September 11, 2025 • 19 mins
This podcast contains discussions of sensitive topics...Listener discretion is strongly advised. While the stories you’ll hear are rooted in real events, not every detail is strictly historical—some moments are dramatized with creative license to bring the narrative to life. Please keep this in mind as you listen.
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He was glitter and stomp, a comet in platform shoes, a voice that purred and a sound that shook Europe to its core. For a time, the hysteria rivaled Beatlemania—screams, fainting fans, anthems that stomped through radios and living rooms. But even at his brightest, he carried a shadow, whispering that he wouldn’t live long, that some stars are too quick for calendars. And one night, on a rain-slick road in London, prophecy became truth. This is Jonny’s Dead Air Podcast: Death of a Cosmic Dancer.
Written by Jonny Hartwell
Voiced by Jonny Hartwell
Music Credit: Reel World Audio.
A iHeart Radio Production
Jonny’s Dead Air Podcast
Written, hosted, and produced by Jonny Hartwell.
A production of iHeartRadio Pittsburgh.
Thanks for listening—and for keeping the light on.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
He was glitter and stomp, a comet in platform shoes, a voice that purred and a sound that shook Europe to its core. For a time, the hysteria rivaled Beatlemania—screams, fainting fans, anthems that stomped through radios and living rooms. But even at his brightest, he carried a shadow, whispering that he wouldn’t live long, that some stars are too quick for calendars. And one night, on a rain-slick road in London, prophecy became truth. This is Jonny’s Dead Air Podcast: Death of a Cosmic Dancer.
Written by Jonny Hartwell
Voiced by Jonny Hartwell
Music Credit: Reel World Audio.
A iHeart Radio Production
Jonny’s Dead Air Podcast
Written, hosted, and produced by Jonny Hartwell.
A production of iHeartRadio Pittsburgh.
Thanks for listening—and for keeping the light on.
Mark as Played
Transcript
Episode Transcript
Available transcripts are automatically generated. Complete accuracy is not guaranteed.
Speaker 1 (00:00):
And welcome in. I'm Johnny Heartwell and this is Johnny's
Dead Air podcast, a production of iHeartRadio. A stage is
just wood and lights until until someone steps onto it
(00:20):
and bends reality. He struts, he stomps, he sways, half elf,
half satellite, a riff, a wink, and suddenly the room levitates.
The kids scream like they've been waiting their whole lives
for this sound. Glitter flashes like starlight, and for a moment,
the ordinary world feels far away. He seems untouchable, painted
(00:42):
in neon, carried on courses that shimmer. A cosmic dancer,
a comet you can touch, but comets burn brightest before
they vanish, and even he seemed to know it, joking
in interviews that he'd never grow old, and some stars
are just too fast for calendars. This is Script nine,
Death of a Cosmic Dancer, Act one. A Star is born.
(01:06):
The air is thick, thick with perfume, cigarette smoke, and expectation.
A BBC studio late evening. You're in the audience, shoulder
to shoulder with kids with painted stars on their cheeks.
The cameras loom above like silent vultures, ready to beam
this moment across Europe. A drum hit, a riff, and
there he is, emerging in a glittering jacket, curls, bouncing
(01:30):
like a halo. The crowd irrupts so loud you can
feel it in your chest. Girls scream, boys stop. It's
Beatlemania reborn, but this time it's stranger, shinier, and sexier.
He points the neck of his guitar like ex caliber
and laughs into the microphone, teasing and mysterious. Every chord
(01:51):
feels like an inside joke with the universe. You realize
this isn't just pop music, this is worship. Fans in Paris, Berlin, Stockholm,
they tape his posters to the walls, write his name
and notebooks, and for a moment, Europe feels united, not
by politics or treaties, but by glitter and stomp. He's
their star. They're electric god. But before the spotlight, before
(02:16):
the glitter, before the roar of teenage adoration, there was
just a boy. Mark Feld. Yeah, Mark Feld, a kid
from Hackney, London, Small, wiry, restless, obsessed with words and
fairy tales. He spent afternoons lost in library books about
wizards and kings. Then strummed his guitar at night, trying
to summon that magic into sound. Rock and roll reached
(02:37):
him like a telegram from another planet. Chuck Berry, gene Vincent,
Eddie Cochran. These weren't just singers, They were road maps
out of East London. Mark learned every lick, every sneer,
every way to make three chords feel like a revolution.
