From the Observer archive, 26 September 1965: life's a gas for the latest pop sensations

Promise in the pop world must be caught not so much on the wing as breaking out of the egg. Last week, I encountered it twice. I watched a young singer, as yet unknown, make his first recording, and I interviewed a group, all equally young, who, although formed only 12 weeks ago, have already begun to attract attention. The singer and the group represent different but current trends. Both could sink without trace – but I don't think they will.

I'd met Marc Bolan as long ago as July. His "personal manager, publicist, and image projector", a Mr Mike Pruskin, had brought him round to talk to me about him. Pruskin, a cousin of Lionel Bart, rings me up on average once a week bubbling over on behalf of something new – an artist, a club, an A&R man. He is the antithesis of what the opponents of the pop men imagine as the cynical middle-aged manipulator in the camel-haired coat. The only trouble is that by the time I, in my middle-aged sloth, have lumbered forward to investigate what he has brought to my attention, he has usually turned violently against it.

In Bolan's case, however, he remains convinced. Bolan comes from a family of Soho costermongers. He has modelled, acted, bummed around France and Italy. He is only 17 now and looks much younger. He's very quiet and shy. The other week, Pruskin, who is neither, asked me along to the Decca studios to hear his protege record. There was a large group of session musicians, including a flautist, a small choir of ladies to make ooo noises, the arranger, who also conducted, and an American A&R man to supervise the whole session.

While I was there, Bolan recorded a song he had written about a wizard. The lyrics were rather like Walter de la Mare. Pruskin explained in between takes that Bolan had studied black magic in Paris. "Very good for the image," he said. "Nothing is forced. You can't force images. They break." Bolan modified this later. He said he'd flirted with black magic but got scared.

The A&R man, a Mr Economedes, with many chart successes to his name, insisted on a great many takes. After one version, which seemed to me perfectly adequate, he explained: "No problems. Just didn't like it." He wore a tennis sweater and was as cool and detached as a surgeon. However, he finally declared himself "gassed".

Now, of course, his was complete professionalism, but Bolan had written the song himself, recorded it on tape, accompanying himself on guitar, and Pruskin had sold it to Decca. The end product was certainly commercial, but the original impulse was not and something of this comes over. Bolan's voice seems from the same stable as Donovan's. It's derived from Dylan and Guthrie. His songs, however, are his own. "Escapism," says Pruskin, "but real escapism. Nothing to do with protest."

The young group I met last week also hated protest songs. "They don't mean it," said one of them they called Plonk. "I love to hear someone singing like a coloured feller. If they mean it, that is. You can always tell."

The name of the group is Small Faces. "We were trying to think of a name," one of them explained, "and a girl came up with this. We thought it was a gas." All the Small Faces are East Enders. Two worked in music-shops. Two were mixed up with the theatre. They met 12 weeks ago by a series of accidents and discovered they all liked R'n'B. They took a rehearsal room for an afternoon and were heard by an agent, who booked them into the Cavern Club, Leicester Square, where they stayed for eight weeks. A man from Decca heard them there and signed them up. They got TV coverage. Their first record has risen to number one in the Radio London chart. This month they were on Top of the Pops and Ready, Steady, Go! Later they are to make a film.

Musically, they are extremely modest. "We're useless instrumentalists" is how they put it. In consequence they keep their music simple. They use an organ, bass and lead guitars, and drums. What they aim at is an original sound based on unusual rhythm. They improvise at rehearsal until something develops. "Modern soul" is how they describe what they're after. The Small Faces know their audience. "Little Mods," they call them affectionately. They're less certain of themselves "in the sticks, where it's a bit rocker. Where they're, well – slightly backward."

I watched them on the box. They are right about their limitations musically, but they have something magical. If, and this is already a worry to them, they can stay "gassed with what we're doing", there's no holding them.