A Celebration of Passion That Shimmers with Carefree Ecstasy
In the spring of 1971, T. Rex unleashed “Hot Love”, a dazzling single that rocketed to number 1 on the UK Singles Chart, where it reigned for six glorious weeks starting March 20, and peaked at number 72 on the U.S. Billboard Hot 100—a modest stateside showing for a song that rewrote the rules back home. Released on Fly Records as a standalone gem before the album Electric Warrior cemented their legend later that year, it was Marc Bolan’s first taste of chart-topping glory, selling over a million copies and earning gold status. For those of us who tuned in—twirling the dial on a battered radio or crowding around a Dansette record player—it was the sound of a new dawn, all glitter and swagger. Here in 2025, with the years stacked like vinyl in a dusty crate, that opening riff still hums in my veins, a portal to a time when the world felt electric and untamed.
The story of “Hot Love” is pure Bolan magic. Written by Marc Bolan, the elfin prince of glam, it marked T. Rex’s shift from psychedelic folk to the strutting, stomping rock that defined an era. Recorded in January 1971 at Trident Studios in London, it was the first session with drummer Bill Legend and producer Tony Visconti adding congas and backing vocals from Flo & Eddie (ex-Turtles Mark Volman and Howard Kaylan), whose “la-la-la” chants turned it into a communal chant. Bolan, fresh off the modest success of “Ride a White Swan”, penned it in a burst of inspiration, fueled by his romance with June Child and a vision of music as a glittering escape. He’d later say it came from watching girls dance at gigs, their energy igniting the lyrics—“She’s my woman of gold, and she’s not very old”—a snapshot of youthful lust and cosmic cool. It was the spark that launched glam rock, paving the way for Bowie and beyond.
The meaning of “Hot Love” is simple yet intoxicating: it’s a burst of pure, unbridled joy, a love song that’s less about one person and more about the thrill of being alive. “Well, she ain’t no witch and I love the way she twitch,” Bolan purrs, his voice dripping with mischief over a groove that begs you to move. For those of us who heard it in ’71, it was the anthem of Saturday nights—glitter on our cheeks, platform soles scuffing the floor, the air thick with cigarette smoke and possibility. It’s not deep or tortured; it’s a revel, a three-minute spell that says life’s too short to sit still. That infectious “la-la-la” coda? It’s the sound of a crowd singing back, of a generation finding its voice in the shimmer and shake.
Marc Bolan was a wizard, and “Hot Love” was his wand—waving it on Top of the Pops, all satin and curls, as teenagers swooned and parents blinked in confusion. It was T. Rex’s breakthrough, their ticket from underground darlings to pop idols, outselling even The Beatles’ latest that spring. I remember the buzz—the 45 spinning at parties, the TV flickering with Bolan’s impish grin, the way we’d mimic that strut down school halls. For older folks now, it’s a golden thread to 1971—to first loves under streetlights, to transistor radios tucked under pillows, to a world where music could turn you into someone bolder, brighter. “Hot Love” still crackles with that heat, a reminder of days when we danced like the night would never end—and in that song, it never has.