Humility among pop singers
used to be all the rage. “Mr. Presley,” the interviewer would ask, “is
it to luck or to talent that you owe your success?” To which the great
Elvis would reply in his humble mumble: “Luck, sir all luck”.
And Cliff Richard tell us in his autobiography that occasionally when his mother came to wake him in the morning, he would say: “Punch me, Mum, is this real?”
Humility went out with the Beatles. It was replaced in the millions who then took up pop singing not so much by quiet confidence as by monstrous conceit. If the rest of the world didn’t agree with them, they thought, then the rest of the world was thick in the head.
The conviction that he is the greatest ever seems to consume every contemporary pop singer: big is the way every pop singer now thinks.
One such is Marc Bolan, aged 18. I should immediately explain the umlaut. Mr. Bolan and his 18-year-old manager, Mike Pruskin, thought it looked French. “We thought it looked French at first,” Mr. Pruskin said; and one admired them for hanging on to it even when it looked less French.
Self-portrait
They live in a basement flat near Baker Street. They wear black jerseys
and pale corduroy trousers, and they are much more agreeable than you might
think from the way they talk. There is a cat asleep on an old fur hat on
the windowsill; a green telephone and a self-portrait by Mr. Pruskin. “Very
hermaphroditic,” he said critically, obviously seeing more in it than I
could.
He wear spectacles and is a cousin of Lionel Bart. He left school when working for his A-levels. “I had to get out of the rut,” he said. He and Mr. Bolan have been working industriously methodically and intelligently for the last eight weeks on turning Mr. Bolan into a pop singer. They are as certain of success as the good knitter who follows the Fair Isle pattern, knowing the result will be a gorgeous splash of colour.
They tick off items of achievement: the article in the Observer, Ready Steady Go, the photographs in striking attitudes, the interested American producer, the record released in November (Caroline and London knocked out by it); and what became they want to know of the picture supposed to be in London Life? They must ring up about that.
They have ideas of a television programme about Marc: they must ring up Jonathan Miller. They deal with the telephone in the approved style; if anyone rings up to interview Marc, he must wait while Mr. Pruskin looks in the diary of engagements.
Marc hasn’t actually done any signing yet, except on the record and ages ago in a few folk clubs. And now the release of the record has been held up. But though weary of waiting, they have many plans that cannot fail. This American thinks that Marc will be bigger than the Beatles.
“Bigger than Elvis Presley,” Mr. Pruskin said, adding by way of explanation that Elvis was bigger than the Beatles.
And why not? The boy is handsome, charming and a poet. He holds fashionable
views: the record business is stagnant, parties are boring and Dylan is
too old to be the idol he should be.
But it is for two qualities that Mr. Pruskin - a publicist - admires Dylan: “His projection of personality is excellent,” he said; “his image is a natural image - artistic but aggressive. What the Rolling Stones are trying to get. People want to be like Marc: he’s leading them somewhere.”
“And I don’t know where I want to go myself,” Marc said.
His biography - known as a biog in the trade - is uncluttered by details such as favourite food: corn on the cob; favourite dancing partner: mother. Instead it reveals astonishing facts.
His real name is Mark Feld and he comes from Stamford Hill. His parents have four stalls in Berwick Street market; Marc can tell you how much money they make out of them.
Clothes
His career at school was distinguished only by a passion for clothes, inspired by reading a book about Beau Brummell. He was one of the very, very early Mods. A journalist once interviewed him when he was 14 about his clothes, about how he had 22 suits and 50 shirts. The journalist was sceptical but when he went to the boy’s house there were the 22 suits and 50 shirts.
“I wasn’t a spoilt child,” he said. “All I did was tell my mother what was best.” Most of the unlikely things about him have a disconcerting way of turning out to be true.
When he was 15 he went to Paris, again inspired by Beau Brummell. He
wrote poetry: “I had this thing about Greek Gods:; the whole idea about
centaurs and horses with wings just knocks me out.
“I met this man who was a black magician and who had a big chateau on the Left Bank; I only left it about eight times all the year I was there. I learned about the black art but being evil didn’t particularly appeal to me. I think this man was getting old and wanted to work his magic through me. He liked my mind.
“I used to watch them when they cast spells. They crucified live cats. Sometimes,” Mr. Bolan continues chattily, “they used to eat human flesh just like chicken bones. From a cauldron.”
I may have appeared taken aback by this announcement because Mr. Pruskin murmured soothingly that it was all true; that was what was so marvellous. “I don’t care whether you believe me or not,” Mr. Bolan said generously. “It’s a bit scary how false it sounds. But what can I do? You tell me. It sounds ego; yet it’s true.”
He’s in pop music for the money. “Personally,” he said, “the prospect of being immortal doesn’t excite me; but the prospect of being a materialistic idol for four years does appeal. With this image we are putting out, I know I can communicate. If I have a couple of glasses of wine and I’m relaxed, I know I can come through.
“I know it sounds ego, but it’s really scary: if I go into a room and there are 10 girls, nine of them will fancy me. I’ve never failed yet with girls.”
They have very little money at the moment; they want a million pounds each. “I’m sick off modelling and living off wizards,” Marc said. “Besides, once I get over the fame, I will know where I stand.” A small, small doubt crossed his mind.
“My ego wouldn’t stand dying a death at this moment,” he said. “I would go right back into my shell and I’ve only just got out of it after two years.
“I look forward to growing old, to being mature and knowing good wine. I want to savour life; I want to have grey hair.”
“I want to communicate,” Mr. Pruskin said, “just like Marc.”
