By Jim Schutze
By Rachel Watts
By Lauren Drewes Daniels
By Anna Merlan
By Lee Escobedo
By Alice Laussade
By Scott Reitz
We might as well give up the dream right now: There's no way any of us could ever be cooler than Marc Bolan. Even in our skinniest purple girl jeans and best ironic hairdo, compared to Bolan, we might as well be bovine public school teachers wearing dresses from the clearance rack at Dillard's. Let's all just admit this right now.
This is for many reasons. First, Bolan's work in his band T-Rex influenced—nay, caused—every good band that has existed since 1970. Second, nobody—not Bowie, not Jagger, not any member of Slade—could rock the girly hair, the tight flared jeans and the chiseled cheekbones as stylishly as Bolan. Finally, dude...have you heard his guitar playing? It is fuzzy and gritty and catchy and makes you feel like it's 1975 and you're wasted, passed out on the floor of some British pub, even if really you're tooling down Interstate 35 in your new Prius.
Are we sad that Bolan died in a car wreck at the premature age of 30? Well, in theory; in actuality, however, we're glad, because he never aged into a creaky old wrinkle-face forced to whore himself playing casinos. Shit, the man died in an original Mini Cooper, for god's sake—how badass is that?
Still, yes, it sucks he died so tragically, and his legacy is so important, Pawn Gallery has decided to throw a fab night of glam celebrating Bolan's life, music and style, on the 30th anniversary of his death (and what would have been his 60th birthday). Head down to Deep Ellum and glam it up—costumes are heavily encouraged—with movies, memorabilia, DJs, Asti Spumanti, fondue and various cohorts of ambiguous sexuality. Tickets are free to those who R.S.VP. at 214-453-3885 or myspace.com/celebratemarc2007, and sans ticket you will find yourself behind the velvet rope, awaiting approval for your fabulousness. Who knows, maybe you'll take someone home who looks like Angie Bowie but fucks like David. Marc would have wanted it that way.