam movement. Chasing the idea that pop and rock should lean on decadent sonorities, they crafted a record of impeccable elegance, blending vocal harmonies à-la Beach Boys, electric guitars with a distinctly hard-edged imprint, and orchestral arrangements caught between cabaret and music-hall.

How to combine Brecht and Marlene Dietrich.

“Kimono My House” contains tracks that give glam a fresh aesthetic twist, like the roaring opening single or the Teutonic “Thank God It's Not Christmas”, the Mitteleuropean atmospheres of “Amateur Hour” or the caresses of “Equator”.

Rollermania

Leslie Richard McKeown is an eighteen-year-old kid, clean-cut, in a light V-neck sweater, mild-mannered and shy with words. Every time he tries to talk to a journalist, his manager-and-stepfather, Tam Paton, shows up to explain exactly what to say, how, and why.

The Bay City Rollers were formed in Edinburgh in 1967 by brothers Alan and Derek Longmuir and, quite by chance, were signed by Bell Records. In 1971 they released their first chart hit, a cover of the Gentrys' success “Keep On Dancing”, which reached number nine and stirred the appetite of pop producer-impresario Jonathan King.

The boys immediately embodied an easy-listening pop spirit with no ambition beyond touring the world, making money and becoming fan idols. At the start of 1974, the new single “Remember (Sha La La La)” was a smash hit, followed by an impressive run of syrupy commercial pop, from “Shang-A-Lang” to “All Of Me Loves All Of You”.

Thus “Rollermania” exploded, turning a Four Seasons cover, “Bye, Bye, Baby”, into a ruthless single that sold a million copies in 1975. The comparison with The Beatles played out in a series of concerts marked by sheer hysteria, with girls between ten and fifteen years old screaming, crying and pushing each other.

The five members' technical ability is virtually nil, and their shows are planned out on paper like any other mass-market product, but the phenomenon is too massive to be ignored by – rightly – dismissive music critics.

“Bye, Bye, Baby” and “Give A Little Love” are the tracks that hand the pop crown to a bunch of young upstarts from Edinburgh.

Killer Queen

In September 1974, “Queen II” passes the hundred-thousand mark in sales, going silver. Queen's reputation keeps growing, flatly disproving the gloomy predictions of the music press.

With two A-sides, the third single “Killer Queen/Flick Of The Wrist” becomes a massive success, turning into the band's first genuine hit. The reviews are unusually enthusiastic, prompting the four to speed up preparations for a new English tour, for which they record an electric version of the national anthem to use as a triumphant closer for every show. With this final touch added to their regal identity, May and co. are now ready to conquer the summit of rock's Olympus, starting with the release, in November, of their third official album.

On “Sheer Heart Attack” (Emi, 1974), Queen's blend of beloved genres becomes more concise, leaning towards greater catchiness. The band's musical style is now more defined and daring, and their original hybrid formula seems to find a more heartfelt, personal identity. A case in point is the single “Killer Queen”, which, between vaudeville harmonies and a guitar bordering on the gaudy, betrays the sonic direction that could bring the band commercial glory. It's a delicious artistic gamble that runs through the rising, shrill angelic voices of “In The Lap Of The Gods” or the melodramatic finale of “In The Lap Of The Gods…Revisited”, which climbs, fireworks blazing, amid stadium chants and solemn guitars. It's true, however, that Queen can't resist their furious accelerations, driven by the heavy-metal riff of “Stone Cold Crazy” and the high-speed boogie of “Now I'm Here”. Brian May, in fact, continues his transformation into a “guitar hero”, steering the hard melody of the mini tour de force for echoplex that is “Brighton Rock”.

The “white side of the queen” veers towards the martial ballad of “Tenement Funster”, playing with electro-acoustic reverbs à-la “Tommy” that echo through the symphonic “She Makes Me”. On “Sheer Heart Attack”, too, one can spot a sort of Manichean approach, with Mercury's dark side hurling the listener into a tender nightmarish dimension. Theatrical excess loves to make its grand entrance, as in the build of “Flick Of The Wrist”, which dances on the balance between pop softness and rock unease.

