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The NME Consumers' Guide To Marc Bolan, part 2: The Rise And Fall Of Bolanmania

Paul Morley, NME, 27 September 1980

BOLAN WENT electric and it was deemed, astoundingly, that he'd 'sold out'. For wanting to reach young people with vibrant pop music at a time when rock music was sinking into a clandestine mud, Bolan was consistently attacked.

Rock criticism was a young craft but already taking itself incredibly seriously. Bolan's best and most complete music undeniably coincided with his teen success. It wasn't as if during the days of Tyrannosaurus Rex his songs were complex, revealing autobiographical gems. (Bolan was rarely autobiographical, and when he was could hardly bear to take himself seriously) or scintillating insights into the wracked mind of an outsider.

Critics felt – vaguely, but they made it seem like an unforgiveable crime – that Bolan's electrifying, popularising and lyrical shift undermined the values of the '60s, that Bolan had ruptured all that was good and wholesome about dropping out and dribbling and whingeing. They must have been frail values if just by bopping into a few million homes with a different form of fantasy Bolan bought a fraught reality crashing in on the hippy do gooders.

Horrified ex-fans poured scorn on Bolan's new fame, felt his electric guitar playing was sacrilege. Critics patronised Bolan for the very things that five years later would be greeted as revolutionary – immediacy, noise, intimacy. The attitude highlighted rock's inherent, insidious snobbery at the time. But Bolan had a ball. I started to buy records, and so did all my friends.

I bought T. Rex singles, they bought Led Zeppelin LP's. (Today I'm still in love with singles and I owe that to Bolan). I was classed a teenybopper. I knew deep down that the frowning LP buyers were boring and, in retrospect, rather a teenybopper than a 'progressive' fan. At the time Zeppelin and the like were 'serious' music, T. Rex was 'trivial'. These standards were obviously flabby. Led Zep inspired their fans into a lazy narrow mindedness, T. Rex inspired their fans into a curiosity – a Rex fan would end up in Buzzcocks or Positive Noise, a Zep fan in Def Leppard.

Accused of selling out, Bolan was in fact performing one hell of a service. He proceeded to establish a dialogue between himself and a previously neglected audience, reaffirmed that for better or worse pop music was about mass popularity, stripped away the pointless self-consciousness of progressive rock, brought up to date the communicative properties of rock 'n' roll, dragged the balance away from instrumental virtuosity to instrumental effectiveness. He played to thrill, not to airily impress.

All this sprouted rapidly from Bolan's simple realisation that he wanted people to hear his music. He'd come to the conclusion that maintaining his cosiness as underground attraction was the real sell out. Not only did Bolan show up how dumb those progressive ideas were becoming, he was also starting something his previous fans – now aging old and set in their ways – were missing. Cruel! No wonder they whined.

Inspirationally, Bolan planned a tour at the same time as 'White Swan' charted (and charted) that stipulated the price of tickets should be no more than 50p. Bolan, pulling the practical idealism out from the collapsing '70s revolution, put his music within the range of teenage pocket money. Curious kids wandered along, many to see their first concert, mixing warily with the hairies, affected by the weirdness of Bolan and Finn. The tour was a sell out. Bolan began to move, he got up off the floor, remembered the things Presley And Richard did to raise the temperature. To kids born in the '60s, this was something new. Young girls began to scream at the pretty, mysterious Bolan and his soft partner.

By sensing that he could offer something that was missing – simple rock excitement, it was so obvious no one noticed – he quickly and shrewdly cashed in on the miraculous success of 'Ride A White Swan', aiming squarely at those teenage girls. T. Rex became a group. Joining up were Steve Currie on bass (leaving in 1976, "I didn't make a fortune, but what price can you put on job satisfaction?") and Bill Legend on drums (leaving in 1973). Mickey Finn was to stay on congas, a weird hangover from those early days, a flamboyant decoration, seen (hard to miss) but rarely heard. (As well as retaining hand percussion, Bolan was for a long while to insert an awkward acoustic section into the rock set, as if he'd been conned by the critics into accepting that this was his 'serious' side.)

Bolan planned another cheap tour, rushed out the follow up whilst 'Swan' was still unsure whether to leave the charts, and had adapted totally. Whilst B-sides 'Woodland Rock' and 'King Of The Mountain Cometh' (14 minutes of music, Bolan boasted, remembering to offer vital value for money) showed what Bolan was doing before he realised the effect he was having, A-side 'Hot Love' was confident, cavorting rock'n'roll, heavier and fuller than 'Swan', a generous echo from a '50s past. It was carefully repetitive, featured a cunning, contagious chorus up to the fade, Bolan's lyrics were unsanctimoniously crafted in proper sensual and faintly immoral response to his new popularity. The imp played innocent and grinned wickedly. 'Hot Love' was a pop classic. In the words of NME, all hell broke loose.

