I like to say that the real Rock and Roll Hall of Fame is the one in each fan’s heart. Still, it’s kind of fun to moan and groan each year around this time about who didn’t get in vis a vis who did etc. It’s also nice to celebrate “one of ours” when they do get voted in. And for me and many others, this year it’s T. Rex that will be hailed. Marc Bolan’s iconic glam-rock band had a string of eleven Top Ten U.K. hits in the early Seventies (including four chart-toppers), achieving near-Beatlemania stardom in their native land. In the U.S. they cracked the Top 40 only once (“Bang a Gong” at #10) but their delayed-effect influence was widespread. Bolan’s androgynous sex appeal, catchy guitar riffs and surreal wordplay were inspirational to scores of New Wave bands and other artists ranging from Prince to Guns ‘n’ Roses.

Oh sure, Marc could seem a bit twee, use too many sports-car metaphors and be a little too enamored of his own stardom. But in an age of prog-rock indulgences and long guitar solos by scraggly hippies, his style and his concise and catchy 3-minute glam-rock gems pointed a way forward. Tragically, he died in a car crash in 1977, just as he was connecting with the oncoming punk/new wave movement to which he would a considerable inspiration. One of my T. Rex favorites “Ballrooms of Mars.” This glossy but haunted ballad with its Alan Freed call-out and reference to that darkest of nightimes when “monsters call out the names of men.” Bolan’s lyrics could be chock full of bizzare non sequiturs, but he was often more astute than given credit for.

Here, the studio version of “Ballrooms of Mars” is set to a slideshow of the group in their heyday.

The Rock ‘n’ Roll hall of Fame’s opaque process of nominating and inducting artists is the bane of rock fans the world over. (There is fan voting but it only counts as one ballot). The HOF museum itself may be located in the heartland city of Cleveland where legendary DJ Mr. Freed first coined the term rock & roll, but the people running the show are the coastal elites of Big Media, headed by Rolling Stone founder Jann Wenner. Though Wenner is said to be stepping down from that role this year, the induction process is bound to stay largely intact.

In my circles, where the pioneers of a harder rock style are held in high esteem, the failure of nominees Motorhead and the MC5 to get in this year is the cause of righteous grumbling. And not without reason. Future metal warlord Lemmy Kilmister hitchhiked to Liverpool to see the Beatles at the Cavern club and roadied for Jimi Hendrix before himself becoming an icon for future decibel-crunchers. The guys in MC5, indignant about police and National Guard misconduct during the late Sixties unrest in their hometown of Detroit, started a rock & roll riot of their own. These are stories that are intrinsic to rock’s legacy of rebellion and dogged individualism. I have nothing against new inductee Whitney Houston, who was a helluva singer, but the gradual expansion to other genres like soul-pop and rap—while admirable for its inclusivity—is diluting the core mission.

This stripped-down version of “Metal Guru” appeared on the second CD of the deluxe version of ‘The Slider.’

Bolan was a self-made superstar in an age when ingenious self-invention still stood a chance. He springboarded from the elfin folk duo Tyrannosaurus Rex, added a reliable rhythm section of bassist Steve Currie and drummer Bill Legend while retaining the services of percussionist/sidekick Mickey Finn. Atop it all, Bolan rode high with his charismatic vocals, earworm riffs and stabbing guitar leads. It was a combo that, under their leader’s single-minded determination, decisively grabbed one of the brass rings on the mad merry-go-round of the pop music industry. Whether he was dancing ‘neath the “Mambo Sun,” being a “Jeepster” for his baby’s love, hanging with his main man “Telegram Sam” or affirming that “Life’s a Gas” (while prophetically wondering if it was going to last), Marc Bolann did it with an elan that hasn’t faded in the forty-plus years since his passing.

As a sidenote, one article about this year’s HOF class pointed out that, among the new inductees, only T. Rex and the Doobie Bros. had drummers as core members. The current predominance of programmed beats, AutoTune vocals and closed-shop cabal of songwriters seems to indicate that rock music’s guitar-bass-drums DNA may soon be a thing of the past. But a Hall of Fame is a thing of the past by its very nature. There are tons of worthy artists out there who have been left out so far, starting with the two bands I mentioned above and Thin Lizzy to boot. Maybe it’s time for the bigwigs to hit the brakes on this trend and dance awhile with those that brung ’em.