Neighbors remember him carrying that guitar everywhere like it was
a limb he'd grown. Teachers rolled their eyes when he
(02:59):
scralled lyrics in margins instead of homework. But he knew
even then he wasn't going to stay Mark Feld forever.
And maybe he sent something else too. His fairy tales
always seemed to end abruptly. He was drawn to heroes
who live fast and died young, as if some part
of him already knew his own story wouldn't be long.
(03:19):
One day he would transform, and one day he would
become the glittering figure who stood on that television stage,
stomping his way into history. He once said, I guess
my name will live longer than any record. I am
the cosmic dancer who dances his way out of the womb.
Act to the rocket's red glare. The television studio is
(03:42):
its own planet. Light rigs like constellations, tape marks like
secret maps, make up the color of mercury. He glides
in the frame and for an instant's silence, and then flash,
not the camera, him, The cheekbones, the curls, the coat
that says, yeah, of course, I spar Why don't you
a single riff? Two hand claps, the air jolts, the
(04:05):
crowd goes nuts, and England detonates in bedrooms, in school
yards and factory lunch rooms. Radios keep spitting his voice
back like an incantation. The music doesn't sound like anyone else.
It's not blues, it's not pop, it's not folk. It's
it's something new. A sound that stomps like an army boot,
but smiles like lipstick. A guitar crunch that feels like
(04:28):
velvets set on fire. Choruses that don't just invite you in,
they command you, and the kids obey. Suddenly everyone's walking
like him. The hips swing wider, the shoulders get looser,
the hair grows curlier. Teachers complain that the classrooms are
noisier factories, hum with melodies tapped out on metal lunchboxes.
(04:48):
He's become not just a star, but a movement. He
gives interviews like a trickster in a fairy tale, half answers, riddles,
cosmic pronouncements about wizards and stars, and somehow the public
cannot get enough. You were there, wedged into a cracked
leather seat as the bus rattled through the English countryside.
Rain streaked the windows, turning street lights in the smears
(05:12):
of gold. The air inside was thick with cigarette smoking laughter,
jackets draped over the backs of chairs like abandoned skins.
Up front, there he is awake while everyone slept, notebook
in hand, curls, catching the dim glow of the overhead bulb.
He hummed, hummed melody, strange and half lullaby, half war cry,
(05:33):
and it vibrated through the floorboards, the wheels, hammered, hammered, hammered,
the road like a heartbeat. And you knew this sound,
this sound, was about to change everything. And yet even
in those golden days, he sometimes smirked backstage and said,
enjoy it now, it's not gonna last. Fans thought that
(05:54):
meant the charts, but maybe maybe he meant something else.
There's a moment every gets one where it all becomes
too much and too exactly right, both at once. Magazines
kept sending cameras. The money arrives like ocean waves. He
sways in front of microphones and looks like he was
born to be photographed. And then, as always, the century
(06:18):
asks for a price. He once said, personally, the prospect
of immortality doesn't excite me, but being a material idol
for four years does. At three, the transformation. Next, at three,
(06:42):
the transformation. The bulb's hum above you, throwing soft hot
light into the mirror. You stand just behind him, watching
his reflection. He dabs glitter under his eyes with slow
precision war paint and shimmer. Then he leans closer and
whispers his new name, lips almost brushing the glass. The
(07:03):
words fog the mirror. He smiles. It's not for the cameras.
It's private, satisfied, like a man who just stepped into
the skin he was always meant to wear all along.
Then softer, almost a secret to himself. Not forever though,
the boy from Hackney is gone. Now, Mark Feld, the
(07:26):
skinny kid with a library cart and a cheap guitar,
is only a memory, a memory only his family still
says out loud on stage, in magazines, on the radio.
He is someone else, a new name, one he crafted carefully,
like a magician, choosing his incantation. The press calls him mystifying,
fans call him beautiful, Critics call him ridiculous. He shrugs
(07:48):
off all of it, lets the curls fall into his eyes,
and struts right past to his close as friends. He's
simply Mark, but the world is about to know him differently.
