Ive spent the past week and a half obsessing over Marc Bolan - poring over YouTube and consuming every snippet of video, every documentary, every newsreel about the fateful crash.
At first it seemed a weird renaissance - "Dear, I've fallen in love with T.Rex all over again!"
Repeated playings of "Raw Ramp" seemed novel at first.
But it's been a week. A hell of a week.
Why Marc? Why now?
Marc Bolan was the sole reason for my existence between the ages of, say, 15 and 17.
Those of us who truly enjoy the aural pleasures experience a journey, and Marc was a big part of mine. Bolan, like the Ramones, gave me the confidence to just be me, and made it evident that being "different" was more than just okay, it was desirable; a thing of beauty and pride.
But that was over 20 years ago, and while I have always carried a fond appreciation for Marc and his music with me over the years. Sure, I had, over time, moved on to other things, other people and places in my life. Old goals were replaced with new ones, which, once attained, were replaced with even more. Looking back on it now, a lot of those goals were never even my own - they were more or less obstacles placed before me that I felt challenged to overcome. And so it went; a life, a career, a marriage - all presented to me and chosen out of assumed desire, and perhaps a little cowardice.
Funnily enough, I pride myself on all that I have accomplished in the face of perceived adversity.
Left home too young.
Sometimes used food stamps to eat.
Sold drugs to pay for school.
Started at the company answering the phone.
All of these things can be ticked off on my imaginary report card and quoted as the battles I won in order to be where I am today.
Strangely, I recite them all with pride, perhaps a little too enthusiastically so that those who know me will also be fooled into beleiving of the passion of my convictions.
I fought so hard for these things.
Didn't I?
Or did I choose the easy way? Did I choose only to fight for the things that were placed in front of me - dangled like a proverbial carrot - yet always well within arm's reach? Did I ever really go after what I truly wanted? Did I ever have the balls to acknkowledge that "good" isn't good enough?
No, I didnt.
The hard way would have been walking away. Choosing not to pursue a career that was clearly mapped out for me - the only thing I ever did to earn it was bust my ass for close to 10 years "proving" myself to other people. Stupidly, I felt a small victory every time I was rewarded with a morsel of praise and small bump in salary. Christ, I should have mourned each promotion for the hollow victory it was, and the vauable years blindly given to acheive it. How did I not see that every progression moved me further away from where I want to be as a person?
I just want to do something that makes me happy and has purpose and meaning. I want to do something that changes the world for one person, even if that one person is me.
But here I am, a mere two weeks away from my 36th birthday; my professional and personal lives are nothing short of a disaster, and I somehow have a real need to connect with something other than the reality of where I am now.
Am I really so fucking cliched that I am turning to the music of my youth in a vain attempt to recapture it somehow?
God, I had hoped I was more complicated than that.
I always thought that my love of music, specifically the foundations of my collection stemmed from a sort of similarity between myself and the music I loved. I always thought that it mattered so much to me because each record was like a little vinyl snapshot of a fragment of my person - captured far more elegantly and eloquently than I ever could have done - and spewn back out at me in a way that allowed me to pick and choose who I wanted to be that week, that day, that hour or even that moment.
A robust collection made it possible to sort of take all the messy pieces of myself and spread them across the floor to be enjoyed at my discretion. Rather than having to deal with all of myself at any given time, I could use Bolan or Bowie (for example) to channel the greatness I was sure lurked inside of me somewhere and broadcast it to the world.
I guess I feel a little disappointed in myself because I sought out some very special artists, and used them to change my life and then I did absolutely nothing with it. At the end of the day, I feel like a collector of books who covets first editions and then sells them on eBay.
I have devalued the very thing that I love through my inability to make it relevant to my life.
Never mind the pretentious dust sleeves.
I chose the path of least resistance.
Me, of all people.
Bolan changed my life for the better 15 years after he died.
His entire contribution to music was less than a decade.
Yet my eyes well up with tears when I see the homeless, and I do nothing about it.
In life and in work, I've continuously chosen the pre-packaged option placed before me rather than done the work and taken the chances and had the balls to love who I love, and be who I am and do what I want to do.
And I have made all of these choices out of fear.
Fear of failure, fear of abandonment, fear of letting go of who I want others to think I am, and fear of being who I really am. Maybe I thought that acting out the charade would be a good diversion from the truth; certainly no one ever expected me to be so "successful" on their terms, and maybe I thought it would be punk rock of me to become something I never thought I could be. Maybe something in me felt the need to be "normal' in order to be different. Maybe I needed to go through the stages of it all in order to know what I don't want. Whatever the reason, whatever the logic, I am here in it now and wondering how the hell it happened to me.
The good news is that the answers are out there, and probably not contained in anything known as "The Secret" - I just have to start looking again for that source of inspiration, and suspect it's buried in a stack of vinyl somewhere in the basement. And there may be a few beers involved.