If it was half-accident that Bolan discovered his fans, and was discovered by them, 'Hot Love' was all intent. It was brilliantly, not cruelly, contrived for those new fans unaware of the phrases and riffs it 'borrowed' from. 'Hot Love' was number one for six weeks.

Within months Bolan was Britain's number one rock'n'roll superstar. It began to get hysterical, it began to get statistical, and it was very historical. The average Bolan fan, it was decided, was 14, and it was the first hint that as rock grew up there was a generation gap developing within the culture.

The act of buying a T. Rex record, noted Michael Watts in a Melody Maker Special Souvenir, was a reaction against the tastes of older brothers and sisters. I didn't notice that at the time. It was just one long fidgety wait for the next single, a rush of feelings when Stuart Henry previewed the new one on his Saturday morning Radio One show. It was an escape outwards. At the time it just seemed like nothing else mattered. Elvis Presley established the first generation rock fan, The Beatles the second and Bolan the third – after that it just got in a mess.

IN 1971, Bolan and T. Rex toured twice, inspiring incidents that provoked mainstream and musical press to breathlessly recall the battlefield days of Beatlefan mania. "Rextasy" bawled the headlines, and print accepted its role of shaping legend. "If you are much over 20," reported Michael Watts, "the chances are you won't have brushed with T. Rextasy." Bolan had simply to trot on stage, in newly acquired, finely glamorous satin and glitter – dandyism coming into its own – and "the whole place exploded into a riot" (Weekly News.) The shows immediately shattered the distance Zeppelin and Deep Purple were setting up. They were raving, sensational fantasies. Musically, they were probably dire: Currie and Legend were a plain rhythm section, Finn heartily smashed congas but in floppy hat, tight jeans, long scarfs was merely a secondary visual attraction, and Bolan found it tough to concentrate on guitar as he posed and teased to bursting point and grinned inside out.

The peculiar ritual of mass adulation was at its most acute during a T. Rex show: a mystic devotion focussing on a small boy-girl-man in ballet shoes, sinfully shaking tumbling curls, defiantly incanting simplistic pop poetry over a stumbling rock backing that usually degenerated into an erratic directionless jam. A T. Rex show was supernatural, sham, frightening, fascinating.

A T.Rex show was surprise. There was no pretence from Bolan to mystery or originality: the fans made that bit up. On stage Bolan was necromancer and in a way necrophiliac. It was wish fulfilment; these days I doubt anyone could get away with what was mostly fraily maintained illusion. But Bolan inspired imitation and intense identification (I was a Mickey Finn lookalike). He was both fantasy lover and androgynous icon. "T. Rex shows tend to give the appearance of a giant puppet show," said Andrew Weiner, "Marc Bolan is the living doll." It was the extension to entertainment that occurs when sex first intrudes, when something seems yours for the first time; pop adulation is a feeble first forming of rebellion and individuality. Bolan exploited these emergent tendencies at a time when things were simple enough for an individual to carry the weight alone. He was the last great solo star. He did more good than harm.

'GET IT ON' followed 'Hot Love' to number one. It was his finest single song, indicating his great talent for permutation and synthesis, his immensely sensitive and selective collaging of Great Moments In Rock. He was ace historian. 'Get It On' was the best possible transformation of Chuck Berry's sense of sex and poetry. It gave him a top ten hit in America – he went after success in America with desperate zeal, but 'Get It On' was his only hit there. Bolan's new conspicuous pop poetry, where sound, rhythm, colour, shape and flow was more important than direct sense, was at its most incisive. The simple fact that Bolan had poetical fancies meant his teenybop language had a glaring and neat allusiveness. Somewhere in there was the loner, a friend. His explicatory pop words made his pre T. Rex lyrics seem gibberish. Cars replaced elfs, fittingly, as a prime source of Bolan symbolism.

Electric Warrior confirmed the transition was total and irrevocable. Title and cover were blatant symbols of the metamorphosis. Warrior could have been weaker and still backed up his singles success. As it was, although the music was beginning to matter less and less (when it finally began to matter again, Bolan had lost his grip) Bolan's creative peak certainly coincided with Rex-mania. Star ratings I've given to Bolan LPs are relative: within rock's general flow you can subtract a star from each rating. But Warrior was and is an enduring pop masterpiece outside the protective T. Rex-effect context. Its strengths – artistic and stylistic – made the jibes of sell-out especially stupid. Bolan called it a true beginning. It was the closest he got to his purer dreams. It is his most consistent, rewarding and resourceful LP: all his influences stunningly focussed into one place.