When the cameras roll, when the guitar growls, when the
glitter hits the spotlight, he isn't just Mark, He's Mark Boland.
(08:09):
He doesn't just stand alone. His band once Tyrannosaurus Rex
is now sleek, dangerous, unstoppable Tea Rex. The hits arrived
like comets streaking the sky, ride a white swan, hot love,
then the monster Bangagong get it on by the time jeepster.
In twentieth century, boy hit hysteria has a name, and
(08:32):
it is called tee Rexstasy. For a stretch in the
early seventies, they're untouchable, number one singles, top selling albums,
sold out tours all across Europe, Girls faint in the isles,
Boys copy the curls and scarves. England hasn't seen hysteria
like this since the Beatles, and yet Mark seemed to
know it wouldn't last. More than once, he told friends
(08:55):
he didn't picture himself old the idea of turning into
some gray rock elder, he laughed, No, not me, I'll
burn out before that. From this moment on, he isn't
just a man. He's an idea, a cosmic prince with
a stomp in his step, a pop idol with riddles
in his smile, a dancer in orbit around his own star.
(09:17):
But like it or not, all stars lose their light. Eventually,
at four, the star starts to dim. Next, at four,
the star starts to dim. The nineteen seventies roll on,
(09:37):
and the world that once crowned him starts looking for
another king. Glam Sparkle begins to tarnish. Critics sharpen their knives.
The kids who once painted stars on their cheeks now
chase after louder, rougher sounds. Punk is now the new thing.
The press says he's a relic, but Mark Bollen won't
vanish quietly. He trims the glitter, sharpens the groove, finds
(09:58):
a leaner sound. His lyrics turn sharper, more confessional. He's
not just the pied piper of cosmic Stomp anymore. He's
a survivor, clawing his way back into the charts television calls.
He becomes host of Mark, a Friday night jukebox on
the BBC, where he plays ringleader, grinning as bans half
his age stomp through the noise. He beams introduces them
(10:20):
with sparkle in his voice, almost like a proud father.
For a moment, he feels like maybe he's found his
new role, an elder statesman of Sparkle and Mark. He
keeps going, new songs, new band, new hopes, and his
partner Gloria always by his side, their son Roland at home, laughing,
learning new words. In interviews, Mark says he's found the
(10:40):
shimmer again, that it came back once he stopped chasing it.
But the shimmer, the shimmer has a shadow. The records
aren't selling like they used to. The money isn't what
it was. Friends, drift, enemies, circle nights, blur in the mornings.
His body tires, his fame, although glowing flickers at the edges.
And here's the thing about comments. They don't fade gently.
(11:03):
They blaze, They streak, they burn with everything they've got
right before this guy swallows them whole. Mark himself knew it.
He once said, I don't expect to live long. I'm
a rock and roll star, not a rock and roll survivor,
and the audience, those who truly listened, heard it as
both a joke and a confession, because a star this
(11:24):
bright can't burn forever. Act five, One last Party. Next.
Act five, One last party. A private room above the
Mayfair Club. The wallpaper so plush it swallows sound, glasses clink, laughter,
(11:48):
rolls and bounces off of gilded frames. The night is
dressed to be photographed. He's in a black jacket with
Lapel's glory, is in something silver that shimmers when she laughs.
Their orbit is full, friend drifting in and out, handshakes,
air kisses, a publicist balancing a cigarette on a saucer.
The DJ spins songs that feel like memory's waiting to
be made. Across the room, someone says he's glowing again,
(12:12):
isn't he? And he is not? The neon glow of
the mania, a warmer glow of someone who has forgiven
himself for kneeding the spotlight he leans into. Gloria whispers
a joke. Her bracelets clap in reply. You follow them
down a narrow stairwell, velvet ropes brushing your sleeve. The
bouncer nods like he's letting them into the rest of
(12:34):
their lives. London air tastes metallic, damp with rain. Taxi
headlights slice across the pavement. He inhales the night like
it's a song. Keys, please, she says. He pats his
pocket laughs. Good thing I never learned, he says, wiggling
his empty fingers. She shakes her head with fond annoyance.
(12:55):
Come on, star man. She starts the purple Mini twelve
seventy five gts, small Loyal car, vinyl seats smelling faintly
of perfume and cigarettes. The dash glows with soft amber light.
