My British Invasion

by Harold Bronson

  HAROLD: Were you on “Smashed! Blocked!”? That was a hit in Los Angeles.

  MARC: No.

  JIM: That’s the only one we know in the US.

  HAROLD: How did you join the band?

  MARC: The guitar player they had was pathetic. Track Records was just formed and they wanted a folk-poet, good-looking superstar, boogie-woogie Pete Townshend guitar player, and I was around. I wrote “Desdemona,” which was a dynamite song. Was that released here?

  HAROLD: The only one we know is the other one.

  MARC: It was a number one in Australia, Germany, and places like that. In England, it commands a great deal of respect, as does “My White Bicycle” by Tomorrow—the guitarist [Steve Howe] is the guy in Yes. [Responding to our quizzical looks] You dudes are out of touch.

  JIM & HAROLD: We know Yes.

  MARC: Yes is, like, last week.

  JIM: Didn’t Tomorrow have Keith West?

  MARC: They were the best group in fucking England, for a week.

  JIM: “Excerpt From a Teenage Opera.”

  MARC: He sold out with that. That was the rip-off.

  JIM: That’s the only thing we heard here.

  MARC: Let me fill you in. There were four bands happening in the underground in England: Fairport Convention, who were totally different than they are now; Arthur Brown, who had his flash hit for a week; there was Tyrannosaurus Rex; and there was Tomorrow, who were trying to be The Byrds, but were better. They were hot for three weeks. Do you ever get that over here? A band that is so hot you can’t believe it.

  JIM: Maybe in certain areas, but the US is too big.

  MARC: There were three records: “My White Bicycle” by Tomorrow, “Granny Takes a Trip” by The Purple Gang, and “Desdemona” by John’s Children. Dynamite records. Dynamite! Those three records are what you would call turntable hits. They got mass airplay—mass—but they didn’t sell a fucking record because they were three years too soon. Each one now would be a number one, no doubt about it.

  You see, the underground in England was slow to establish itself. It was too early. I did a show with Van Morrison when I was seventeen. My first record was “The Wizard” and he had “Mystic Eyes” with Them. [For his first record, Mark Feld changed his name professionally to Marc Bolan, the surname a contraction of Bob Dylan.] He’ll hate me for saying it. We did a children’s TV show called 5 O’Clock Club. If he thought about it now it’d really blow his mind, all those little kids. There was no underground then. It was too early. I used to play with Cat Stevens, man. There was nowhere to play. I used to play at his old man’s restaurant. He would play at my house and I would play at his house and we also played on the streets.

  JIM: That was even before the UFO club?

  MARC: Yeah, two years before. Cat got involved with “I Love My Dog” and he was bullshitted with commercial rock and roll, then he backed off when he got very sick with TB. I never made it. But when I did make it, it was much bigger in my field. Fortunately, Cat made it again. We both know the mistakes we didn’t make. In those days to make a record was a big deal. Now I avoid signing anything.

  HAROLD: So, how did you get signed?

  MARC: I had four singles that did nothing, three years before John’s Children. I met someone who knew someone. It just happened like that. I met a cat, Jim Economides, an American dude who produced the first Beach Boys album. He did “Little Deuce Coupe.” He met me and said, “Hey man, you’re going to be a big star.” I said, “Of course I am.” He was a good man, but he got fucked. The things that were happening in those early times are just incredible, the crooked people who were running around. It took me three years to get out of that recording contract. I spent five years getting out of contracts from everyone.

  Let’s talk about something exciting. There are things which you wouldn’t believe. The first demo I made has John Paul Jones on bass, Jimmy Page on guitar, and Nicky Hopkins on piano. This was about 1964. We weren’t very good. I guess Jimmy was. He was in a group called Neil Christian & The Crusaders. America doesn’t know what went down. To become what people consider an accomplished musician takes about ten years. When you get there you are undeniable, you are a craftsman, end of story.

  HAROLD: From a rock ’n’ roller, how did you get into Tyrannosaurus Rex?

  MARC: Lack of money. I left John’s Children because they wanted to make me into a Monkee. It was one of those, “Hey kid, with your face you’re gonna be a star!” When I left John’s Children, they took my guitar away. They took my Les Paul and sold it. They took my stack and sold it. All I had left was a twenty-four dollar acoustic. I played in the park for nothing. I would never ask for money. People used to take me home and feed me. Legally, it put me out of action for three years. For two years I slept on people’s floors. I wrote the first Tyrannosaurus Rex album on people’s floors. I met Steve on someone’s floor. He had bongos and T. Rex was formed.

