The music cuts through the air like a flashbulb in a smoky room. You don’t just hear it, you feel the heat of the stage lights and smell the faint musk of glitter and leather. That driving, four-on-the-floor rhythm section locks into a groove so essential it seems less composed and more excavated from the core of rock and roll itself. This is the sound of T. Rex in 1971, hitting a spectacular, iridescent stride with “Get It On.”
This wasn’t just a song; it was a cultural pivot, an almost unbelievable leap for a band that, just a few years prior, had been known for psychedelic folk under the name Tyrannosaurus Rex. Frontman Marc Bolan, the elfin poet of the late ’60s underground, had shed the sandals and mysticism for stack-heeled boots and a shimmering, sexualized bravado. He traded in the acoustic whimsy for an electrified roar. This piece of music, which arrived right in the wake of the UK number one “Hot Love,” cemented Bolan’s transformation into the undisputed king of Glam.
The Electric Warrior’s Weapon
“Get It On” was the blistering centerpiece of the landmark 1971 album, Electric Warrior. The shift in T. Rex’s fortunes—and their sound—was inseparable from the continued partnership with producer Tony Visconti. Visconti, a veteran of Bolan’s earlier, more delicate work, proved essential in engineering the group’s transition. He maintained the musicality while building a hard, shimmering, and decidedly commercial wall of sound around Bolan’s now fully-electric vision.
The track, released as a single in July 1971, spent four weeks at the top of the UK Singles Chart and, a little later, became T. Rex’s sole major hit in the US, where it was retitled “Bang a Gong (Get It On)” to avoid confusion with another song. It’s a moment of maximum voltage, a collision of rock history and pure, untamed, twenty-first-century-ready desire. Bolan, ever the student of rock history, claimed he had originally written it as a variation on Chuck Berry’s “Little Queenie,” a reverence that is immediately apparent in the central boogie guitar riff.
Anatomy of the Swagger
The track’s instrumentation is a masterclass in adding texture without clutter. The core is the classic rock and roll quartet, but it’s the layers that turn it into a statement. Bolan’s main guitar riff is raw and slightly fuzzed, immediately catchy, but the true depth comes from the rhythm section. Steve Currie’s bassline doesn’t just hold the bottom end; it dances with Bill Legend’s drums, creating a propulsive, irresistible swing.
Then come the iconic sonic decorations. Most strikingly, the dramatic, almost over-the-top saxophone break is courtesy of Ian McDonald of King Crimson. He laid down multiple passes—baritone and two altos—which Visconti expertly layered, giving the brass a honking, primal quality that elevates the song from rock boogie to high-drama event. The sheer audacity of that honk is part of the glam charm.
Tucked into the mix is a crucial, if subtle, contribution on the keys. Rick Wakeman, reportedly desperate for rent money at the time, was brought in to play the piano. Though the song doesn’t center on it, his brilliant glissando—that dramatic, fast sweep across the keys—is a signature flash, a brief flourish of old-school showmanship that perfectly accents the chorus’s release. Many a budding musician has tried to replicate that sudden cascade on their first full-size instrument, perhaps after one of their initial piano lessons.
“It’s the sound of ancient rock and roll tradition wearing a seven-inch vinyl coat of sequins and lip gloss.”
The interplay between the stripped-down, Berry-esque core and the studio gloss is where the magic happens. Visconti’s production keeps the drum sound chunky and close-mic’d, allowing the snap of Bill Legend’s snare to cut through. Meanwhile, Mark Volman and Howard Kaylan (Flo & Eddie) provide backing vocals, their voices lending an almost gospel-infused richness and lift to Bolan’s simple, whispered lyrics—a dynamic contrast of grit and glamour that is pure glam rock. If you’re listening on high-quality home audio, you can pick up the complex texture of the reverb and the vocal layers, a testament to the meticulous studio work.
The Micro-Stories of Glam
The enduring appeal of “Get It On” lies not just in its sound, but in the narrative it projects: a rock star who knows he’s a rock star, inviting you, the listener, to join the party. It’s an exercise in unpretentious, hedonistic cool.
I recall a recent conversation with an aspiring drummer. They described learning the deceptively simple beat of “Get It On” in their guitar lessons—even though it’s a drum part—because it was the essence of the rock groove they wanted to master. The simplicity is the strength; it’s not complex polyrhythms but pure, undeniable momentum. That pulse, that bang-a-gong, is what keeps the track feeling timeless, a template for musical confidence.
Another anecdote surfaces in my mind: a close friend, a DJ, always spins the track as a “reset button.” When the dance floor is lagging, too self-conscious, or too mired in modern electronic subtleties, the sheer physical thrust of Bolan’s rhythm section cuts through the inertia. It demands movement. It cuts through the modern hyper-analysis and gets straight to the joy of raw, amplified sound. This is rock and roll as essential ritual.
Bolan’s vocal delivery is key, too. It’s less a shout and more an intimate, come-hither whisper that is amplified to a stadium-filling roar. He doesn’t sing the track; he vamps it. The slight, almost conversational phrasing of the verses (“You’re dirty, sweet, and you’re my girl…”) builds the tension before the chorus’s primal release.
“Get It On” is a definitive statement in T. Rex’s career arc. It was the point where the artist officially transcended his folk roots and became a star of the new decade, paving the way for The Slider and subsequent glam-era hits. It’s the sound of ancient rock and roll tradition wearing a seven-inch vinyl coat of sequins and lip gloss. It’s one of the greatest pieces of music from its era, a song whose magnetic pull remains undimmed by time or shifting musical trends. The invitation in the chorus is still open, the groove still hypnotic. All you have to do is turn it up.
Listening Recommendations
- David Bowie – “Suffragette City” (1972): Adjacent glam-rock swagger with a comparable blend of driving rhythm and flamboyant instrumentation, perfect for a mood extension.
- Slade – “Cum On Feel the Noize” (1973): Shares T. Rex’s direct, no-nonsense rock energy, built on a simple, massive, crowd-pleasing riff.
- The Power Station – “Bang a Gong (Get It On)” (1985): A muscular, 80s-polished cover that shows the enduring, structural excellence of the original riff.
- Chuck Berry – “Little Queenie” (1959): Hear the foundational DNA—the classic boogie riff and the sheer, unadulterated rock and roll joy that inspired Bolan.
- Sweet – “Ballroom Blitz” (1973): Captures the cinematic, high-energy drama and studio layering of classic, early-70s glam.
- Mott the Hoople – “All the Young Dudes” (1972): A slightly more anthemic but equally definitive track of the era, sharing the same cultural moment of youthful rebellion and high style.