It was the golden era of glitter, platform boots, and electric dreams. In 1971, if you turned on your telly to watch Top of the Pops, you were almost certainly going to see Marc Bolan with a star painted on his cheek, revolutionising the British music scene. T. Rex were the kings of the charts, but even icons need a bit of wizardry to push a track from a hit into a timeless masterpiece. The song in question was Get It On, a track that defined the glam rock explosion, yet few people realise that a secret prog legend was lurking behind the scenes, hammering out that iconic piano part under a pseudonym.
At the time, the studio atmosphere for T. Rex was notoriously insular. Bolan was the undisputed architect of his sound, but producer Tony Visconti knew that the track required a specific, honky-tonk grit that the usual session players just couldn’t quite nail. Enter Rick Wakeman, the keyboard virtuoso who would soon ascend to prog-rock royalty with Yes. To avoid any potential backlash from the purists or contractual headaches, Wakeman was brought into the studio under a cloak of secrecy. He was credited as a mere session player, a ghost in the machine, playing a part that would become one of the most recognisable piano hooks in rock history.
It is a fascinating bit of music history that highlights the fluidity of the London scene back then. The boundaries between genres were surprisingly porous, despite what the music press at the time liked to claim. You had these prog-rock wizards and glam-rock icons crossing paths in the dark, smoke-filled studios of Soho, creating sounds that felt like they were beamed down from another planet. Marc Bolan had that uncanny knack for knowing exactly what his songs needed to sparkle, and he wasn’t afraid to reach across the musical aisle to get it.
When you listen back to that track today, you can hear that classic, driving piano rhythm that gives it such incredible colour and life. It sounds effortless, but it was the product of a clandestine meeting of minds that forever changed the texture of T. Rex’s output. It serves as a reminder that the most beloved anthems of our youth were often built on a foundation of hidden dramas and secret collaborations that the public never suspected at the time.
Decades on, the legacy of Marc Bolan remains as vibrant as ever. He wasn’t just a performer; he was a cultural phenomenon who made it acceptable to be bold, strange, and entirely yourself. Whether he was crafting a pop hit or indulging in his more mystical, folk-inspired roots, Bolan kept us guessing. Every time that familiar piano riff kicks in, I am transported straight back to the excitement of the early seventies, proving that some records never truly lose their shine, no matter how many years pass us by.
