It is one of the great markers of English achievement and recognition: having an official English Heritage or (outside London) Historic England blue plaque unveiled to your memory on a building where you once lived or worked. A key consideration is having contributed to the country’s happiness. Some of those honoured are obvious – revered writers and thinkers such as Jane Austen and Sir Isaac Newton. A person must have been dead for at least 20 years, to ensure the plaque is not just about passing fame. And as time goes by, the selection reveals the changing values of the nation.
And so it was that outside 31 Clarendon Gardens, in the quiet London neighbourhood of Maida Vale, on a golden autumn afternoon, a crowd recently gathered to celebrate a man once derided by mainstream society as a decadent and attention-seeking dandy. The rock star Marc Bolan, who was killed in a car crash in 1977, shortly before his 30th birthday, had lived in a first-floor flat in this elegant Georgian town house from 1970 to 1972. It was a short but crucial period, during which he made some of his most famous records with his band T. Rex.
Most of those attending the unveiling were grey-haired now; many had come in velvet and glittery outfits. Two women in their sixties had travelled down from Liverpool; they showed me their cherished photo with Bolan, taken on that very doorstep. He was a distinctive sight in those days, driving around town in his white Rolls-Royce.
Any member of the public can make a nomination and Martin Barden, a fan since his teenage years, had chosen Bolan. As he read his speech, I could see the young Martin in the suited, elegant arts consultant. “Marc was the first technicolour rock god,” he told the crowd. “His Alkasura threads, corkscrew curls, glitter-brushed cheeks, his posing and pouting, combined with those distinctive guitar chops and mystical lyrics, were an irresistible seductive brew.”
Alongside dignitaries from English Heritage, speeches came from two smiling white-haired gentlemen, who turned out to be members of the punk rock band The Damned. Rat Scabies, as he’s still called, recounted how Bolan invited the band to join his T. Rex tour in 1977 after they were fired from the Sex Pistols’ Anarchy tour (how do you get fired from an anarchy tour, I wondered?). At a time when many older rock stars feared or sneered at punk, Bolan, Scabies happily recalled, covered up his equipment with plastic sheeting to protect it from “gobbing” (punks liked to spit). I loved the insight into an older pop “uncle” quietly finding a way to get along with the kids.
Rick Wakeman – keyboard player extraordinaire – welled up as he recounted Bolan asking him to play the glissandos on the hit track “Get It On”. He knew Wakeman needed the £9 fee to pay his rent. In the crowd I recognised Richard Young, a veteran British celebrity photographer, himself wiping away a tear at times. What had brought him to the unveiling? “We were best friends at school,” he explained, smiling. “And we both got expelled on the same day. For truancy.”
T. Rex songs were played and at last the speeches were done. Wakeman tugged a rope, and a little curtain was pulled aside to reveal the elegantly-lettered blue plaque on the wall, as we all applauded: Marc Bolan (Mark Feld) 1947-1977 Songwriter and Musician lived here.
The name in brackets was a poignant reminder of his family’s Jewish heritage. I marvelled at how time had turned a cultural disruptor into a cherished national treasure. A 20th-century boy – not just loved by his fans, but respected for his artistry at last by the “great and the good” who sit on blue plaque panels. Because, to misquote fellow blue plaquer Jane Austen, it is a truth universally acknowledged that Marc Bolan made Britain a richer nation in the way that matters most. By contributing to the sum of human happiness.
This article is from New Humanist's Winter 2025 edition. Subscribe now.