It's the sensitive soul of a monster rejected by everyone that, as in a nineteenth-century novel, speaks with the chanting voice of tenderness in the piano piece “Lily Of The Valley” and weeps, alone, the gospel tear of “Dear Friends”. As in life, drama can turn into sudden joy, and so “Misfire” brings its gypsy beach-party cheer, followed by the 1930s déjà vu of “Bring Back That Leroy Brown”.

The point of all this, admittedly, once again feels redundant and, at times, out of place, but the album is well crafted and clearly shows that Queen intend to stick around on the stage of their musical theatre for a long time.

The Bitch Is Back

In 1973, Elton John pulls the rabbit out of one of his top hats, releasing the double album “Goodbye Yellow Brick Road” (Mca, 1973), acclaimed by critics and storming up the Anglo-American charts.

The record turns the pianist into a full-fledged glam-rock star, stringing together an impressive series of instant classics, saccharine and catchy. The sweetly neurotic “Bennie And The Jets” hits number one, followed by pop melodramas like the title track and, above all, “Candle In The Wind” and “Funeral For A Friend”.

John's versatility is not, however, repeated on “Caribou” (Mca, 1974), which again tops the charts, but in a far less refined sonic guise. The energy of “The Bitch Is Back” and the orchestral pop of “Don't Let The Sun Go Down On Me” save the singer's face, as does a frenetic cover of “Pinball Wizard”, which appears in Ken Russell's film based on the Who's rock opera “Tommy”.

At the end of 1974, the “rock and roll bitch” enjoys his triumph at New York's Madison Square Garden, an evening that, however, will be remembered not just for sequins, glasses and three hours of piano. Joining him on stage is John Lennon, who sends the crowd into complete delirium with the neurotic electricity of “Whatever Gets You Thru The Night”.

The old and new star gaze at each other, delighted, touching each other's musical souls on “Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds” and the unexpected “I Saw Her Standing There”. Lennon's committed verve thus marries Elton John's sheer joy, an artist who doesn't speak for his generation but invites everyone not to take themselves too seriously. On that night at the Garden, in short, two master craftsmen of pop seem to hand each other the definitive baton atop the roof of the rock and roll world.

After Ziggy…

Album. For "Country Life" (Island, 1974), Roxy Music put sequins, silks and old-fashioned hairstyles back in the closet, embracing a new casual style. Bryan Ferry, the decadent aesthete, transforms the camp ideology into something simpler and more forceful, one that captures a sonic immediacy beyond long, neurotic experimentation. "Three And Nine" is the track that best shows this newfound simplicity, aimed straight at a soft, melting pop heart.

Roxy, however, don't seem to entirely abandon their glittery past. The ballad "The Thrill Of It All" revives old musical flavours, as do "Bitter Sweet" and "Casanova", which embrace what comes across as a ghost of experimentation and European romanticism.

A record, in short, that betrays the uncertainty of a band caught between what it no longer is and what it will become.

Singles. Caught in the Stewart-Wood vice grip, in 1973 Ronnie Lane leaves the Faces, replaced by ex-Free man Tetsu Yamauchi.

The band is an old creature in its death throes, but it roars one last time with the single "You Can Make Me Dance... Sing... Anything", which wins over only the English public with its irresistible chorus.

The Bay City Rollers, meanwhile, bring manager Tam Paton's strategies to fruition, conquering the pop world with just two songs. The girlish fifties atmospheres of "Bye, Bye, Baby" and the nauseating languor of "Give A Little Love" win over an audience of kids, turning the five lads from Edinburgh into the boy-band par excellence of glam-pop.

Rather pointless, then, is yet another attempt by Sweet who, with the pseudo-swagger of "Fox On The Run", try to imitate Slade without having the means to pull it off.

Far more intriguing, on the other hand, is the work of the egocentric Steve Harley, who blends Lou Reed-style vocals, acoustic guitars and Beatles-esque harmonies on "Make Me Smile (Come Up And See Me)", which soon becomes his most acclaimed song.

If Cockney Rebel evoke the intellectual sophistication of Bowie and Ferry, Queen play with the punk fury of the Who and a riff à la Led Zeppelin. "Now I'm Here" unfolds explosively over a supersonic boogie groove, unleashing the excessive guitar work of Brian May.

