When the curtain comes up, the band are all ready there, pumping out a fuzzy, semi-atonal, rhythmically confused version of left-field ’50’s music. They are swathed in silver lame, sparkling against hot white super-troupers, lights designed for stardom. There are six of them, guitar, bass, drums, keyboard, two horns. The crowd — which is neither Jethro Tull sophisticated nor quite Slade footballer — is beserk, mostly with impatience.

The guitar punches into one more chorus of the dog-eared riff, and then the white light goes blue. The glitter curtain parts, ever so slightly, and down a Bette Davis staircase comes a figure out of a rock fantasy. Trussed in a black cape, with two orange feathers sticking up like the wings of an angel, Gary Glitter is an imposing, if ridiculous, figure. He looks like a vaudeville mortician.

Glitter’s act is pure TV, a bopper fantasy without parallel. “He only does everything David Bowie would do if he thought it would make him successful,” says the friend sitting next to me. And it’s true. Gary Glitter carries everything just a little bit further, even the name.

Unlike Elvis, who hands his cape to an aide as though he were expecting the imminent announcement of his coronation, Glitter tosses both cape and feathers to hordes of juvenile girls (few boys, surprisingly enough for bottomlevel glam-rock). Gary Glitter’s relationship to the King is just that : the same thing, only tackier. Where Elvis does cornball send-ups of his rock and roll hits as an act of patriciah humility, Gary Glitter does lousy, puerile versions of ’50’s rock hits because he - or his management, or someone - knows it doesn t matter. Grace, co-ordination even talent are superfluous; the essence is the star. Not even the persona of the star, particularly, just the star. Readymade for a TV bred crowd of 8-16 year-olds who don’t remember Elvis or Little Richard and don’t care about David Bowie. (“Too intellectual,” I’m sure, and that’s fair enough.)

Gary Glitter does remember, of course, because he is neither eight nor 16. He is about 35, probably, though he claims he’s 28. Does it matter: “I look pretty young, but I’m just back-dated,” like the man says. I’m 22, but tonight I feel 40.

Once the cape is off, Glitter stands in silver-spangled lame jumpsuit, unbuttoned at the chest, three-inch clog-soled shoes, arms outstretched as though he were proud of his paunch. He dances with a certain lack of rhythm that is found only in those who want to be rock stars with true desperation. His vocal range is something less than a single note, one that croaks and wobbles on its way to the p.a., then is further distorted until it amounts to something like a song. Not really music maybe, but who cares?

Sophisticates in Britain — where all of this is taking place — are starting to like Slade. They’re good musicians is the line, and it may well prove the downfall of the Wolverhampton shredders, just as similar acceptance did for Grand Funk. For once admitted into the realm of the aesthetically acceptable, what good is a rock’n’roll star, anyway? Especially a TEEN star, which is what Gary Glitter and Slade both seem to be.

Melody Maker’s Richard Williams has been speculating about Glitter. The Let It Rock critic’s poll is just out and Gary Glitter has — nearly unanimously — been voted worst recording artist of the year. Which, Williams reminds me, must mean he’s ok “by the Grand Funk theory.”

Meantime, Glitter has raised his arms out in something approaching a crucifixion parody, thrown his head back and in a semi-stifled snort/shout hollered: “Do yer wann’ touch me?” A lone pair of knickers floats up to the stage in response while three hundred screaming weeny-boppers try to perform the suggested act. Hands across the orchestra pit.

Behind me, two eight year-olds, their faces and hair covered in testimonial glitter, are beserk. In all other directions there is exhiliration and ecstasy. Glitter is churning out tunes by now, like a Rube Goldberg parody of a rock star. Wind him up and his audience wets its pants. I love it, with minimal reservations.

It is an act devoid of aesthetic interest, appealing only to my darkest side. Gary Glitter raises the demon inside me which makes me long to become a manager or producer or some similar sort of Svengali. What you could do with him in the U.S.! Put him on teen dance shows coast to coast, cover him in glitter and rush him through the streets, maybe put him in a soap opera. Accentuate the zomboid.

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“Rock and Roll, Part Two,” which is Gary’s only American hit (though he has had two others in Britain, including the current, “Do Yer Wann’ Touch Me?”) always sounded like lobotomized Yardbirds. It was too good to be true when he turned out to be the harbinger of a look which is half-way between two of my favorite movies, Privilege and Creation of the Humanoids. The former is about a sort-of P.J. Proby rock star who performs in a cage, and finally beats the shit out of his tormentors, singing in a sadistic whine the whole time. Later, he becomes a Christian leader. (The Cliff Richard Story? Almost:) The part was played — brilliantly, I thought — by Paul Jones, the old Manfred Mann singer. You can see it on TV sometimes, and it has Jean Shrimpton, so you should.

Creation of the Humanoids is Andy Warhol’s favorite movie and Gary Glitter might like it too, since he is living proof that a society of totally mechanized humans is not only viable but probably just around the corner. Put two bolts in the corner of Glitter’s neck, .1 am thinking, paint a flat landscape on the backdrop and you’d think you were watching a pop music animation of The Munsters.

He must be incredible on TV, is all I can say afterwards. My theory that the lack of rock on American prime time TV is what is causing its current lassitude is pokefl home with great force here. Glitter goes the Monkees one better. He is not only the totally manufactured star, which is perfect enough, his entire life is an updated situation comedy satyricon. In the middle of an interview with the American press — flown over to see his London triumph at the Palladium (they do command performances at the Palladium; it is the cornerstone of British music hall tradition) —' in walks his MOTHER! She is tiny, gray, 80. She has seen the slightly androgynous concert. She crooks her finger. “I want to talk to you?’ Later, we find out that she thoroughly enjoyed the show. Just wanted a few minutes alone with the boy is all.

Glitter fielded the most absurd questions with total ease, stumbling over only those which were a bit too American. “Is there any place you’d draw the line. . . to satisfy your audience,” I blurted at one point. Glitter just looked like I was from Mars.

He does a better fuck scene with the guitarist than David Bowie’s. He is more crassly huggable than Marc Bolan. More good times, let’s all watch some football after the show, than Slade. More rock and roll loving than the Beatles. More sincere than Cliff Richard. Less subtle than even the Rolling Stones.

It’s just that he’s terrible. Not the worst act I’ve ever seen, not even the worst musician. (I discovered Frut, after all.) He’s just awful. It’d be funny even if you didn’t know that the audience didn’t know, even if you didn’t suspect that GLITTER doesn’t know. Wb

It won’t be like that in America, probably. The vehicles for this sort of utter garbage are here, but they are not so accessible to pop as in England. There is no more Shindig where PJ. Proby can do a crotch-clutch for an audience of mega-millions. No Hullabaloo, where Glitter could be set up against gleaming go-go dancers. Only sad, stumbling American Bandstand, on Staturday afternoons. Too little, too early.

No wonder rock’n’roll’s falling apart. There’s no place anyone can be idiotic anymore. For Gary Glitter — and for me — that’s the worst kind of shame. The rest of you can sleep with your record collection.