  HAROLD: What are your vocal influences?

  MARC: I don’t have any. Ford cars, Greta Garbo. I don’t know. You tell me who you think.

  JIM: The only time I got an idea of who you might sound like was on “Elemental Child.” I thought it sounded like Ray Davies. The first time I heard that song I thought it was The Kinks.

  MARC: On “Victoria” he said that he was trying to sound like me.

  JIM: Yeah, I read an interview where he said that.

  MARC: I never listened much to The Kinks. I love Ray’s writing but I think the band let him down. Live I think they’re terrible and I can’t understand it. [Tony Secunda, Marc’s manager, enters] Tony, can you check on the dude next door from Cash Box? Where’s the champagne we ordered over an hour ago?

  TONY Maybe it went next door.

  MARC: I wouldn’t like that at all. Someone spaced out. [To us] You want some champagne? Of course you do. Get on that, Tony. Can we get our main man together as well? [Tony leaves]

  MARC: You know The Move?

  JIM & HAROLD: We know The Move.

  MARC: He formed them. Procol Harum? The Moody Blues? He did it all. He’s living history. I haven’t had a manager for two years. He went to New York with me and did more in two weeks than people had done in three years, and didn’t even want a penny. I rang him up and asked him to manage me, and he said he didn’t know if he could do it. In England we go for $30,000 a night. Don’t print all my bullshit. It would embarrass him. I’m too loose. I assume, and you’re people to me. In England it’s weird. I tend to talk too much and people print it all. I’ve got into so much trouble. I look upon people as people. And they print it like an animal. That’s what’s been freaking me out. That’s when I realized how big we really are.

  HAROLD: What are your musical likes?

  MARC: The only thing I live for is music. I have a list that would fill up your whole fucking magazine. You want some: Robert Johnson, Eric Clapton, Jimi Hendrix, John Lennon, Jeff Lynne, Roy Wood, Pete Townshend, Howard and Mark from The Mothers, Jimmy Burton, Scotty Moore.

  HAROLD: How did you hook up with Mark and Howie?

  MARC: We played in Detroit with their last gig as The Turtles. We did four gigs in America. One was here.

  JIM: At The Experience, right? That was the last tour you did with Steve?

  MARC: That was the only tour I did with Steve. What a bummer that was. Who managed that place?

  JIM: Marshall Brevitz

  MARC: A lovely man. Give him a bullet. [On Cash Box magazine’s chart, a “bullet” indicates a record that’s rapidly ascending.]

  JIM: He was a lovely man who was too nice to everybody and that’s why the club went down the tubes.

  MARC: Elmer at the Whisky was dynamite, a very nice man. He told me, “Kid, you are going to have the biggest group in America.” We filled it for four days and got paid nothing.

  HAROLD: I want to know more about your lyrics. They’re more li
ke poetry. And the imagery, like “mambo sun” and “alligator rain.” Is there meaning, or do they just sound good?

  MARC: They do sound good. For me to explain it, I would have to transpose you and put you inside my brain. There are certain things an artist can’t talk about. Let me get an album. You’re slim and you’re weak you’ve got the teeth of the hydra upon you. Do you know what a hydra is? Is that weird? You’re putting Greek mythology in a number one record for eight weeks. You ride like a car, you’ve got a hubcap diamond star halo. C’mon.

  JIM: I’m talking about the consistency. It’s not like “The Children of Rarn.”

  MARC: You haven’t heard “The Children of Rarn.”

  JIM: Not the whole thing, just the song.

  MARC: It’s the beginning of a giant epic. It’s a taste, like a blowjob, man. Ezra Pound did some straight poetry. He did one or two line poems. He was razzed off. In English it means hacked off. You slide so good with bones so fair, you’ve got the universe reclining in your hair. I don’t know if you’ve met a woman that has in your estimation every piece of knowledge that you know, floating in the top of her head. I’ve met many people like that. I’m very fortunate. There’s no better poetry than that. If Ray Bradbury were here, he would agree with me. I said his name because he lives down the road. I haven’t met him and I’d like to. As a poet, I’ve never written such good shit, man.

