1972, a year of high T-rexstacy. It may be an odd sight now, Marc Bolan, the beautiful elf with his signature Mary Janes and his shining glamrock blazer, a superstar, filling Wembley Stadium. Not only that, but still playing as if he were still one half of Tyrannosaurus Rex, all cross-legged and strumming and clapping, speaking to the front row as if he were in his own living room, and pulling it all off. Not only that, but there are the little girls screaming and climbing the barricades, for a bongo jam and a spaceball invocation of the holy spirit. Marc was a rockstar who could boogie and strut, but he was never not a mystic. When he wasn’t being silly and sometimes when he was, there was something cosmic that he channeled – joy, sorrow and knowledge – something profound, indeed. It was a wonder of luck that for a year or two he managed to alight and enlighten a Wembleyful of souls. But such magic was never meant for crude consumption. The young Wembley-goers moved on, the 20th Century Boy was forgotten. So much fame in 1972, and now look, only one sodden Cosmic Dancer YouTube video. Grateful be, Marc still has acolytes, who in their own sick ways would do him proud.
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