The wiper's click click, clicking like a metronome. He slides
into the passenger seat. He slides into the passenger seat, curls,
(13:16):
spilling onto the headrest. Gloria grips the wheel. Check in
the mirrors. You were good tonight, she says, Oh, it
was okay, he replies, modesty. Say for the people. He
trusts the kids. The kids just aren't kids anymore. They're electric.
You're electric, she responds. He exhales a laugh, fog in
the glass with his breath. You know, I want to
(13:38):
make a record. I want to make a record that
doesn't need cameras, something that hums even when the radio
is off. She squeezes his hand. Then hum it to me.
He does, low and sweet. The city glides past, and
streaks of orange light, rain, speckled windows blur the lights
in the constellations. Wipers sweep open and shut, give the
(14:00):
night a rhythm. Glory hums with the engine. He leans
the seat back a notch, the universal gesture of a
longer conversation. You know, Roland's new word is again. He
wants everything again. Smart boy, She smiles. He knows who
his father is. I used to want again. Mark murmurs,
Now I want next. Silence follows, comfortable and strange. In
(14:25):
the reflection of the windshield, you see him glance sideways,
half smile, half shadow. Life. Life is a short dance,
isn't it. The words were barely out of his mouth
when the tires hit a patch, A patch of wet
leaves slick his ice. The back end twitches, the car
fishtails Glory grips the wheel with desperation. The headlights swing wide,
(14:47):
catching the bark of a tree that loomed out of
the dark like a figure waiting in silence. The world lurches.
The nose of the car slams into the tree with
a force of a fist from the heavens. Metal shrieks,
folding in on itself like paper. The windshield explodes, shards
spinning through the cabin, catching the dash light as they
sliced across skin. Mark's body whips forward, chest colliding with
the belt, ribs creaking under the sudden jolt, His face
(15:10):
snapped towards the glass, curls, scattering his temple, striking the
frame with a sickening crack. The hood trumpled, radiator bursting
into steam that hisses and roars like a dying animal.
A head like tears, free arcing into the night, before
shattering on the pavement. The sound is apocalyptic, steel groaning, glass, raining,
rubber screeching, and then stillness, just stillness, only the tick
(15:40):
of the cooling engine, the drip of rain through shattered glass.
The wipers kept moving, scraping back and forth, across nothing,
a grotesque parody of rhythm. Glorious slumped against the wheel, bracelets,
glinting faintly in the dash light. Mark's hand slid from
(16:01):
the fogged window, falling limply by his side. His curls
spilled forward, haloed and smoking starlight, as if the cosmic
dancer had bowed for the last time. He always hinted
at it, didn't he in interviews, his whispers backstage and
(16:22):
off hand jokes that carried too much weight. I don't
expect to live long. I'm not meant to be a survivor.
Words that once sounded like bravado now rang like scripture.
The prophecy was his own, spoken again and again, until
until the universe finally listened. He was twenty nine, just
(16:46):
weeks away from turning, just thirty years old, still young
enough to believe in magic, but old enough to sense
the clock. His music shimmered with the other worldly joy,
Yet beneath it sath it lay the shadows of someone
who knew his story would be brief. And here, at
the foot of the tree, on a wet September night,
(17:09):
the prophecy ripened into truth. The final chord struck the
final stomp silenced a life written in glitter and riffs,
cut short, exactly as he always seemed to expect. The
cosmic dancer had spun too fast, burned too bright, live
too loud, and just as he foretold, he would not
(17:32):
grow old. Act six, Mark Bullen's epilogue. Next Act six,
Mark Bullen's epilogue. Morning came heavy and gray. London seemed
to hold its breath, as if the city itself had
(17:54):
heard the crash. Words spread in fragments, first whispers, then bullets,
than headlines. Each retelling made it more unbearable, yet more true.
At the tree, the first flowers appeared before the police
tape even sagged. By evening, the bark was covered with notes, photographs, lipstick, kisses,
(18:15):
and glitter that refused to wash away. Strangers pressed palms
against the scar of the wood, as if touching it
could bring him back. But he, he said it himself,
I don't expect to live long now. Those words stared
back from clippings pinned to the shrine. They're no longer
clever or coy. They were prophecy, fulfilled with brutal precision.