  The throne of time is a kingly thing, from whence you all know we all do begin. The beginning of time. And dressed as you are, girl, in your fashions of fate. Which is your boogaloo kaftan, whatever you want to get into. How many ladies do you know that hang onto last week’s patched jeans thinking they’re funky? Shallow are the actions of the children of men. That’s us, baby. Fogged was their vision since the ages began. Caine and Abel. And lost like a lion in the canyons of smoke. Pollution. Girl, it’s no joke. And if that’s not poetry, man, there ain’t no poetry. It makes me cry, because I can’t go to every single person who bought an album and explain to millions of people what the stuff means. I don’t write nonsense. A lot of people in the press in England wrote that it’s a dynamite album, it’s going to go to number one, but it’s all nonsense. And I cry. Top it, Dylan. I want to hear him top it because I love him.

  HAROLD: What is “Jeepster” about?

  MARC: Ask Bob Dylan. I got that from him.

  HAROLD: Is there a certain amount of pressure to remain at the top of the charts?

  MARC: In England we topped The Stones’ “Brown Sugar,” McCartney’s “Another Day,” and Lennon’s “Power to the People.” We got to number one and they couldn’t top us and they love it. ’Cause it’s not bullshit. They know we’re no Herman’s Hermits. The Stones’ new stuff I heard the other day is really hot, of course, not as hot as my new stuff. Because what you do is good, they have respect for you instead of if you were at the top of the charts with some artless commercial stuff. McCartney told me, “Marc, you’re gonna dig it now, but in two years’ time they’re gonna rip your pants off and you’re gonna hate it.” Three months later I was tired. He knows and he’s seven years in. What was important is to accept someone who is total competition and not be worried about it. I am totally paranoid of everyone, unless it’s people who I think are as good as me, and all I want to do is watch them.

  HAROLD: Established artists like John Lennon or The Rolling Stones aren’t all that paranoid or neurotic about their…

  MARC: Bollocks! You are so off beam, baby! Everyone is paranoid, from the day they’re born to the day they die. Every number one you get you have to top it or else you’re not hot. To anyone else, a number two is a ginormous record, but to you it’s a flop. I’ve got a room full of silver discs, but if I put a record out and it only gets to number five—which is a big record—to me it hasn’t made it. In the end you don’t listen to radio, you don’t look at charts. You back off—everybody, The Stones, The Beatles, Dylan. You slowly back off which is what I’m doing, which is why I’m here and not in England. We’re so hot there, it’s burning me. I had to get away. The phone never stopped ringing. We had four TV shows on this week. Everyone’s scared. The mania never stops. How many number one records do you need when there’s no security? We’re born to die. You’re getting older every day. You get forty years if you’re lucky, end of story. Where’s security? Where’s the champagne? Don’t believe there’s security in being a star. Why do you think Bob Hope does that yearly show? How old is he? When I’m sixty-nine don’t get me on TV. In two years’ time I expect to be conducting the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra because that’s what I hear in my head. If not, I’ll retreat into my country Welsh island and disappear. I’ll send bootlegs out.

  HAROLD: How does Tony Visconti as producer work with you on the albums?

  MARC: [to Jim] Can you go next door and ask for the champagne?

  As an American producer, very little. He’s an American, from the Bronx. He’s my friend. He does what Jimmy Miller does for The Stones. He’s in the control room when I’m out front.

  JIM: [reenters the room] They have coffee and Coca-Cola, but no champagne.

  [Marc goes next door, and returns after a couple of minutes.]

  MARC: They said the Dom Perignon costs twenty-four dollars a bottle. I said OK. Warners is playing for it. Tony’s a gas. Tony to me is what every record producer should be. He’s your main man. You’re out there doing it, you can’t judge what you’re doing until you go back and listen to it. If I do something I think is amazing, Tony lets me know if it’s good. If a garbage collector comes in and says, “Hey, man, that tambourine is too loud.” I’ll say, “Hey, get out.” After he shuts the door and leaves, I’ll say, “Hey, the tambourine is too loud.” I’ll pull the tambourine down and go out and give him one hundred dollars. I’ve done that. I judge by my heart. Forgive me, we’re supposed to do this other man.