Soul Man

Somewhere between 1974 and 1975, the gaunt and paranoid David Bowie hides his eyes beneath a hat perched carefully on his carrot-red hair. The colourful platform boots have given way to more sober heeled ankle boots, and the old spacesuit has turned into retro casualwear à la Buster Keaton.

The nightmare of the diamond dogs seems to have passed, along with the last traces of lipstick, faded away over the repetitive notes of "Rebel Rebel". The Pirandellian sponge is now ready to soak up new moods from new continents.

It's no longer time for spatial ballads, Kurt Weill-style cabaret and hard-rock distortion. Bowie smokes cigarettes at Sigma Sound Studios in Philadelphia, mulling over a new stage trick, a new sleight of hand. Saxophonist David Sanborn and backing vocalist Luther Vandross aren't with him by mere chance.

With "Young Americans" (RCA, 1975), David Bowie transforms into the soul man, an American street star who, by now, retains only the charm and the look of glamour.

The hypnotic rhythm of "Fame" is the decisive blow that conquers the land of Columbus, an over-the-top, neurotic number one. Horns, gospel choirs and black funk mark the new, daring direction, spelled out explicitly in the title track and in the drive of "Win" and "Fascination".

Soul music, in other words, for pale-faced types dabbling in falsetto (“Somebody Up There Likes Me”) and dubious backing vocals (“Can You Hear Me”). All of it studiously crafted and produced with obsessive precision, yet, in the end, less genuine and less complex than the old spatial, decadent hymns.

John Lennon alone, then, isn't enough to redeem a cover as muddled and unsteady as this version of “Across The Universe”. At this point, Elton John's raw, gut-level emotion wins hands down.

But David Bowie is a fraud, because he knows perfectly well that a record like “Young Americans” is built to please the crowd. David Bowie is a fraud because, perhaps, he already has half a mind on fleeing Philadelphia to take refuge in a new European nightmare.

By the end of 1975, the robotic funk of “Golden Years” rides the same soul wave as the album, but really opens the door to something completely different, one that buries a chapter of his life and, above all, his glam persona.

Sirene

In 1975 the leader of the “most elegant rock band in the world” talks to an English journalist, on the eve of the opening night of the new European tour at a Liverpool disco. “To me, 'Stranded' and 'Country Life' are very different from our first albums. The first two are exciting, immediate, while the others try to be classy, professional, let's say. Our next record, 'Siren', doesn't give up that professional touch, but it also has the excitement and power of the first two albums.”

“Siren” (Emi, 1975) is, in some ways, the triumph and, in others, the death blow of Roxy Music's arty, cerebral rock. Seemingly more united than ever, the band presses on with its new casual look, further refining a clean, buttoned-up sound.

Playboy Bryan Ferry thus steers a record that winks at the emerging disco phenomenon, sinuous and sexy. It's his own personal take on Donna Summer that surfaces in the chart-topping hit “Love Is The Drug”, an irresistibly danceable track that catapults the band into international stardom. Not quite a sellout, not quite a reckless experiment.

The album, in fact, tries to define a new dandy blueprint, somewhere between the easy-listening of “End Of The Line” and the romantic mood of “Sentimental Fool”. Tracks like “Whirlwind” and “She Sells” showcase Manzanera and co.'s instrumental chops, but the whole thing comes across rather colorless.

Roxy aim for commercial heights just as genuine inspiration is running dry. Ferry himself is, by now, an exquisite, icy dandy in pursuit of forbidden pleasures, with the glories of decadent experimentation reduced to a sweet, sensual memory.

A Night At The Opera

In 1975 Queen part ways with Trident after a series of financial disputes, freeing themselves to deal directly with Emi and Elektra under John Reid's supervision. The new manager is stunned when, in October, the band presents him with the track they intend to release as their new single: nearly six minutes of quasi-operatic music titled “Bohemian Rhapsody”. Reid explains that a song that long simply can't be released as a 7-inch single, but the four of them won't budge and refuse to cut it down. Taylor is friends with DJ Kenny Everett and, off the record, slips him a promotional copy of the vinyl, expressly asking him not to play it on air. Everett, naturally, can't resist the temptation to play it for his listeners, and the station's phone lines are jammed instantly.

On 31 October 1975 “Bohemian Rhapsody” is released and the English music world is rocked to its core. An opening in the style of a melancholy ballad spills into a riot of overdubbed operatics before closing on thunderous hard-rock cadences: for some, extraordinary; for others, downright unbearable.

