T. Rex- The Slider

The recent Rhino reissue campaign and Quentin Tarantino’s sly deployment of “Jeepster” in Death Proof could spark a criminally belated T. Rex revival in the states. That is, if there’s an ounce of rock and roll karma in this world, which one hopes to Christ there is. The illegitimate spawn of T. Rex’s dirty boogie are scattered all over three decades; at best, these descendents nail the inspired silliness and infectious groovitude, much to their credit. At worst – well, in the words of Mr. Marc Bolan “It’s a rip off, it’s a rip off.”

Well, it sounds cooler when he says it.

Regardless of what could or could not have happened to T. Rex if they had conquered America as well as the U.K., the aforementioned Rhino reissue of the band’s back catalogue does them an amazing service by reminding us all of how incredible the best of Bolan’s work was.

The Slider is the third proper T. Rex’s all-electric albums following the name change from Tyrannosaurus Rex, and a change of direction away from acoustic, drug-fried Renaissance Faire balladry. It represents the continued evolution of the T.Rex sound – string-saturated arrangements replete with falsetto choirs all centered on the thick, fuzzed riffs of Bolan’s incredible rhythm guitar. The Slider’s predecessor, Electric Warrior used similar tactics, but not to such an extent as this. The all-out tidal wave of sonic bliss that is the record’s first 2.29, that is the entirety of “Metal Guru.” Bolan’s sublime kick-off shriek (“whoa-AUGHH-oohh yeeaaah” is a reasonable approximaton) sets the tone of unhinged, decadent fun which runs through each song.

In much the same fashion as “Cosmic Dancer” on Electric Warrior, “Mystic Lady” uses a rolling, narcotic folk groove to contrast the energetic opener, complete with more strings (note to listeners: there’s gonna be a lot of fucking strings on this album, so if you’re not down with that, be forewarned) more backing vocals, and an utterly gorgeous choral fade out.

And this is all just a prelude to the incredible title track, working its magic with a slow bump and grind and indelibly solid drum track, punctuated by egg shakers that sound like coke snorts and incidentally, one of the most melodically brilliant choruses ever devised in the name of glam rock.

U.K. hit “Telegram Sam” (which Bolan claimed to have written in its entirety in his head in an elevator) goes back to basics with a simple choppy guitar figure more than a little reminiscent of “Get It On,” but with great nonsense lyrics about dudes like “Golden Nose Slim,” who knows where you’ve been, and “Jungle Face Jake,” about whom Bolan warns us to make no mistake. But it’s the nutso, cello-accompanied, guitar workout of “Buick Mackane” where he really brings the rock, getting his stomp on and screaming more crazy shit about cars. “Rabbit Fighter” is another highlight, with those omnipresent strings providing a epic backdrop for Bolan’s story of . . . space war, or something.

So if you can cough up for that fancy reissue, by all means do, because it’s loaded with alternate versions and liner notes that will tell you pretty much anything about the recording of this album that you would ever want to know. Regardless, seek it out.