With Warrior Bolan achieved uniqueness. If he had developed away from it in a more open minded manner, he could have achieved the respect and acceptance of those he idolised. But even as Nick Logan's NME review was recognising the artfulness of Bolan's pop fusion on Electric Warrior, he sensed that Bolan was beginning to trust his own head too much. After Electric Warrior Bolan began to be influenced by his own work. All the songs from then on used the essence of Warrior as 75% of its blueprint. The magic systematically faded.

At the time he was becoming too self-conscious about the extra dimension that made music magical. His ability to talk was being given free reign by a grateful press: he started to relish his role with a slight ruthlessness. "I want a reaction from people even if they think I'm some kind of dreadful little freak," he told Petticoat magazine (sales of teeny magazines were tripling thanks to Bolan) "at least it's a reaction. I mean I am my own fantasy. I am the 'Cosmic Dancer' who dances his way out of the womb and into the tomb on my Electric Warrior LP. I'm not frightened to get up there and groove in front of six million people on Top Of The Pops. I'm a rock a roll poet man who is just bopping around on the side, I'm not about to jump into the Englebert Humperdinck bag but what I do is what I believe in...the people I've always admired most in this business like Jimi Hendrix and Eric Clapton had the ability to put something extra into their music which gave it an extra dimension. A kind of personal soulfulness that made them unique. Don't misunderstand me because I'm not trying to say that I'm a Clapton or a Hendrix...what I'm saying is that I'm getting through something of my own identity now and even respect for myself as a musician."

With Electric Warrior he achieved that 'extra dimension' without really worrying about it. He then strove to achieve it, and missed the march. Critics placed him alongside the Osmonds and Cassidy. Bolan placed himself alongside Dylan and Townsend. At best he was somewhere in between, but far too aware of the extremes. In a way he knew too much.

BOLAN'S SUCCESS was his destruction. The whole point of this period was that it was a revelation: by its very nature it couldn't be sustained. But throughout '71 and the first months of '72 Marc Bolan and T. Rex totally dominated the British music scene. Bolan had mastered the new market.

'Jeepster' was pulled off Warrior and was the fourth top 3 hit within a year: during 1971 T. Rex captured three and a half per cent of all the singles market. His contract with Fly came to an end. He was in the best possible position to negotiate a new contract: EMI, who had Bolan through Regal Zonophone, were anxious to re-sign him. With typical shrewdness, looking for independence, Bolan formed his own label T. Rex Wax Company, and leased it to EMI.

The first single on his own label 'Telegram Sam' hinted already that the magic was waning. "If 'Get It On' fed off Chuck Berry," wrote Andrew Weiner," 'Telegram Sam' fed off 'Get It On'." 'T. Sam' was still a superior pop song. During these months Bolan remained a considerable singles craftsman. With the follow up 'Metal Guru' layers of fantasy started to get tangled, Bolan started to slyly parody his role and the unreality. The ramifications of stardom and the pressures of business, things that never occurred in the dream, were starting to suffocate Bolan.

But for now he deftly rode the tidal wave. Weeks before the release of 'Metal Guru' Bolan arranged the first British T. Rex date for six months. (T. Rex actually played few dates during their prime success.) Two performances at Wembley Empire Pool on Saturday March 18th were the pinnacle of Bolan's success, the final confirmation of his startling fame and control.

It was the biggest pop music happening since the mid-'60s. The two concerts were riotous, religious experiences. NME, commercial instincts overriding cynical critical pride, went mad. 'Bolan's Triumph', announced the front page of its March 25th issue. 'The incredible concert that changed the face of British rock'. Love him or loathe him, NME said, the truth is plain to see. Bolan's time had come. Tony Tyler's review was headlined 'the day that pop came back', and accurately talked not of the music but of Bolan's 'mesmeric' power over his audience, the way his fans imitated him, screamed, surged, adored.

Ringo Starr developed a film out of the Wembley concerts – initially the film was to purely document the T. Rex phenomenon, but finally raw footage of the Wembley concert was set within fragments of spontaneous silliness and Bolan jamming with friends. Critics slammed it for its naivety, summing up the dichotomy between their personal expectations and, in this case, the unpretentious actuality. In his free-talking moments Bolan demanded serious attention: in his saner moments he understood the falseness and quickness of what he created. Born To Boogie is the most complete and natural film Bolan could have made at that time, when he was trapped by a complex of expectations.

"The film was made purely as a piece of rock'n'roll entertainment. I feel it documents the phenomenon that has been T.Rex through the past year...we made the film strictly for a teenage audience who demand youthful excitement of the cinema – as well as on television and in the theatre – I think the film does that – no more, no less."