The press is divided, but largely agrees that the track is far too long and will never become a hit. English radio stations think otherwise, playing the song from start to finish on constant rotation. The result: within two weeks the single sells more than 150,000 copies, handing the band their first UK number one and triumphantly paving the way for the new album's release.

The product of an obsessively meticulous production, “A Night At The Opera” (Emi, 1975) unhesitatingly surpasses the ambitious sonic reach of “Sheer Heart Attack” and stands as Queen's finest achievement. Twelve unconnected tracks chase one another to form something utterly one-of-a-kind, a staging that echoes, right at the edge of outrageousness, the old musical theatre of operetta. The acid hard-rock thunder of “Death On Two Legs”, in fact, serves only to kick off the show, in the loudest, most imposing way possible.

Mercury is ever more the queen of the castle, and her sweet, bitter voice demands increasingly complex sonic architectures. Some of the credit goes to the astute Roy Baker, who plays constantly with effects and choral layers, accompanied by May's chromatic, clownish guitar in the vaudeville of "Lazing On A Sunday Afternoon". The Marx Brothers' fame is transformed here into a series of sketches somewhere between farce and tragedy, from the almost childlike approach of the jazzy ukulele nursery rhyme "Good Company", flipped on its head by the epic march of the mini-suite "The Prophet's Song", which spins hard rock rhythms and Gregorian chant together as if it were an even more theatrical "My God".

The catchiness of "Sheer Heart Attack" undergoes yet another transformation in the pop vignettes of "I'm In Love With My Car" and "You're My Best Friend", where piano and guitar cradle voice and harmonies in the best possible way. The hard, glam and roll path of "Sweet Lady" then gradually gives way to the tear-jerking lyrical tenderness of "Love Of My Life" and the acoustic choral watercolor of "39".

"A Night At The Opera" is entirely the delectably irritating parody of "Seaside Rendezvous", which conjures up a new, questionable art form crowned by the triumphant "Bohemian Rhapsody", a thunderous Zappa-esque collage of fragments of ancient and modern music. "A Night At The Opera" fulfills Queen's melodramatic musical dream, and the band duly enjoys a period of tremendous euphoria. The album marches forward unstoppably, going platinum and staying on the US charts for a full 56 weeks.

Between November 29 and December 2, four sold-out nights at London's Hammersmith Odeon put the four definitively on top of the world.

The Last Gasps

1975 closes out glam's most dazzling season. What's left on the field is a pile of feathers and glitter, but the glamorous attitude doesn't die - it will be reborn in disguise in the new wave era (just think of bands like Bauhaus and Japan, as well as the various synth-pop and new romantic offshoots). David Bowie, Lou Reed and Iggy Pop become the noble fathers first of punk, then of post-punk. Duncan Browne, however, is an unlucky character. He releases the right record at the wrong time. Together with Peter Godwin and later guitarist Sean Lyons, he had formed Metro at the start of the '70s, trying to channel art-rock verve into a pop song format that was traditional, yes, but just as eccentric and disorienting.

Post-glam, or already-grown-up punk? "Metro" (1976) is probably neither one nor the other. But its commercial failure is due above all to the delay with which it was released. Written as far back as two years earlier, Duncan Browne's decadent ballads become an out-of-step counterpoint to punk's full-throated invective. A shame, because the sound of "Metro" is a distillation of pure glamorous elegance, a refined melange that blends glam's decadent taste with prog's craftsmanship and folk's candid soul. A pulsing funk bass (courtesy of John Giblin) holds up the rhythm section, Peter Godwin's moog chases the melodic lines, but it's above all the interplay of guitar inlays (now electric, now acoustic) that gives birth to an unheard-of sound, elaborate but never cloying, the ideal backdrop for Godwin's dark timbre.

An orchestra in the thick of the punk era: that's the outrage of the symphonic "One Way Night", the melodrama of "Black Lace Shoulder", the romantic ode of "Flames". But the ace up the sleeve is called "Criminal World", with its darkly-tinged sexual ambiguity ("the girls are like baby-faced boys"), set amid fuzz guitars and celestial harmonies. British radio will censor the single, sinking the album along with it. Undermined by its failure, the band's original line-up will break apart. But "Metro" will remain glam-rock's noble swan song. In 1983, David Bowie will pay tribute to it with a fine cover of "Criminal World" (on "Let's Dance"). The curse, however, will strike Duncan again - a poetic, self-ironic dandy, in art as in life: after a long battle with cancer, he will die in 1993.

