WE fight for bread, but give us roses too, said James Oppenheim. For me the roses are music and football. They aren’t everything, but they aren’t half wonderful.
 
Last Friday I had an utterly brilliant night at the Shepherd’s Bush Empire celebrating the lyrics and music of my earliest inspiration, Marc Bolan, who died so tragically at 5am 46 years ago, on September 16 1977.
 
Star of the show was undoubtedly producer Tony Visconti whose production and string arrangements gave Bolan’s songs wings back in the day and who was there conducting the Dirty Pretty Strings showcasing brand new versions. It was an honour and a privilege to see one of the greatest musical visionaries of my lifetime live on stage and the DPS were ace.
 
T.Rextasy — the exception that proves the rule, the only tribute band worth watching because we’ll never see Marc again and frontman Danielz has somehow squatted his soul — rose to the occasion magnificently.

Marc Almond is obviously a huge Bolan fan and covered some of the lesser known (and often better) songs superbly. Andy Ellison, who fronted John’s Children — protopunks who had Marc on guitar for a while and got thrown off a Who tour for being too flamboyant — did a rocking version of Desdemona.
 
All in all, a brilliant celebration of Bolan’s words and music. And the best thing of all was that 30 per cent of the audience was a third of my age and half the songs were not the obvious ones. I knew every word of every song and absolutely loved it. Well done one and all.
 
In anticipation of the gig, I wrote this. It all happened – apart from the beer which was overpriced and horrid!
 
Marc Bolan Memorial Concert
 
Metal Guru’s deadly tongue
Kept the Seer forever young
Humpback Barnes bridge cry-o-genic
Free from wrinkle or pandemic
 
Autumn fruiting nymphs will frolic
Ecstatic yet melancholic
Dressed as white swans for the show
Wishing it was long ago
 
Ancient star lined brows will stare
Sky long fallen from their hair
Still completely apoplectic
That their hero went electric
 
It was not his clothes or face
Which helped me to find my place
Mauve-mashed weird words brought release
Gave an angry child poet peace
 
I recall that early morn
Fishing on the beach at dawn
Bopped and sang, then sat and cried
When the DJ said he’d died
 
Shepherd’s Bush will catch aflame
With each mention of his name
I hope there is decent beer
I can finally go this year
 
And I’m writing this on the day Brighton play our first ever game in European competition against AEK Athens, having soundly thrashed Manchester United last Saturday with a team costing £17 million, cocking a snook at the idea that in modern football money decides everything.
 
In an amazing coincidence, Sotiris, originally from Athens but a resident of Shoreham and currently working on our new kitchen, is an AEK fan, a lovely bloke and politically a great advertisement for his famously left-wing club.

We have paired up as football ambassadors and after finishing this column I shall be cycling into Brighton to meet him and some of his friends and welcome them to our open and progressive city! Here we are in the back garden. Brotherhood and unity.
 
I am so proud of our club today. Twenty-six years ago bottom of the Fourth Division with no ground, today playing wonderful football and making history. I’m very much looking forward to the away games in Amsterdam and Marseille – I have gigs planned and, as ever, will be documenting it all in these pages.
 
Football and music shed a glorious light in very dark times, and give us strength for the battles to come.