A Cosmic Lament for Love Beyond Reach: T. Rex’s “Monolith”
In the shimmering haze of 1971, T. Rex, Britain’s glam-rock trailblazers led by the enigmatic Marc Bolan, unveiled “Monolith”, a track nestled within their seminal album Electric Warrior, which soared to #1 on the UK Albums Chart and lingered there for six weeks after its September 24 release by Fly Records. While the album’s lead single, “Get It On” (retitled “Bang a Gong” in the U.S.), hit #10 on the Billboard Hot 100, “Monolith” itself didn’t chart as a single, yet it became a haunting cornerstone of their live sets and a cult favorite among fans. For those of us who drifted through the early ‘70s, when glitter streaked the air and rock pulsed with cosmic dreams, this song is a worn-out 45—a star-crossed whisper from a time when music felt like a portal to the infinite. It’s the sound of a transistor radio under a velvet sky, a memory of longing that tugs at the soul of anyone who’s ever felt fate’s cruel tease.
The creation of “Monolith” is a glimpse into Bolan’s restless genius. By mid-1971, T. Rex—Bolan on vocals and guitar, Mickey Finn on percussion, Steve Currie on bass, and Bill Legend on drums—had shed their folk roots as Tyrannosaurus Rex, embracing electric swagger under producer Tony Visconti’s deft hand. Recorded across Trident and Advision Studios in London, with stints in LA and New York, Electric Warrior was a glam baptism, and “Monolith” emerged in a late-night flurry—Bolan’s Les Paul riff mimicking a turntable scratch, his lyrics scrawled in a haze of mysticism. He’d later hint it was about lovers doomed across time, a theme echoing his obsession with reincarnation from “Cosmic Dancer”. Visconti layered it with eerie backing vocals and a brooding groove, a nod to the monolith of 2001: A Space Odyssey—a symbol of otherworldly mystery Bolan adored. Released as glam ignited—predating Bowie’s Ziggy Stardust by a year—it was a quieter triumph, a poet’s reverie amid the album’s flash, born from a man who lived as if stardust ran through his veins until his tragic 1977 end.
At its essence, “Monolith” is a cryptic elegy to unreachable love—a soul adrift in time’s vast throne. “The throne of time is a kingly thing / From whence you know we all do begin,” Bolan croons, his voice a coiled serpent, “And dressed as you are, girl, in your fashions of fate / Baby, it’s too late.” It’s a tale of star-crossed souls—“Shallow are the actions of the children of men / Lost like a lion in the canyons of smoke”—forever seeking, never meeting, a cosmic joke with no punchline: “Girl, it’s no joke.” For older listeners, it’s a window to those ‘70s nights—spinning vinyl in a candlelit room, the air thick with incense and yearning, the ache of a love you’d never grasp. It’s the echo of platform boots on a damp street, the glow of a gig poster peeling off a wall, the moment you felt the universe might just be listening. As the final “oh no” drifts into silence, you’re left with a tender wound—a nostalgia for when every chord was a spell, and the monolith of time stood as both a promise and a thief.
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