Glam-rock's last gasps also come from far-off New Zealand, home of Tim Finn's Split Enz, an eccentric minstrel with a taste for symphonic arrangements and fairy-tale atmospheres. Their masquerades, all costumes and picturesque makeup, blend psychedelia and prog, circus atmospheres and gothic horror, surrealism and expressionist cinema - all filtered through Finn's bizarre, paradoxical approach.

The intuitions of the debut "Mental Notes" (Charisma, 1975) are revisited and refined on "Second Thoughts" (Charisma, 1976), the fruit of their landing in England and of production by Phil Manzanera, who had been deeply impressed by the band's performance opening for Roxy Music on their first Australian tour. Tim Finn's vocals are joined by those of guitarist Phil Judd, while Eddie Rayner's keyboard phrases and the percussion of the Noel Crombie-Malcolm Green duo contribute to a full-bodied, multicolored sound. It ranges from soft acoustic embroidery ("Titus") to pseudo-prog numbers ("Stranger Than Fiction"), from pop vignettes ("Matinee Idyll") to pieces of astonishing flair and eclecticism ("The Woman Who Loves You, Walking Down a Road").

Judd will later leave the band, which will be joined for a time by Tim's brother Neil, later destined for greater fame in the ranks of Crowded House.

At the start of the '90s, the ideal fil rouge with classic glam-rock runs through the chords of Suede, a band formed in London in 1989 by bassist Mat Osman and singer Brett Anderson.

The eleven tracks of "Suede" (Nude, 1993) blow the English market wide open, decisively paving the way for the Britpop revolution. The band, however, openly cites the David Bowie of the Ziggy era, with Anderson replicating his ambiguity and decadence, flanked by guitarist Bernard Butler, who echoes Mick Ronson's style.

The genre's precise reference points remain firmly in place even amid rarefied, visionary atmospheres. Listen to "Dog Man Star" (Nude, 1994) to be hypnotized by melodramas like "Daddy's Speeding" and "The Wild Ones".

As the decade wears on, the Bowie-esque aestheticism is gradually rendered poppier and, consequently, closer to the commercial appeal of Marc Bolan's T.Rex.

"Coming Up" (Nude, 1996), "Trash" and "Filmstar" neatly sum up Suede's new musical approach. All the most memorable pieces of the glam puzzle are reassembled by the band, who, on "Head Music" (Nude, 1999), feed it with punk-ish energy. "Savoir Faire" and "Everything Will Follow" evoke Roxy Music's atmospheres, while "Electricity" and "Can't Get Enough" hark back to Bolan's transgressions, and "She's In Fashion" nods to Bowie's "Young Americans" style.

What resurfaces on "New Morning" (Epic, 2002), however, is the romanticism of the band's early days, with Anderson delightfully embodying the defeated dreamer commenting on the comings and goings of the city. A girl, a television left on, an unspeakable flirtation: his gaze, forever poised between victory and defeat, is melancholic and disenchanted. And the band, on excellent form, follows him with a refined touch. "Lost In Tv", "Obsession" and "Astrogirl" go straight into Suede's history books.

Celebrating the revival is "Velvet Goldmine" (Uk, Usa, 1998), Todd Haynes's film retracing glam's golden years through the story of a fictional singer named Brian Slade, who apes David Bowie's androgynous poses.

The accompanying soundtrack brings gems like "Satellite Of Love", "Make Me Smile" and "Virginia Plain" back into the spotlight, and unleashes an explosive cover of "20th Century Boy", courtesy of newcomers Placebo.

In 1996, in fact, their debut album, "Placebo" (Virgin, 1996), is released, revealing the androgyny of singer Brian Molko, underpinned by an angry, heavily fetishistic glam-rock.