Saturday, December 29, 2007
Saturday, December 22, 2007
What you Didn't Know About Marc Bolan (Damn You, Britain!)
British people, although I don't really know many, seem as a collective to be a very serious lot. By serious, I mean, they always have to take things to the extreme. They don't just have odd teeth, they have the kind of teeth that are the punchline to an evolutionary joke.
They don't simply enjoy going for a drink with friends; they have an entire culture centred around this very act and a have spawned a distinct, albeit bland, cuisine to accomany it.
Among their more admirable qualities is their pride of ownership when it comes to music. Sure, the Eagles may be the biggest selling band in US history - and managed to somehow accomplish this with only one album - but the Britons have a way of always being better at embracing thier own popular culture. Case in point: People are not spending thousands on eBay for "Eaglemania" memorabilia.
Even when it comes to punk rock - arguably an American art form - the Brits, again , did it better; manufacturing their own one record wonder - the Sex Pistols. Sure, Elvis changed the world - but Sid fucking killed fucking Nancy with a fucking hunting knife in New York fucking City. Gutted her like a fish.
You see where this is headed....
T. Rextasy was a little blip on the British cultural map shorlty after I was born. I didnt know (or care to know) who T.Rex was until I was around 14 years old. I stumbled across a movie called "Alice Doesnt Live Here Anymore" on a local television station and watched it for no real reason, except, perhaps, that it was on and I couldn't be bothered the change the channel. Legend has in that the movie was the "inspiration" for the mid 80's sitcom hit "Alice" but that's probably (mostly) irrelevant.
Near the end of the movie was a scene where Troubled Stepson flees to his room and plays some defiantly loud rock music on his hi-fi - the universal sign for "Fuck you!'
Door opens: Enter Stepfather who snatches LP from the hi fi and flings it across the room. The LP hits the wall and falls in fragments on the shag carpeting.
Troubed Stepson turns around to face Stepfather. A slow rage spreads across his face
Anger. Accusation. Hurt. The truth blurted in rage. A dysfunctional family moment revealed. Troubled Stepson sobs and falls into Stepfather's arms.
Unity at last.
Fade to black.
Anyways, in the 4.5 seconds that the kid actually got to listen to his record before being rudely interrupted, there was this amazing sound. Just a glimmer, really, of something magnificent.
I watched the rest of the movie, and sat right in front of the tv as the credits rolled; finally the soundtrack credits rolled and there it was, the name of the band.
The next day I took the bus to the record store (except I listened to tapes then, after all, I had a Sports Walkman!) and bought "T.Rextasy." The song I heard the day before turned out to be "Jeepster" and there began and long and torrid love affair with the brilliance of Marc Bolan.
Bolan was an odd sex symbol (especially for me as he was long dead by the time I discovered him at the ripe old age of 15) but listening to his music it was really easy to "get" why he was such a massive star, and how he was able to drastically alter the face of popular cullture and define a genre.
Firstly, he was attractive - but not too attractive. He wasn't threateningly attractive, so in that respect, men werent violently opposed to the idea of him. You think I am kidding? Ask any guy in 1987 what he thought of Bret Michaels of Poison and he would say "The guy's a fag!" - but the actual problem with Bret (as far as men were concerned) is that he was just too good looking. Those of you who have seen the VH1 Behind the Music episode on Poison know that Bret is a lot of things, but he is definitely not a fag. Think of it from an evolutionary standpoint and you will understand why men want to throw (circa 1987) Bret Michaels from the cave. More Bret = less pussy.
But I digress....
Marc Bolan was a likeable chap - brilliant to be sure, but the thing about Marc was he oozed this coy sexuality and wrapped it in a sort of mystical elfish package. For example, if Marc stole your girfriend it would be an accident - and altogether her fault.
His was a sneaky, sexy dirtiness - not a blatant cum in your face and tell all his friends about it over a round of Guinness guy. Men probably felt a little sorry for him -being a wuss and all - and women liked him because he looked the type to have a big plush bed with lots of pillows and enjoyed a good cuddle.
"Just like a car, you're pleasing to behold. Ill call you 'Jaguar' if I may be so bold..."
Gems like this were a little dirty and a little nerdy. Bolan's penchant for making disposable music is the very thing that made it last. In order to be short and sweet it had to be succinct, and from the reduction came pure brilliance. This very line has fuelled my fascination with womens bodies and automobiles (together and separately) for the past two decades.
Bolan wasn't Bowie, to be sure. But it was Bolan who introduced "glitter" to rock. and wherease Bowie is a once in a lifetime artist, Bolan was the best of the moment artist who changed a hell of a lot in the very short time that he made music.