Bolan made himself – which set him apart from David Cassidy – and then he lost control – an inevitability that placed him with Cassidy. Bolan's greatest importance was during 1971, '72 and '73. After that he was no longer 'needed'. He was discarded, left behind to deal with the success monster. It ruined him; became a new dead end. 'The Children Of The Revolution', 'Solid Gold Easy Action', 'Twentieth Century Boy', and 'The Groover' fed more and more on his own transparent mythology, but still retained enough of the magic to sustain the mania with minimal embarrassment. 'Truck On Tyke' was the end. Bolan claimed it was intentionally bad. He wanted to separate himself from the glam rock strain he had half-invented but now saw splitting at the seams. He needed to show that he too knew that the clamour had died away. 'Tyke' failed to reach the top 10.

REALITY OVERTOOK Bolan's fantasy. He never adapted conclusively. LPs following the Electric Warrior shadow Slider featured an entertainment that became progressively more shallow as time ripped away context. There was no re-direction : the riffs got weaker, the words more expected. He split from Tony Visconti in 1974, severing the last remaining link with an outside musical world. The sound of Bolan's songs noticeably deteriorated. T.Rex as they were known were really no more after '74.

Bolan was pure song and dance man. There was nothing of interest in him pumping out LP's of boogie songs – he kept applying different labels, 'intergalactic psychedelia' or 'teenage funk', but it was all the same – like there was something of interest in a new Iggy or Bowie LP. Bolan's songs were all mirages: there was little sign of any personal struggle. Bolan remained an enigma to all but his closest friends. He put on happy faces. He hid behind the clumsy facade of being 'poet'. He began to drink a lot. In early '75 he suffered a mild heart attack. Earlier, in '74, he had split from his wife June, who he had known since the '60s. "We just grew apart. We couldn't relate anymore, and I was away so much. I guess it's hard being the wife of a rock star. You tend to live in the shadow of someone else. I'm a lunatic anyway. All artists are lunatic."

1974 and 1975 were Bolan's darkest times. It had been up all the way until then. "I was nearly over the edge. I'd had eight nervous breakdowns and gone crazy about five times. You couldn't do what I did and remain sane. I was a near alcoholic for a while. I spent six months in the South of France just sitting in the sun all day and drinking brandy. I put on two stone. I was doing my share of drug taking. I filled up my nose. Drink and drugs are the crutches of the rock world. There's nothing more destructive than being a success in the entertainment industry. It's a killer, no two ways about it.

"At 14 or 15 you get your guitars and start dreaming your dream about becoming the biggest rock star in the world. On the way up people are only too pleased to give you advice, but nobody ever tells you what to do after you've made it. That's when the dream can turn into a nightmare. Once you've had that first big hit that's it; everybody knows you, failure would be an embarrassment so you've got to keep it up. That's how the pressure starts and the more famous and successful you get the greater the pressure gets."

Pride kept him going, and a fear of loss of attention. His self produced pop had spasmodic freak attraction, but was separated from where rock was developing. In 1973 he had met Gloria Jones, who was singing backing vocals on 'Truck On Tyke', and a year later they were living together. They had a baby in 1975 – Roland Seymour. This gave him a sense of responsibility, he said.

Towards the end of his life he was finding a certain stability. A tour with The Damned in '77 was the brightest thing he'd done in years. He began to showcase himself as the Godfather Of Punk, and he was not far wrong. The fundamentals of T.Rex were an important influence in shaping punk aesthetic, and the mood and colour of the music. Bolan's influence on new groups was/is indirect but noticeable. As elder statesman he publicised the Banshees, Boomtown Rats, Jam, Gen X, Damned through a zestful column he dictated for Record Mirror. Bolan did in the early '70s what punk did more beneficially in the mid-'70s. He was never labelled a BOF.

He briefly worked for London's Today programme, interviewing Stan Lee, John Mayall, Angie Bowie and Keith Moon. And finally there was the Marc show: perhaps the beginning of Bolan moving away from T.Rex and a pretence to musical relevance – as a sound and style in '77 T.Rex were perilously close to revivalism. He had been signed to do another series.

On 16th September he died in a car crash in London, just four weeks to the day after the death of Presley, two weeks before his 30th birthday.

There was nothing tidy about Bolan's death. It was no romantic conclusion, it created no instant glamour. It brutally cut him off when he was at last beginning to compromise, seek out attention in new ways. It left behind a jagged legend. A legend wrapped around three mad years.

A piece like this fails to communicate Marc Bolan's quintessential charm, enthusiasm, enchanting arrogance, acceptable conceit. I hope there isn't a Bolan Revival. There was a time when he was needed, but not now. Bolan struggled more than he didn't. But he knew that he was different and he knew he would succeed. He staked everything on that success. And when he was star, typically, he went way over the top. At the time his impact was largely misjudged. He was irrelevant soon afterwards. And these days the T.Rex effect is such a distant, alien thing. But Marc Bolan was the ideal pop idol. For three important years he maintained whatever it was that needed to be maintained with his own special genius. He was never properly thanked for what he did. So...

Thanks.

Piczo