Here too we're dealing with fervent disciples of '72-'74 Bowie, combined with American-made alternative rock, morphing into fast, tense, blatantly catchy songs. The choruses are sinister and scornful, and soon veer into the dark introspection of "Without You I'm Nothing" (Virgin, 1998), which imposes slower, more reflective rhythms (the title track and "Ask For Flowers" above all) for a moody pseudo-rock made for pseudo-tormented souls.

Can we reasonably believe that, by the late '90s, glam-rock could still command a significant audience? And, further, that amid a prevailing landscape of "anonymous" indie-rockers dressed in jeans and t-shirts, a heavily made-up figure decked out in glitter and sequins could still roam undisturbed? We couldn't even conclude that the aim behind the character of Bobby Conn is merely "transgressive", a stance largely already absorbed by early-'70s Britain, that of Roxy Music, Cockney Rebel, T-Rex, the anomalous Americans who go by the name of Sparks and, of course, Mr. Ziggy Stardust.

The fact is, here we're talking about a bona fide American, and even a Chicago American at that, the very city that saw post-rock explode. The glamorous Bobby seems to have dropped in from who knows what galaxy, like a meteor fallen well past its time. Some might suspect that what Conn is doing amounts to a slavish rehash of the past, both image-wise and musically. And yet, we're not faced with a bland stylistic exercise, but with a complex web of contaminations that make him a truly unique case.

A figure regurgitated from the cutting-room floor of "Velvet Goldmine", a virtuoso, baroque, over-the-top, glittering artist, Conn is a promiscuous disguise. Like his music, which flirts with everything that once was and no longer is, oozing non-hype from every pore.

From the unbridled delirium of "Bobby Conn" (Truckstop, 1997), on which he goes as far as proclaiming himself the Antichrist ("Axis '67"), to the ambitious concept of "The Golden Age" (Thrill Jockey, 2001), from the funky-glam-rock maelstrom of "The Homeland" to the cinematic rock-opera of "King For A Day" (Thrill Jockey, 2007), Conn's output is a dazzling Babylon, so varied that it will perhaps end up satisfying only a few.

But at the dawn of the new millennium, glam also seems to enjoy a lucrative commercial season, driven, however, by plasticky bands slavishly imitating the old poses and old chords.

Sweden's The Ark, led by foul-mouthed singer Ola Salo, break through in 2000 with the album "We Are The Ark" (Virgin, 2000), which, thanks to the melodic drive of the single "It Takes A Fool To Remain Sane", takes off in international markets. The kitsch fizzy drink is sold at prices bordering on the criminal, and it damages the genre's historic aura with the follow-up, "In Lust We Trust" (Virgin, 2002).

Even more blatant are The Darkness, led by singer-guitarist Justin Hawkins, who embrace a cock-rock aesthetic to insanely distill thirty years of rock brazenness, playing with the most excessive clichés around. The sing-alongs on "Permission To Land" (Atlantic, 2003) shamelessly chop up Queen's theatricality and the hard-edged sounds of Thin Lizzy, Cheap Trick and Ac/Dc. "Love Is Only A Feeling" and "Black Shuck" are hodgepodge tracks that redefine the very concept of kitsch, pushing it into territory bordering on the ridiculous. And yet the marketplace paraphrases Adam Ant: "Ridicule is nothing to be scared of".

Far more deserved, however, is the success of Scissor Sisters, who fearlessly blend disco rhythms, outrageous funky-glam and Elton John-style ballads.

In “Scissor Sisters” (Universal, 2004), the talking point is above all a woozy dance cover of “Comfortably Numb”, which is nonetheless offset by tracks that sound as if lifted straight from “Goodbye Yellow Brick Road”, like “Take Your Mama Out” and “Music Is The Victim”. So while “Tits On The Radio” sends backsides into a frenzy on the dancefloor, “Laura” leans on piano for a triple somersault into the swimming pool of the late Seventies.

“Ta-Dah” (Universal, 2006) then veers even further towards shower-singalong pop, a bite-it/dance-it/bolt-it kind of blend.

Outro

Epitaffio: Rock And Roll Heart

At fifteen, young Marc Feld tries to worm his way into London's musical fringes, especially when he isn't helping his mother at the Soho fruit market or washing dishes at the Wimpy Bar. Dubbed the “King of the Mods” by Town magazine, Marc likes to hang out at a pub called The Brewmaster, where, pint after pint, he starts declaring to the world: “One day I'm going to be a big star, and then all of you will want to know me. Just wait and see if I'm not right”!

