This mighty volume begs a question, although it doesn’t ask it, let alone answer it. Does anyone in the known universe really want to read 650 pages about glam rock?
Simon Reynolds must do, because that’s how much he has written on the subject. All writers, if we are to be honest, write books because they themselves wish to read them. But what if you are the only person who wants to read it? It scarcely bears thinking about.
Glam rock, as older readers may remember, was a phase of particularly visual and mascara-inflected pop that dominated Top of the Pops for a couple of years in the early 1970s. Before that, we had chug-a-chug blues rock and earnest singer-songwriters, and everyone had hair down to here. Afterwards, there were two or three awkward years while we waited for punk to turn up. But briefly, and spectacularly, the charts were owned by T. Rex, the Sweet, Mud, Gary Glitter, Roxy Music, Wizzard, Slade and, primus inter pares, David Bowie. Platform boots were high, glitter was everywhere and the tunes were great. As someone who dances only at weddings, I sit through the chart hits of today without even tapping a toe. But as soon as the DJ, with a terrible sigh, puts on ‘Blockbuster’ or ‘Tiger Feet’, I am up there with the best of them, cutting a notable rug. People will be listening to these songs, and finding them as fresh as fresh can be, long after we are all dead.
Reynolds could, and possibly should, have concentrated on this brief but glorious musical flowering, but I’m guessing that he can’t help himself. Like the hero of Michael Chabon’s novel Wonder Boys, he might be a compulsive writer who simply cannot stop.
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