(18:41):
Fans didn't just grieve the man, They grieved the unfinished songs,
the concerts that would never happen, the decades that would
never belong to him. The idea of him growing old
always felt impossible. Now impossibility had become fact. Fact A
word that feels so cold, but it's true. Mark Bollan
(19:06):
never grew old. He never became the survivor he said
he wasn't. He became what he always suspected he would,
a flare, a glittering streak, too fast for the world
to hold. But even death could not silence him. Look
up on a clear night. The sequins you see scattered
across the heavens are his now. The curls are constellation,
(19:30):
The riffs are starlight. The cosmic Dancer has shed the
weight of Earth and found a new stage among the galaxies,
Forever spinning, forever shimmering. Some stars never fall, They only
go home to the sky. I hope you enjoyed Script nine,
(19:53):
The Death of a Cosmic Dancer, The story of Mark
bollen This has been Johnny's Dead Air podcast. I'm Johnny Hartwell,
thank you so much for listening.
And welcome in. I'm Johnny Heartwell and this is Johnny's
Dead Air podcast, a production of iHeartRadio. A stage is
just wood and lights until until someone steps onto it
(00:20):
and bends reality. He struts, he stomps, he sways, half elf,
half satellite, a riff, a wink, and suddenly the room levitates.
The kids scream like they've been waiting their whole lives
for this sound. Glitter flashes like starlight, and for a moment,
the ordinary world feels far away. He seems untouchable, painted
(00:42):
in neon, carried on courses that shimmer. A cosmic dancer,
a comet you can touch, but comets burn brightest before
they vanish, and even he seemed to know it, joking
in interviews that he'd never grow old, and some stars
are just too fast for calendars. This is Script nine,
Death of a Cosmic Dancer, Act one. A Star is born.
(01:06):
The air is thick, thick with perfume, cigarette smoke, and expectation.
A BBC studio late evening. You're in the audience, shoulder
to shoulder with kids with painted stars on their cheeks.
The cameras loom above like silent vultures, ready to beam
this moment across Europe. A drum hit, a riff, and
there he is, emerging in a glittering jacket, curls, bouncing
(01:30):
like a halo. The crowd irrupts so loud you can
feel it in your chest. Girls scream, boys stop. It's
Beatlemania reborn, but this time it's stranger, shinier, and sexier.
He points the neck of his guitar like ex caliber
and laughs into the microphone, teasing and mysterious. Every chord
(01:51):
feels like an inside joke with the universe. You realize
this isn't just pop music, this is worship. Fans in Paris, Berlin, Stockholm,
they tape his posters to the walls, write his name
and notebooks, and for a moment, Europe feels united, not
by politics or treaties, but by glitter and stomp. He's
their star. They're electric god. But before the spotlight, before
(02:16):
the glitter, before the roar of teenage adoration, there was
just a boy. Mark Feld. Yeah, Mark Feld, a kid
from Hackney, London, Small, wiry, restless, obsessed with words and
fairy tales. He spent afternoons lost in library books about
wizards and kings. Then strummed his guitar at night, trying
to summon that magic into sound. Rock and roll reached
(02:37):
him like a telegram from another planet. Chuck Berry, gene Vincent,
Eddie Cochran. These weren't just singers, They were road maps
out of East London. Mark learned every lick, every sneer,
every way to make three chords feel like a revolution.
Neighbors remember him carrying that guitar everywhere like it was
a limb he'd grown. Teachers rolled their eyes when he
(02:59):
scralled lyrics in margins instead of homework. But he knew
even then he wasn't going to stay Mark Feld forever.
And maybe he sent something else too. His fairy tales
always seemed to end abruptly. He was drawn to heroes
who live fast and died young, as if some part
of him already knew his own story wouldn't be long.
(03:19):
One day he would transform, and one day he would
become the glittering figure who stood on that television stage,
stomping his way into history. He once said, I guess
my name will live longer than any record. I am
the cosmic dancer who dances his way out of the womb.