Throughout his entire career, Marc Bolan is the first citizen of a fantastical world. Tolkien's visionary pen and Eddie Cochran's chords are the earliest inhabitants of his imagination, followed by Dylan Thomas, James Dean, Jack Kerouac, Chuck Berry and Jimi Hendrix.

In 1966, Simon Napier-Bell, manager of the Yardbirds, signs Bolan and produces his first single, “Hippy Gumbo”, which catches the ear of DJ John Peel, who plays it on heavy rotation on his Radio London show, Perfumed Garden. Two years later, Tyrannosaurus Rex is born, an acoustic duo with Steve Peregrine Took on bongos, produced by Tony Visconti on their debut album “My People Were Fair And Had Sky In Their Hair But Now They’re Content To Wear Stars On Their Brow”.

The record launches the duo into London's underground circuit and clearly sets out a “Tolkienesque” direction that resurfaces on the following “Prophets, Seers And Sages, The Angels Of The Ages”, which cements a blend of hippy philosophy and rock primitivism. The magic formula stays untouched throughout 1969, despite a disastrous American tour that convinces Took to pack his bags, replaced by Mickey Finn.

The big change, however, arrives just a year later when Bolan picks up an electric guitar on the single “By The Light Of The Magical Moon/Find A Little Word” and on the album “Beard Of Stars”. In October, the group shortens its name to T.Rex and signs to Fly Records, gifting them the game-changing hit single “Ride A White Swan”.

In time for the Christmas holidays, Bolan and Finn are joined by bassist Steve Currie and drummer Bill Legend to record the first true electric album, “T.Rex”.

In no time at all, Marc Bolan goes from cult artist to full-blown idol for the underage masses.

The glam phenomenon explodes, and his sexual ambivalence, paired with a hefty dose of narcissism, lands him on magazine covers across half of Europe, paving the way for pretty much everyone, from David Bowie to the New York Dolls.

Yet while Bowie manages to keep perfect control over his art, Bolan falls victim to his own success, and his outrageous poses are easily copied by more aggressive bands like Slade.

Even so, the “15 minutes of fame” enjoyed by Marc and his T.Rex last almost three years, spanning chart-smashing singles – “Hot Love” and “Get It On” – and the seminal album “Electric Warrior”, which magically bottles a cosmic, surreal strain of rock and roll.

Bolan discovers a new magic formula, naive and brilliant, and stays faithful to it to the point of obsession.

So-called “T.Rextasy” reaches its peak in 1972 thanks to three singles – “Telegram Sam”, “Metal Guru” and “Solid Gold Easy Action” – and, above all, the album “The Slider”, which sells a hundred thousand copies before its official release.

In March, Ringo Starr revisits the Empire Pool Wembley shows for the controversial film “Born To Boogie”, which immediately fuels the golden era's nosedive. Ignoring public criticism and professional advice, Bolan stuffs T. Rex with backing singers and saxophones and releases the single “Teenage Dream”, which introduces the embarrassing album “Zinc Alloy And The Hidden Riders Of Tomorrow”, an untenable parody of Ziggy Stardust.

In the TV appearances that follow, the guitarist looks like a parody of himself, forcing his loyal partner Tony Visconti to break off their fruitful partnership after seven long years. And the worst is yet to come. Between 1975 and 1976, Bolan refuses to accept the inevitable end and tells the press he has four, if not more, number-one hits in the works.

Maybe. Privately, though, he starts drinking heavily and taking more and more drugs. When all seems lost, an overweight Bolan proclaims himself to the world as "the godfather of punk", immediately setting off on tour with The Damned. Some of the old magic seems to have been miraculously recovered, and many feel that, given a little more time, the old white swan could still pull through.

His time on earth, however, runs out inexorably on 16 September 1977, when the former Marc Feld crashes his car near his home in Barnes.

A huge white swan watches over his funeral at Golders Green Crematorium.

Despite having pushed everyone and everything to the point of exasperation, Marc Bolan was a good man who rode the fantastic voyage of rock and roll all the way to the end, and beyond.

Contributions by Claudio Fabretti, Stefano Pretelli, Antonio Puglia, Marco Bercella

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19/02/2026