Marc Bolan & T. Rex

He was a passenger in a purple Mini 1275GT (registration FOX 661L) driven by Gloria Jones as they headed home from Mortons drinking club and restaurant in Berkeley Square. Jones lost control of the car: it struck a steel reinforced chain link fence post and came to rest against a sycamore tree after failing to negotiate a small humpback bridge near Gipsy Lane on Queens Ride, Barnes, South West London. Neither occupant was wearing a seat belt. Wikipedia.

 

It's fashionable to talk of the 27 club, a roll call of rock heroes whose lives were cut tragically and coincidentally short at that age. The list includes some big names and there are many more whose lived on the edge and managed only a year or two more. Marc Bolan's star shone brilliantly but briefly until 1977 when he was the passenger in that car, aged 29.

 

'Metal Guru' by T.Rex was the first single I bought. That was in 1972, already past his heyday. The song went to number one in the charts and kept Elton John's famous 'Rocket Man' off the top spot. It's typical of Marc Bolan's output after he abandoned his acoustic guitar, his rug and joss sticks in favour of a Gibson Les Paul and Marshall stack. Many say those muscular riffs and simple, repetitive lyrics, combined with feather boas, high-waisted flares and a huge head of black curls did as much to usher in the dawn of Glam Rock as Bowie's Ziggy.

 

Frankly, listening to his material these days, I find the two significant T Rex albums are full of the same song rewritten over and over again. That was his ultimate downfall. He openly claimed that his artistic endeavours had little to do with art. His sole aim was to achieve fame and adulation. That he did on a scale only previously seen with the Beatles. But a one-trick pony get's stale and teen girls grow up.

Marc Bolan's star waned while his drink and drugs consumption (and apparently an addiction to fast food) rose.

 

By 1977 his hour was long past; his fans had drifted away and he resembled a bloated caricature of his former waif-like self. However he had lost none of his self-belief, had assembled a new band and was in the process of hitching his cart to the new punk train. He had lost fifty pounds, and by all accounts was fitter and healthier than ever when fate intervened.

 

Looking back, I think he took as much from the music scene as he bequeathed to it. His legacy is good but not magnificent; his mark a bright flash rather than an all-illuminating dawn. With the benefit of forty years' hindsight the posturing, image and attitude look contrived but, it takes you back doesn't it!

I

I created fire
I paddled the Amazon

I wrestled tigers
I built the Pyramids

I sailed the seas
I fought at Waterloo

I abolished slavery
I painted Mona Lisa

I tied the noose
I pulled the trigger

I wrote the book
I sang the song

I was Jack the Ripper
I killed Kennedy

I climbed Everest
I walked on the Moon

I lived, I laughed, I loved, I died

***

I will see you again, dear
I will return

I will colonise Mars
I will cure disease
I will build a time machine
We will live forever

love is life

love sounds like morning birdsong
love looks sunset pink
love feels as smooth as satin
love smells of summer roses
love tastes of strawberries and cream

love sounds breathless and urgent
love looks flushed and swollen
love feels hot and wet
love smells damp and sweaty
love tastes sharp and salty

love is fragile and ephemeral
love is elemental and immortal

check your cheeks

I pride myself on presenting the best of me. That's not to say I spend hours in front of a mirror primping and plucking; I don't. But I take care over my appearance. However, someone might point to a time when I once let my standards slip.

Picture the scene; Susan and I are sitting at my table, replete after dining on a gorgeous curry, a dish we had prepared and cooked ourselves. We are relaxing, chatting about the ingredients, the hot spices, the wonderful colours, looking forward to a cosy evening on the sofa with a good movie. Our eyes meet and we exchange happy smiles of contentment.

But something's wrong. Susan is frowning. In an effort to recapture the mood I widen my smile, why I'm practically beaming. But this doesn't have the desired effect. Susan rocks back in her chair, laughing in little hitching gasps. "What's up," I query, a degree of confusion creeping over me, and indeed a little disappointment.

"Look in the mirror," cries Suzie. "Look in the darn mirror, Paul!"

Uncertainly I rise from the table and move to the bathroom. The mirror returns my look of bewilderment, but wait, there's something more. My mouth is surrounded by the sumptuous red juices of our wonderful curry! Indian spices are strong in colour, in flavour and it seems impervious to the discreet dabbings of a napkin. In horror, I run the hot tap and soak a facecloth. I lather a bar of soap and scrub and scour with gusto. At last the curry stains transfer from my face to the cloth.

I creep back to the dining table and crack a sheepish grin. "Is that better?" I enquire.

"Oh honey, the look on your face...   and the curry!" And once more Suzie dissolves in fits of hysterics.

***

Footnote: If you see us exchange a beaming smile, I mean a big, fat, clownish smile, you might guess we are secretly reliving that moment.

fire in the sky 2

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 



"… a narrow beam of light which retracted suddenly into the craft. Air Traffic Controllers and Military declined to comment, however local law enforcement say they are keeping an open mind. Now, in other news…"

 

Alan propped himself on one elbow and reached out to silence the radio. He fell back and stared at the ceiling. Waves of nausea pulsed in him and he groaned. Damned flu, he thought, that’s all I need. He nudged his sweat-soaked pillow onto the floor and remembered it was a weekday. I’m getting up to phone in sick soon, he decided.

 

Mid-morning street sounds came as if squeezed through a tube. Distant traffic and far off shouts lowered to a whisper. Sunlight filtered through the blinds. Fragments of a dream floated in his mind. Cold hands pressing him flat on a steel table… shrill voices screeching in his head… a ring of grey faces watching him… eyes, black and lifeless... the persistent whine of drilling… an explosion in the nape of his neck.