Act to the rocket's red glare. The television studio is
(03:42):
its own planet. Light rigs like constellations, tape marks like
secret maps, make up the color of mercury. He glides
in the frame and for an instant's silence, and then flash,
not the camera, him, The cheekbones, the curls, the coat
that says, yeah, of course, I spar Why don't you
a single riff? Two hand claps, the air jolts, the
(04:05):
crowd goes nuts, and England detonates in bedrooms, in school
yards and factory lunch rooms. Radios keep spitting his voice
back like an incantation. The music doesn't sound like anyone else.
It's not blues, it's not pop, it's not folk. It's
it's something new. A sound that stomps like an army boot,
but smiles like lipstick. A guitar crunch that feels like
(04:28):
velvets set on fire. Choruses that don't just invite you in,
they command you, and the kids obey. Suddenly everyone's walking
like him. The hips swing wider, the shoulders get looser,
the hair grows curlier. Teachers complain that the classrooms are
noisier factories, hum with melodies tapped out on metal lunchboxes.
(04:48):
He's become not just a star, but a movement. He
gives interviews like a trickster in a fairy tale, half answers, riddles,
cosmic pronouncements about wizards and stars, and somehow the public
cannot get enough. You were there, wedged into a cracked
leather seat as the bus rattled through the English countryside.
Rain streaked the windows, turning street lights in the smears
(05:12):
of gold. The air inside was thick with cigarette smoking laughter,
jackets draped over the backs of chairs like abandoned skins.
Up front, there he is awake while everyone slept, notebook
in hand, curls, catching the dim glow of the overhead bulb.
He hummed, hummed melody, strange and half lullaby, half war cry,
(05:33):
and it vibrated through the floorboards, the wheels, hammered, hammered, hammered,
the road like a heartbeat. And you knew this sound,
this sound, was about to change everything. And yet even
in those golden days, he sometimes smirked backstage and said,
enjoy it now, it's not gonna last. Fans thought that
(05:54):
meant the charts, but maybe maybe he meant something else.
There's a moment every gets one where it all becomes
too much and too exactly right, both at once. Magazines
kept sending cameras. The money arrives like ocean waves. He
sways in front of microphones and looks like he was
born to be photographed. And then, as always, the century
(06:18):
asks for a price. He once said, personally, the prospect
of immortality doesn't excite me, but being a material idol
for four years does. At three, the transformation. Next, at three,
(06:42):
the transformation. The bulb's hum above you, throwing soft hot
light into the mirror. You stand just behind him, watching
his reflection. He dabs glitter under his eyes with slow
precision war paint and shimmer. Then he leans closer and
whispers his new name, lips almost brushing the glass. The
(07:03):
words fog the mirror. He smiles. It's not for the cameras.
It's private, satisfied, like a man who just stepped into
the skin he was always meant to wear all along.
Then softer, almost a secret to himself. Not forever though,
the boy from Hackney is gone. Now, Mark Feld, the
(07:26):
skinny kid with a library cart and a cheap guitar,
is only a memory, a memory only his family still
says out loud on stage, in magazines, on the radio.
He is someone else, a new name, one he crafted carefully,
like a magician, choosing his incantation. The press calls him mystifying,
fans call him beautiful, Critics call him ridiculous. He shrugs
(07:48):
off all of it, lets the curls fall into his eyes,
and struts right past to his close as friends. He's
simply Mark, but the world is about to know him differently.
When the cameras roll, when the guitar growls, when the
glitter hits the spotlight, he isn't just Mark, He's Mark Boland.
(08:09):
He doesn't just stand alone. His band once Tyrannosaurus Rex
is now sleek, dangerous, unstoppable Tea Rex. The hits arrived
like comets streaking the sky, ride a white swan, hot love,
then the monster Bangagong get it on by the time jeepster.
In twentieth century, boy hit hysteria has a name, and
(08:32):
it is called tee Rexstasy. For a stretch in the
early seventies, they're untouchable, number one singles, top selling albums,
sold out tours all across Europe, Girls faint in the isles,
Boys copy the curls and scarves. England hasn't seen hysteria
like this since the Beatles, and yet Mark seemed to
know it wouldn't last. More than once, he told friends
(08:55):
he didn't picture himself old the idea of turning into
some gray rock elder, he laughed, No, not me, I'll
burn out before that. From this moment on, he isn't
just a man. He's an idea, a cosmic prince with
a stomp in his step, a pop idol with riddles
in his smile, a dancer in orbit around his own star.
