More than anything, glam rock was cynical. Art-scarred and unnatural, flippantly suspicious of tried-and-true rock orthodoxy, it attempted to offer an alternative, not just to the smoldering dreams of the '60s, but the impulses that inspired them. With the staunchly anti-corporeal Stooges and Velvets as American antecedents, Mott the Hoople and a school of lessers turned rock's boogie beat into a murky, if mercurial, sludge, while preening themselves daft singing disparaging send-ups to a clichéd Rock 'n' Roll Life that rarely rocked and hardly lived. Bryan Ferry trapped "The Pony" in his gadgetry and taught it to "do the Strand"; and Mark Bolan turned the suburban pinup boy into a shaggy menace. Oh yeah, and at its center stood a post-Dylan post-male--flaunting a fey, flat vibrato that sounded like Zsa Zsa Gabor looked, and bristling against an aged sexpot who flayed guitar... More >>>
The mascara is the message: Jonathan Rhys Meyers's "David Bowie"