Zonk. This column is going to be about how things look in and from England. More to the point it’s going to be about how things look to me, because although life is pretty shitty, what with Ireland and no jobs and the endless hum of B-52’s, I feel fine. In fact I’m having more fun than at any time since Creedence’s Green River album. This week there’s Tumblin' Dice and I’ve stopped hating the Stones (I’m glad that’s over). And Starman, David Bowie’s new record and my first afterthree-bars-rush-out-and-buy single since Marvin Gaye’s Grapevine. And the Grin album hasn’t left my turntable yet. And I saw Mott the Hoople. And ... yeah.

It’s been a long time since I spent more time listening to music than talking about it, more time dancing than thinking. It’s been a long time since the British rock scene has been so busy, so buzzy, and without a doubt the^ sticky fingers that have been stirring things up belong to Marc Bolan. You may not appreciate T. Rex but over here they’re inescapable.

Even the national press have drunk up and taken notice. It’s not just that T.Rex have had five number ones on the trot (they haven’t but it’s part of the myth). It’s not just that record shops have been inundated with incredibly awful old Tyrannosaurus Rex records and newspaper shops with even worse T. Rex Spectacular Comics. It’s not even that theatre seats haven’t been so sticky since the dirty old days of the Stones. What has moved Britain’s aging rock commentators is the sight of Ringo Starr filming T. Rex’s concerts. ‘Cos while all those little girls were abandoning themselves for Marc no-one even flickered at Ringo. And you know what that means. EUREKA !!! WE’VE FOUND THE NEW BEATLES ! !J Ringo can’t be wrong and what else is he doing but hand-blessing his successors?

On the Beatles’ tours there used to be a compere whose job was to link the acts, tell a few jokes, keep people merry. From the audience’s point of view his role was to be hated. If we couldn’t be getting off on the music we’d get off on the compere, ruin his jokes, yell insults, throw things. He stood for every show biz thing the Beatles had destroyed and we wanted to complete the destruction. When I went to see T. Rex instead of a balding comedian they had a long-haired London d-j, spinning records. He was equally ignored, booed, insulted. He played Imagine incessantly and who, on a Monday night in Bradford, wanted to imagine no possessions when they had come to see Marc Bolan in his silvergreen sequined suit? The d-j stood for every progressive thing T. Rex had destroyed and the audience smashed him.

When T. Rex reached the stage the feeling was again like on those old tours: not so much ecstasy or excitement as a comfortable glow of belonging. For an outsider like me it was disturbing, a curious session of mutual peach-tickling, dirty and sweet, while Marc Bolan shouted “Am I sexy?” and I thought no and all around the yes was screamed back.

T. Rex get straight to the quick of their audience with no messing. They make two identifications. There’s the usual old/young bit. Marc Bolan simpering through his glittering eye-lids and gold-flecked hair on Top of the Pops is guaranteed to make not only parents but also big brothers and sisters sick. There hasn’t been such violent parental reaction since Jimi Hendrix played “Hey Joe” with his guitar between his legs. But even better, by publicly destroying Tyrannosaurus Rex and confirming that all along the kids were all right, Marc Bolan has spat in the eye of the horrible English tradition of meaningfulness and poetics and empty technical skill. He’s given a voice, as vulgar and tasteless as necessary > to a huge dispossessed rock audience and as a result T. Rex have been as reviled as Grand Funk.

Twelve year-old Marc was a mod face. It’s not surprising he knows how to grab kids today, as the skinheads disintegrate into Crombie boys and suedeheads, equally clothes and dance mad. The difference between T. Rex and Grand Funk is the difference between their audiences.

Some kids have never stopped dancing. While we elders shuffle off to the Universities to sit and stare at some supergroup the kids are in the clubs and discos dancing, strutting, parading their style. T. Rex are masters of radio music but they’re even greater masters of disco music. It’s not just a question of being great to dance to - which they are - it’s also a matter of being great to listen to while dancing. Cast your minds back to high school hops: the musip has to have the right tone be fresh and commanding. Marc Bolan is not a particularly good singer or guitarist but he always sounds just right and his records have lots of things going on. It takes a while to hear them all so when you do it’s like a private discovery. I listen to T. Rex records just waiting for my bit - the strange squeaks on The Motivator, the “meanwhile I’m still thinking’* quote at the end of Get It On.

If you get your kicks from seconal and decibels keep off T. Rex. If you can still get off on dancing and dressing then they’re the tops. There’s nothing else can make me feel so proud on a Friday night:

I’m the king of the highway I’m the queen of the hop You should see me at the Governor’s ball Doing the rip-off bop I’m a social person ....

Anyway, that’s why I’m feeling good at the moment - T. Rex have brought the swagger back to British rock. But that’s not the end of the story. We don’t spend all the time dancing, though you may think so -1 just read this:

Because they are British, and don't have to deal with America and all that that implies, they can get down to other concerns that they hold in common with their audience: entertainment, fucking, partying, nostalgia, and finally, the idea of fun itself

(Dave Marsh on the Faces)

Right on Dave! We British boys sho’ ntxff know how to have ourselves a little fun. We just sit in the rain all day singin’ and fuckin’. We may be irresponsible but we sure got rhythm.

Did you mean that? You put your finger on the problem of British rock -it’s very rarely stopped to deal with Britain and all that that implies. So I resent the suggestion that the Faces ought to stop having simple British fun and start dealing with America. Why the hell shouldn’t they start dealing with Britain? We have problems too - we don’t spend all our time swinging. You’ve got Dylan and Robertson and Sly and Lou Reed just for a start and we want to hang on to Rod Stewart ‘cos you fuckers have stolen everyone else. Lennon is now American. Jagger and Richard haven't written about us since Beggar's Banquet. Pete Townshend not properly since My Generation (still the best English rock album ever). Van Morrison left us long ago and Ray Davies has gone whimsical. The history of our rock culture is of repeated eruptions of energy that everyone then blows across the atlantic. The last grand eruption was in 1967: we’ve been dissipating that energy ever since.

I don’t think T. Rex are the group to deal with Britain — away from their dancing community they’re rather silly. But thanks to them there has been a new surge of teenage energy, a rejection of the dead end of progressivism, a refueling of fun. If we leave it there (as Dave Marsh seems to think we should) then it’s nice but nothing more. But if T. Rex’s magic rubs off on some of the thoughtful musicians around (I rate Marc Bolan as an idiot) and if they start to deal with our life outside the discos then maybe this time British rock will reach somewhere besides Shea Stadium. I think, with people like Budgie and Edgar Broughton and David Bowie and Roxie Music, we’re beginning to get some British music and I’ll let you know. Meanwhile - keep your ears open and your hands off.