(09:17):
But like it or not, all stars lose their light. Eventually,
at four, the star starts to dim. Next, at four,
the star starts to dim. The nineteen seventies roll on,
(09:37):
and the world that once crowned him starts looking for
another king. Glam Sparkle begins to tarnish. Critics sharpen their knives.
The kids who once painted stars on their cheeks now
chase after louder, rougher sounds. Punk is now the new thing.
The press says he's a relic, but Mark Bollen won't
vanish quietly. He trims the glitter, sharpens the groove, finds
(09:58):
a leaner sound. His lyrics turn sharper, more confessional. He's
not just the pied piper of cosmic Stomp anymore. He's
a survivor, clawing his way back into the charts television calls.
He becomes host of Mark, a Friday night jukebox on
the BBC, where he plays ringleader, grinning as bans half
his age stomp through the noise. He beams introduces them
(10:20):
with sparkle in his voice, almost like a proud father.
For a moment, he feels like maybe he's found his
new role, an elder statesman of Sparkle and Mark. He
keeps going, new songs, new band, new hopes, and his
partner Gloria always by his side, their son Roland at home, laughing,
learning new words. In interviews, Mark says he's found the
(10:40):
shimmer again, that it came back once he stopped chasing it.
But the shimmer, the shimmer has a shadow. The records
aren't selling like they used to. The money isn't what
it was. Friends, drift, enemies, circle nights, blur in the mornings.
His body tires, his fame, although glowing flickers at the edges.
And here's the thing about comments. They don't fade gently.
(11:03):
They blaze, They streak, they burn with everything they've got
right before this guy swallows them whole. Mark himself knew it.
He once said, I don't expect to live long. I'm
a rock and roll star, not a rock and roll survivor,
and the audience, those who truly listened, heard it as
both a joke and a confession, because a star this
(11:24):
bright can't burn forever. Act five, One last Party. Next.
Act five, One last party. A private room above the
Mayfair Club. The wallpaper so plush it swallows sound, glasses clink, laughter,
(11:48):
rolls and bounces off of gilded frames. The night is
dressed to be photographed. He's in a black jacket with
Lapel's glory, is in something silver that shimmers when she laughs.
Their orbit is full, friend drifting in and out, handshakes,
air kisses, a publicist balancing a cigarette on a saucer.
The DJ spins songs that feel like memory's waiting to
be made. Across the room, someone says he's glowing again,
(12:12):
isn't he? And he is not? The neon glow of
the mania, a warmer glow of someone who has forgiven
himself for kneeding the spotlight he leans into. Gloria whispers
a joke. Her bracelets clap in reply. You follow them
down a narrow stairwell, velvet ropes brushing your sleeve. The
bouncer nods like he's letting them into the rest of
(12:34):
their lives. London air tastes metallic, damp with rain. Taxi
headlights slice across the pavement. He inhales the night like
it's a song. Keys, please, she says. He pats his
pocket laughs. Good thing I never learned, he says, wiggling
his empty fingers. She shakes her head with fond annoyance.
(12:55):
Come on, star man. She starts the purple Mini twelve
seventy five gts, small Loyal car, vinyl seats smelling faintly
of perfume and cigarettes. The dash glows with soft amber light.
The wiper's click click, clicking like a metronome. He slides
into the passenger seat. He slides into the passenger seat, curls,
(13:16):
spilling onto the headrest. Gloria grips the wheel. Check in
the mirrors. You were good tonight, she says, Oh, it
was okay, he replies, modesty. Say for the people. He
trusts the kids. The kids just aren't kids anymore. They're electric.
You're electric, she responds. He exhales a laugh, fog in
the glass with his breath. You know, I want to
(13:38):
make a record. I want to make a record that
doesn't need cameras, something that hums even when the radio
is off. She squeezes his hand. Then hum it to me.