I've always fancied mysef a bit of a Bolan officionado, but (thanks to YouTube) must admit there is a heck of a lot that I didn't know about the man. For example, I did not know that the kiddie show "Sigmund the Sea Monster" was inspired by the heat-seeking mammal inhabiting Marc's trousers.
T.Rextasy, indeed!
They don't simply enjoy going for a drink with friends; they have an entire culture centred around this very act and a have spawned a distinct, albeit bland, cuisine to accomany it.
Among their more admirable qualities is their pride of ownership when it comes to music. Sure, the Eagles may be the biggest selling band in US history - and managed to somehow accomplish this with only one album - but the Britons have a way of always being better at embracing thier own popular culture. Case in point: People are not spending thousands on eBay for "Eaglemania" memorabilia.
Even when it comes to punk rock - arguably an American art form - the Brits, again , did it better; manufacturing their own one record wonder - the Sex Pistols. Sure, Elvis changed the world - but Sid fucking killed fucking Nancy with a fucking hunting knife in New York fucking City. Gutted her like a fish.
You see where this is headed....
T. Rextasy was a little blip on the British cultural map shorlty after I was born. I didnt know (or care to know) who T.Rex was until I was around 14 years old. I stumbled across a movie called "Alice Doesnt Live Here Anymore" on a local television station and watched it for no real reason, except, perhaps, that it was on and I couldn't be bothered the change the channel. Legend has in that the movie was the "inspiration" for the mid 80's sitcom hit "Alice" but that's probably (mostly) irrelevant.
Near the end of the movie was a scene where Troubled Stepson flees to his room and plays some defiantly loud rock music on his hi-fi - the universal sign for "Fuck you!'
Door opens: Enter Stepfather who snatches LP from the hi fi and flings it across the room. The LP hits the wall and falls in fragments on the shag carpeting.
Troubed Stepson turns around to face Stepfather. A slow rage spreads across his face
Anger. Accusation. Hurt. The truth blurted in rage. A dysfunctional family moment revealed. Troubled Stepson sobs and falls into Stepfather's arms.
Unity at last.
Fade to black.
Anyways, in the 4.5 seconds that the kid actually got to listen to his record before being rudely interrupted, there was this amazing sound. Just a glimmer, really, of something magnificent.
I watched the rest of the movie, and sat right in front of the tv as the credits rolled; finally the soundtrack credits rolled and there it was, the name of the band.
The next day I took the bus to the record store (except I listened to tapes then, after all, I had a Sports Walkman!) and bought "T.Rextasy." The song I heard the day before turned out to be "Jeepster" and there began and long and torrid love affair with the brilliance of Marc Bolan.
Bolan was an odd sex symbol (especially for me as he was long dead by the time I discovered him at the ripe old age of 15) but listening to his music it was really easy to "get" why he was such a massive star, and how he was able to drastically alter the face of popular cullture and define a genre.
Firstly, he was attractive - but not too attractive. He wasn't threateningly attractive, so in that respect, men werent violently opposed to the idea of him. You think I am kidding? Ask any guy in 1987 what he thought of Bret Michaels of Poison and he would say "The guy's a fag!" - but the actual problem with Bret (as far as men were concerned) is that he was just too good looking. Those of you who have seen the VH1 Behind the Music episode on Poison know that Bret is a lot of things, but he is definitely not a fag. Think of it from an evolutionary standpoint and you will understand why men want to throw (circa 1987) Bret Michaels from the cave. More Bret = less pussy.
But I digress....
Marc Bolan was a likeable chap - brilliant to be sure, but the thing about Marc was he oozed this coy sexuality and wrapped it in a sort of mystical elfish package. For example, if Marc stole your girfriend it would be an accident - and altogether her fault.
His was a sneaky, sexy dirtiness - not a blatant cum in your face and tell all his friends about it over a round of Guinness guy. Men probably felt a little sorry for him -being a wuss and all - and women liked him because he looked the type to have a big plush bed with lots of pillows and enjoyed a good cuddle.
"Just like a car, you're pleasing to behold. Ill call you 'Jaguar' if I may be so bold..."
Gems like this were a little dirty and a little nerdy. Bolan's penchant for making disposable music is the very thing that made it last. In order to be short and sweet it had to be succinct, and from the reduction came pure brilliance. This very line has fuelled my fascination with womens bodies and automobiles (together and separately) for the past two decades.
Bolan wasn't Bowie, to be sure. But it was Bolan who introduced "glitter" to rock. and wherease Bowie is a once in a lifetime artist, Bolan was the best of the moment artist who changed a hell of a lot in the very short time that he made music.
I've always fancied mysef a bit of a Bolan officionado, but (thanks to YouTube) must admit there is a heck of a lot that I didn't know about the man. For example, I did not know that the kiddie show "Sigmund the Sea Monster" was inspired by the heat-seeking mammal inhabiting Marc's trousers.
T.Rextasy, indeed!
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