  Afterward, Tony Secunda and Marc’s next interviewer, Cash Box magazine’s Todd Everett, joined us for a glass of champagne. It seemed only fitting and proper that we would toast “to rock and roll, may it live forever” before we were sent back into the real world.

  Marc had a remarkable run. Over a three-year period, every single he released in England—all eleven—went Top 10. Even though he only had one hit in the US—the retitled “Bang a Gong (Get it On)” barely made the Top 10—one occasionally hears a T. Rex song in a commercial or film in the US. One of T. Rex’s big hits from 1972, “Children of the Revolution” (not even released in the States) was used in a 2013 commercial for the Fiat 500.

  From Marc’s comments, he seemed concerned with his own mortality. From an early age, not only did Marc believe he would become a star, but he also thought he would die young, like his hero James Dean.

  Marc perished in a car crash with his second wife behind the wheel, in September 1977, two weeks shy of his thirtieth birthday.

  London 1972

  By the summer of 1972, I was well aware that I’d missed the zenith of British rock culture. It was years past the creativity of The Beatles’ Sgt. Pepper’s, The Rolling Stones’ Between the Buttons, The Kinks’ Something Else, The Who Sell Out; photographer David Bailey shooting pop stars, The Beatles hanging out at Apple Corps, and designers filling King’s Road’s and Carnaby Street’s boutique windows with colorful clothing. Yet, as a rock music fan whose taste in rock culture was shaped by those Brits in the sixties, I had to make the pilgrimage.

  I had the time. I had graduated from UCLA a couple of months before and had no job. I booked a flight for $124 on a charter that advertised in the Daily Bruin, and found myself in a cramped seat next to an elderly Eastern European couple who didn’t smell very good. They were like the Romanian peasants in the Dracula movie who wore garlic around their necks to protect themselves from vampires. We made a stop to clear customs in Bangor, Maine, where they made a big deal of pushing their duty-free lobsters, including having a tank of them in the lounge.

&nb
sp; In taking the train from Gatwick Airport to London, my first impressions were, oddly, American ones. The rows of old residential buildings and street configurations reminded me of Disney, not Disneyland, which has no themed Old Londonland, but of the quaintness found in a movie such as Mary Poppins. Having grown up in arid Los Angeles, the extensive green foliage reminded me of an east coast clime, like suburban New York or New Jersey.

  Arthur Frommer’s book London on Six Dollars a Day recommended the Russell Square area, home to a large number of small hotels. Mark Leviton was spending his junior year at the University of Birmingham, and in advance of joining me for a few days in London before reporting to school, he asked me to take his guitar so it would be one less piece of baggage for him.

  My first day in London, Wednesday, September 6, was unusually warm. I was jet-lagged, hot and weary, as I walked down the street lugging my suitcase and Mark’s guitar. All the hotels in my two-pounds-a-night price range were full. I noticed a long-haired, would-be pop star of Indian extraction dressed in a trendy black coat, pushing a huge amplifier, with his traditionally attired mother looking on. I felt sorry for him as I trudged on, as Indians were unknown in English rock bands. I was thirsty, but unlike in Los Angeles, I discovered there were no public drinking fountains.

  Running out of energy, I sprang for a more expensive, three-pounds-a-night hotel. It didn’t have a bath or toilet in the room, but it did include an English breakfast—whatever that was. I changed into my Humble Pie “Smokin’” T-shirt, and as it was still afternoon, I had time to visit one record company. I had packed a stack of American record company promotional T-shirts thinking these unseen-in-the-UK items would cause a minor sensation, but no one batted an eyelash.

  “Do you have any coke?” Sure, I was fatigued, but did he really ask me for cocaine, a drug of which I was only vaguely aware? It was an odd introduction to Derek Taylor. Among Beatles fans, Taylor is revered for having been an early supporter of the band when he was a journalist, stepping into the role as The Beatles’ charming and ingratiating publicist for most of the latter half of the sixties. He was now Director of Special Projects at Warner’s UK label. Warner Brothers, Elektra, and Atlantic were significant record labels in the States. With fewer hit artists in the UK, the three labels were combined into one umbrella company. The sign on the building indicated WEA Records—from the first initial of each label. Here the individual letters were articulated compared to the name of the stateside distribution company which was pronounced as one word, “We-Uh.” It took me a while to accept that there were no separate offices for Warner, Atlantic, or Elektra Records.