He does, low and sweet. The city glides past, and
streaks of orange light, rain, speckled windows blur the lights
in the constellations. Wipers sweep open and shut, give the
(14:00):
night a rhythm. Glory hums with the engine. He leans
the seat back a notch, the universal gesture of a
longer conversation. You know, Roland's new word is again. He
wants everything again. Smart boy, She smiles. He knows who
his father is. I used to want again. Mark murmurs,
Now I want next. Silence follows, comfortable and strange. In
(14:25):
the reflection of the windshield, you see him glance sideways,
half smile, half shadow. Life. Life is a short dance,
isn't it. The words were barely out of his mouth
when the tires hit a patch, A patch of wet
leaves slick his ice. The back end twitches, the car
fishtails Glory grips the wheel with desperation. The headlights swing wide,
(14:47):
catching the bark of a tree that loomed out of
the dark like a figure waiting in silence. The world lurches.
The nose of the car slams into the tree with
a force of a fist from the heavens. Metal shrieks,
folding in on itself like paper. The windshield explodes, shards
spinning through the cabin, catching the dash light as they
sliced across skin. Mark's body whips forward, chest colliding with
the belt, ribs creaking under the sudden jolt, His face
(15:10):
snapped towards the glass, curls, scattering his temple, striking the
frame with a sickening crack. The hood trumpled, radiator bursting
into steam that hisses and roars like a dying animal.
A head like tears, free arcing into the night, before
shattering on the pavement. The sound is apocalyptic, steel groaning, glass, raining,
rubber screeching, and then stillness, just stillness, only the tick
(15:40):
of the cooling engine, the drip of rain through shattered glass.
The wipers kept moving, scraping back and forth, across nothing,
a grotesque parody of rhythm. Glorious slumped against the wheel, bracelets,
glinting faintly in the dash light. Mark's hand slid from
(16:01):
the fogged window, falling limply by his side. His curls
spilled forward, haloed and smoking starlight, as if the cosmic
dancer had bowed for the last time. He always hinted
at it, didn't he in interviews, his whispers backstage and
(16:22):
off hand jokes that carried too much weight. I don't
expect to live long. I'm not meant to be a survivor.
Words that once sounded like bravado now rang like scripture.
The prophecy was his own, spoken again and again, until
until the universe finally listened. He was twenty nine, just
(16:46):
weeks away from turning, just thirty years old, still young
enough to believe in magic, but old enough to sense
the clock. His music shimmered with the other worldly joy,
Yet beneath it sath it lay the shadows of someone
who knew his story would be brief. And here, at
the foot of the tree, on a wet September night,
(17:09):
the prophecy ripened into truth. The final chord struck the
final stomp silenced a life written in glitter and riffs,
cut short, exactly as he always seemed to expect. The
cosmic dancer had spun too fast, burned too bright, live
too loud, and just as he foretold, he would not
(17:32):
grow old. Act six, Mark Bullen's epilogue. Next Act six,
Mark Bullen's epilogue. Morning came heavy and gray. London seemed
to hold its breath, as if the city itself had
(17:54):
heard the crash. Words spread in fragments, first whispers, then bullets,
than headlines. Each retelling made it more unbearable, yet more true.
At the tree, the first flowers appeared before the police
tape even sagged. By evening, the bark was covered with notes, photographs, lipstick, kisses,
(18:15):
and glitter that refused to wash away. Strangers pressed palms
against the scar of the wood, as if touching it
could bring him back. But he, he said it himself,
I don't expect to live long now. Those words stared
back from clippings pinned to the shrine. They're no longer
clever or coy. They were prophecy, fulfilled with brutal precision.
(18:41):
Fans didn't just grieve the man, They grieved the unfinished songs,
the concerts that would never happen, the decades that would
never belong to him. The idea of him growing old
always felt impossible. Now impossibility had become fact. Fact A
word that feels so cold, but it's true. Mark Bollan
(19:06):
never grew old. He never became the survivor he said
he wasn't. He became what he always suspected he would,
a flare, a glittering streak, too fast for the world
to hold. But even death could not silence him. Look
up on a clear night. The sequins you see scattered
across the heavens are his now. The curls are constellation,
(19:30):
The riffs are starlight. The cosmic Dancer has shed the
weight of Earth and found a new stage among the galaxies,
Forever spinning, forever shimmering. Some stars never fall, They only
go home to the sky. I hope you enjoyed Script nine,
(19:53):
The Death of a Cosmic Dancer, The story of Mark
bollen This has been Johnny's Dead Air podcast. I'm Johnny Hartwell,
thank you so much for listening.
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