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!
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