 

Hours later the sun had advanced and a chill breeze stirred the air. "Alan, pick up if you’re there… Alan…?" The answer-phone bleeped and fell silent. Sheba appeared at the door, tail aloft. She sprang onto the bed and crept slowly over the crumpled sheets. After sniffing a small bloodstain she turned two circles and settled down to wait.

 

……………………………

 

"I need to explain. You-have-to-lis-ten," he was thumping the desk with his fist to emphasise each syllable. The headache had grown worse after dark and the lump in his neck burned like fire. The police officer didn’t answer but turned and called a colleague, “Jim, here a minute will you?”

 

Alan fingered his neck and a new image crashed into his head. The greys stretched a thin latex sheet over him and attached the corners beneath the table. A soft vibration and hum began as a suffocating vacuum was introduced. His screams were stifled under hot shrink-wrap.

 

Jim appeared at the desk and eyed him slowly from head to toe. "First things first sir, where are your clothes?"

 

……………………………

 

Two hundred and fifty miles above in the upper atmosphere hung a vast flying V. Inside six grey beings were seated in a circle studying a 3D holographic presentation which hovered at their centre. DNA analysis, brainwaves and chemical structure were laid out with mathematical clarity for inspection. Each chart and report bore the name "Alan Henderson."

the last gas station on earth

The Pontiac lurched over a pothole and Frank watched the fuel gauge lift then settle back on 'Empty'. "Fuck it," he breathed and thumped the steering wheel hard. They had passed a Texaco ten miles back and were now running on vapour.

"Look," cried Paula, "Gas ahead!" She launched her finger toward a run-down gas station and general store in the distance. Frank pulled onto the cracked cement beside an ancient rusty pump. Is this gas or paraffin, he wondered. His gaze took in the peeling paint, the ice machine and an ages-old Coca Cola sign hanging by one screw. "Stay here Paula." He shut the car door slowly and stepped past a deck chair, faded and stained with age. Through the window past the hand-written 'Open' sign he could make out an old timer, a wad of chewing tobacco in his cheek.

A bell clanged dolefully as he pushed the door and somewhere out back a dog began barking, gruffly and ominously. The skeletal figure waved a thin hand and in a barely intelligible voice rattled, "If it's gas you want, go through and talk to Billy." A fly buzzed in Frank's ear and he slapped it away as he nodded, "Thanks."

Billy and three friends were sitting around a card table, grinning with menace. Behind them through a grime baked window, a rotting Plymouth Fury was visible in the back yard, sitting up on bricks. A huge German Shepherd sat in its shade, tongue out, panting. Frank thought of Paula sitting in the Pontiac holding the battery powered fan to her pretty face.

Suddenly Billy shrieked, "It's party time!" His pals stood up, chair legs scraping on the bare wood floor. Frank turned and saw his way blocked by the muzzle of a 12-bore shot gun in the hands of the old timer. As his eyes darted frantically for another exit he heard Paula shouting. The shout became a siren winding up to full scream. Then silence.

"You fucking bastards! What have you done?" The old-timer pushed the gun barrel closer and touched his temple. Frank screwed his eyes shut and a sharp metallic click rang out. He opened his eyes to see Paula sitting beside him in the passenger seat of the Pontiac, flicking her cigarette lighter and smiling. "Wake up hon', rest over. We need to drive on and get that gas now or we ain't never gonna make it to Huntsville!"

(Inspired by a 2005 stop at a remote gas station in Alabama)

Photography in 2015

... 'cloudy - sunny - sun on beach' - the endearing exposure controls of plastic 'point and shoots' in my youth. Those days are long gone. Now you scroll through icons to choose from numerous pre-set exposures. I learned the principles of photography in my early teens; the relationship between shutter speed and aperture, and how in combination with focal length and film speed, their effects on exposure could be both subtle and striking. We are now in an age where electronics can manage all or as much of our photos as we like but the latest generation of cameras still allow the freedom and control familiar to traditionalists.

 

Recently I took apart my six year old Panasonic, confident that I could solve a problem with dust on the sensor. However things were so delicate in there that it all went pear-shaped. No one said the infra-red filter was as fragile as fine porcelain. Damn. I can't be without the versatility of a long-zoom compact. I have a Canon digital SLR but it's too big for convenience. After research and due diligence I settled on the Sony HX50V as a replacement.

 

Well, have things changed much in just a few years? Hell, yes! Weight and size-wise the Sony is on the outer edges of 'compact', but there is an incredible amount to pack in. This is nothing short of a mini computer which can take photos. Aside from the usual array of shooting modes, full auto, aperture priority, shutter priority etc there are some seriously smart innovations, notably the zoom.

 

This is billed as 30x optical and 60x digital but even that is understating things. Depending on your shooting resolution the zoom can extend to a barely credible 240x - sitting on my couch I could get one word on the spine of a CD fifteen feet away to fill the LCD screen. Not much is beyond range now. Naturally all images are geo-tagged with GPS data retrieved from crazy satellites orbiting my apartment.

 

Mounting the Sony on my tripod I will be able to focus on a single petal of the hummingbird feeder - and what's more I can control exposure remotely using a smart phone. In my case I downloaded the App to my iPod Touch. If desired, I can keep an eye on my subject, control zoom, then release the shutter (shake-free on potentially long zoom and slow shutter) from any point within Wi-Fi range.

 

When it's time to upload an SD card full of imagery there is no need to fish out that microscopic card only to have it snatched away in the wind; no need to select and untangle the correct cord. Now a quick skim through the camera's menu, a push of a button and images transfer wirelessly to my laptop using my familiar Photoshop importer.

 

But the 'selfie' wink or smile -activated feature? The thought makes me wince like I'm sucking a lemon!