Just in time for The Slider reissue on Fat Possum, we explore the original impact of the classic T. Rex gem here in Crate Digger land.
The Slider
(Mercury, 1972. Reissued Fat Possum, 2010)
Standing at the top of the school bus stairs and studying the aisle in front of me, I tried to tell the neighborhood bullies from the uniformly dressed regulars. The whole bus, boys and girls, were dressed in Levi’s, Ben Davis, and Timberland boots. Clearly, I was going to have to shed the camelhair and get with a front-zip, navy blue hooded sweatshirt instead if I was going to survive this mess.
As for seating—front, back, or middle—I chose the front of the back, next to a girl I hoped would have mercy on me. Silent and mature, her eyeliner was as cool as her rock ‘n’ roll hair, but merciful she was not: When I asked her the name of her favorite song, she answered, “‘Chariot Choogle’ by T. Rex,” and I was stunned. Rendered not just dumb but stupid, I was paralyzed in the face of the thought I’d be branded too uncool for school on the very first day of it. Everyone who was anyone knew the Beatles were the only band that mattered and quite possibly I said the same to her, probably in a way that would hide my shame and definitely put friendship out of the realm of possibility for the next six years. But I couldn’t shake T. Rex and “Chariot Choogle” that easily; they rode with me on my bike to school, especially on days of cold and rain. I hadn’t been so intrigued by a rock ‘n’ roll mystery since a mean babysitter taunted me with “yellow matter custard dripping from a dead dog’s eye.” But I knew someday I would learn everything I could about T. Rex, and that I would never be beaten at my own game, ever again.
Had I (or you) been a teenager living in England between 1971 and 1972, you can bet your velvet loon pants that T. Rex would not have slipped the radar. In those years “T.Rexmania” and “T.Rextasy” had taken over the land, a phenomenon like them unseen there or anywhere since the Beatles. Even Ringo was a fan and invested his time and Apple’s money in a film about them. It was, in fact, one of his images from the production that famously became the cover of The Slider.
The T. Rex vision and allure was owed primarily to its main man, Marc Bolan. A Londoner and professional mod of sorts, Bolan had passed through psycho/psychedelic band John’s Children before beginning his own career as a cross-legged acoustic strummer and leader of his own guitar and conga duo, Tyrannosaurus Rex. Five albums later, all produced by fellow imagineer Tony Visconti, the solid gold lineup (Bill Legend on drums, Steve Currie on bass, and Mickey Finn on congas) went electric and hit pay-dirt with Electric Warrior, their 1971 classic set of big beats, cobbled together from different sessions. Between the pre-release non-LP single, “Hot Love”, and the lead album track “Bang a Gong (Get It On)”, Electric Warrior (which also included “Jeepster”, “Mambo Sun”, and “Cosmic Dancer”) carried the album to number four in the UK and a lesser but still successful run in the US. But after 20—no, 30—years of “living in the rock ‘n’ roll mystery”™, I’m voting for its immediate follow-up, The Slider, as the more memorable album, and not just because it contains the elusive (to me) “Chariot Choogle.” Song for song, it’s got more groove on it; it’s also the perfection of the cosmic boogie that Bolan (supposedly trained in the art of wizardry) cooked up with a combination of guitar riffs, rhythm, and fantastical gobbledygook. Do I need to mention that the album was mostly recorded at an 18th Century French chateau? I didn’t think so. Or that Flo and Eddie were again on board for vocals (for what would the recorded T. Rex be without Flo and Eddie on vocals, when you think about it)?
“Metal Guru”—in praise of the god of rock ‘n’ roll, whatever kind of he, she, or car that might be—leads the first side. Bolan loved to sing about cars (most famously in “Bang a Gong”: “You’re built like a car / You’ve got a hubcap diamond star halo”), but The Slider has her fair share of automobiles, too. “Spaceball Ricochet”, “Rock On”, and “Buick MacKane”—“I have never never kissed a car before” (sure you haven’t)—are fuelled by auto images, and that’s just side one. Bolan’s language is one built on a mixed-up vernacular of cars, girls, fantastical universes, and rock ‘n’ roll.
Located somewhere between Jimi Hendrix’s astral plane and Led Zeppelin’s elves, not only are there more cars in Bolanland than in most hard rock places, there’s a whole lot more old time ‘50s rock ‘n’ roll boogie there, too. There’s also plenty of sparkle, glitter, and vapidity sprinkled on top, and there’s hardly a teenage girl in the world that isn’t acquainted with at least some of that stuff. However, side two of The Slider sounds like it was built more with the boys in mind. “Telegram Sam” is a tribute to them, laid down in front of Mott the Hoople and David Bowie’s own where-the-boys-are epic that name-checked T. Rex. The bluesy “Rabbit Fighter” is streetwise too, referring as it does to the Tramp King, Moondog, and “dudes unscrewed.” “Ballrooms of Mars” calls out to Bob Dylan, Alan Freed, and John Lennon and just might be Bolan’s most serious song about rock ‘n’ roll (though “serious” is relative here). “Main Man” is self-referential—unconcerned as it is with girls—and features Marc’s frog. Frogs are a T. Rex standby and turn up elsewhere, not just on the boys side of this album. Lest I fully neglect the universe traversing “Chariot Choogle”, the album’s second to last track, I should say it’s my least favorite and not just for its personal association. What to make of a shark-finned Caddy, blue suede shoes, and another reference to the life-giving toad, all wrapped inside a hulking riff? Not much. As has been demonstrated over and over in my life, I wasted a whole lot of time worrying about nothing.
Following the success of The Slider and the not-so-successful Tanx (perhaps it was the title), T. Rex started its downslide. But by the time of his precognitive and accidental death by car crash in 1977, Bolan’s career was again on the uptick, embraced as he was by punk people. By the early ‘80s, his rock legend had grown larger and a new generation of T. Rex maniacs rose: Both R.E.M. and the Replacements played versions of The Slider-era non LP single “20th Century Boy”; the Violent Femmes cut “Children of the Revolution”, also originally recorded by the Rex in that same ‘72ish window. Bauhaus released “Telegram Sam”, and Soft Cell had a hit with “Tainted Love”, originally recorded by Gloria Jones, Bolan’s girlfriend and a singer with latter-day T. Rex. That’s when I finally got my own copy of The Slider. When three girlfriends and I tried to form a band and our singer suggested we try “The Slider” and Electric Warrior’s “Cosmic Dancer”, I could now state with confidence that I was familiar with T. Rex and could even play the rudimentary chords to their songs. But the band never left the rehearsal room; the ’80s turned to the ’90s turned to the ’00s to ‘10, and the story should’ve stopped 30 years ago. But for reasons I still don’t fully understand, I went chasing T. Rex again, when Born to Boogie found me for $10.98 in the close-out DVD rack.
Entering Bolan’s world again and hearing his tales of cosmic seas and bumble bees was like visiting a forgotten land. I see people everyday who dress and act as if they’re rock stars about to go onstage, but most of them don’t know Marc Bolan’s name; they certainly couldn’t rock the house like he could, with his Gibson Les Paul. Going in search of a navy blue hoodie, I found they don’t make those like they used to either. “What can I do? We just live in a zoo.” All I can do is play “Spaceball Ricochet.”
Listen: “Spaceball Ricochet” [at youtube.com]
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Crate Digger: T. Rex, The Slider is a post from Crawdaddy! - The Magazine of Rock.
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