When Marc Bolan screams on "Left Hand Luke and the Beggar Boys", the closing song on 1973's Tanx, he nearly maxes out his mic's capacity to filter sound. Unlike on Electric Warrior and The Slider, he doesn't punctuate these songs with his constant stream of grunts and yeahs and uh-ahs, so on "Left Hand Luke" he sounds as if he's venting it all in one short, supreme outburst. And that's not even the end of the song, which continues for nearly four more minutes as Bolan and his back-up singers milk that gospel refrain for maximum rock grandiosity and project to the ballrooms on Mars.
Definitely triumphant, that yelp is also a little unsettling. It sounds drunkenly desperate, perhaps predicting the artistic and commercial dry spell that would follow Tanx for almost four years, nearly through the end of Bolan's life. This stage of the T. Rex story-- which is chronicled by Rhino's set of eight double-disc reissues, of which these four are the second batch-- has a notorious downward trajectory, as if there was no other place to go after the dizzy heights of what is now persistently referred to as T. Rexstacy, that period during the 70s when Bolan seemed to personify every ideal of rock superstardom in England.
Because he worked with the same basic elements in all his songs-- glam-psychedelic lyrics, glittery 50s rhythms, momentous riffs, midtempo grooves-- it's pretty obvious when Bolan isn't on, although it's often hard to pinpoint the problems. The best term I've been able to come up with is "mojo," which could be broken further down into a formula of fame, drugs, and ego. Bolan's mojo was definitely working during the Tanx period-- look no further than the singles that preceded the album, which are collected as bonus tracks in this reissue. "Children of the Revolution" segues effortlessly from The Slider's cocksure stride into one of Bolan's biggest choruses, and "20th Century Boy" is a wallop of glam-punk that remains one of the best singles of the decade.
Even so, Tanx proved a difficult album: Bolan was sparring with the other members of T. Rex, his popularity was dwindling, and his narcotic intake was rampant. Furthermore, he wrote all the material essentially in the studio, which wasn't his usual method. As a result, Tanx has a rushed feel, which isn't necessarily a bad thing: "Mister Mister" and "Country Honey" derive their jittery jump from their impromptu momentum, and the relatively mellow "Electric Slim and the Factory Hen" sounds offhandedly arty, its guitar coda swirling into the atmosphere.
That song suggests one possible and intriguing direction in which Bolan might have gone with subsequent albums, but instead of subtle and subdued, he opted for the opposite extreme-- blunt American-style funk. 1974's Zinc Alloy was a bomb, and the following year Bolan's Zip Gun was the fallout. A purposeful return to the looser sound of Electric Warrior, Gun fires blanks. For all its directness, the album is mostly perfunctory, working some of the same sounds and ideas, but the results lack movement and liveliness; Bolan's mojo definitely wasn't working. Worse, he really doesn't sound invested in these songs. "Precious Star" even borrows its melody from Tommy James and the Shondells' "Hanky Panky", and "Token of My Love" cribs flagrantly from "Sea of Love". The grating "Think Zinc" is little more than a billboard from Bolan's previous album. Rougher and rawer, the alternate takes on the second disc vastly improve on these songs, bringing out a charmingly stiff boogie piano on "Precious Star" and the popping bass line on "Light of Love".
If Zinc Alloy and Zip Gun are Bolan's creative nadir and reportedly the peak of his drug use, then 1976's Futuristic Dragon has enough winning moments to suggest an upturn (confirmed by his underrated final album, Dandy in the Underworld, in 1977). Ostensibly some sort of concept album on par with Ziggy Stardust, Dragon begins with a goofy-ass introduction/invocation that actually uses the word raiment unironically, and the instrumental "Theme for a Dragon" revives the concept briefly, albeit in title alone. With its canned crowd roar and anthemic riff, the song sounds like Bolan's failed attempt to write his own "Rock and Roll Part 2". Ultimately-- and thank god-- the dragon is nothing more than a red herring. Bolan is much more interested in jamming on songs like "All Alone", "New York City", and especially "Calling All Destroyers", and the songs' open-ended grooves rejuvenate the band, even on the bonus-disc alternate takes. Futuristic Dragon blows smoke on its second half, with songs like "Sensation Boulevard" and the schlock-disco "Ride My Wheels" derailing the first half's chugging momentum. Nevertheless, the album wins your sympathies: It's good enough to make you wish it were better.
Rhino's reissues set concludes with Work in Progress, a two-disk collection of home recordings and studio outtakes. Unlike the bonus tracks on the album disks, these 55 songs, which span Bolan's post-Warrior career, were never released in any form (although "Bolan's Zip Gun" would lose its vocals to become "Theme for a Dragon"). The first disk contains solo performances, mostly Bolan alone strumming his guitar and often adlibbing lyrics; the second and better disk contains studio tracks featuring a full band and back-up singers. Some of the songs are just Bolan screwing around with a riff or a phrase ("Reelin' & A-wheelin' & A-boppin' & A-Bolan" is nothing but the title repeated over and over, which is more than enough), but most of these tracks are finished songs that reveal a voracious artist enamored with African American music, from blues ("Alligator Man") and gospel ("Sky Church Music") to r&b; ("Metropolis Incarnate") and funk ("Lock into Your Love"), while nodding to his former folksiness ("Is It True?"). The overall tone is one of exuberant experimentation, and songs like "Bust My Ball" and "Savage Beethoven" have an unguarded glee missing from later albums.
Conversely, Bolan's lack of self-seriousness, especially on the studio tracks, makes Work in Progress sound much more substantial than Zinc, Zip, or even Dragon. Ostensibly, these recordings weren't meant for public consumption, but I like to think Bolan knew in the back of his mind that these songs would come out eventually, that his stardom would demand it. At times Work in Progress sounds sly and secretive, as if he's using these songs to subvert his prevailing reputation as a glam Icarus, a rockstar cautionary tale.
That fall from grace, however, is only part of the story. Representing roughly half of Bolan's entire output, these six albums and two comps collectively portray an incredibly complex and deeply flawed artist, but they completely omit his early career as half of Tyrannosaurus Rex. Until Rhino or some other label reissues that group's four albums-- hopefully in this same double-disk format, a reissue gold standard-- this story will lack the rise to balance Bolan's fall.
