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His worst yet”, one reader (cited here) wailed of T. “It sounded like someone on DRUGS.” The bittersweet joke here is that Bolan’s undervalued anthem, an anguished eulogy to the golden era of the UK’s glam-rock explosion, was less indicative of someone on drugs than pretty much every record and band that had graced (or cashed in on) the purple patch. Briefly, blazingly, everything went crazee. In the early 70s, pop and rock reacted to the extendedsolo, earnest-guitar-hero late 60s with a blast of energy and swagger every bit as iconoclastic as its less well-dressed offspring punk. Glam fired a jolt of adrenalin up music’s rear end, and it vomited forth peacocks. Some were visionaries with the talent to use it as a launch pad. Some were in the right place at the right time and took their shot brilliantly – Sweet, Slade. Others surfed the wave with luck and likeability. And then there was Bolan, whose star seemed to soar and slump in almost
