Tyrannosaurus Rex makes me take leave of reality like none other. It’s not music that can hold its own in a shuffle marathon, even against latter-day T.Rex. It’s too fragile and fey to make itself known amid hustle and clamor, too refined an appeal. It’s amid peaceful and quiet times, with mind opened to rare pleasures, that it whisks me into another world. Marc Bolan was a happening cat by all accounts, a dresser and an egoist. It was soon enough his music developed an element of look-at-me-go calculation. But in the early days, on the winsome early records, he seemed to pour out his imaginings as unguardedly as a child. The Tyrannosaurus Rex albums were entirely new and original, though their roots showed plainly what Marc had been reading and fantasizing about. To call it fantasy music, akin to fantasy writing would be diminishing, but not inaccurate. Bolan was writing about his own fantasy world with heroes and wizards, magic and lore, and talking animals of course.