Ann-Margret did indeed wear the “pale pistachio silver backless beaded dress covered by an absolute waterfall of beaded fringe” just as Suzy Knickerbocker predicted. Elton John didn’t wear the rumored iridescent green feather boa and matching lapels; he came in black velvet with the luscious Penny Valentine on his arm. Tina Turner’s white floorlength mink coat duplicated Ann-Margret’s exactly, and Rex Reed wore an emerald green shirt with his black tie. Jewelry designer Elsa Perretti and actress Anjelica Huston danced (at different times) with black security cops, and model Appolonia von Ravensteen danced with that foolish hairdresser Ara Gallant who wore his usual silly hat. Neal Peters - AnnMargret’s Number One Fan, proudly displayed Ann-Margret’s autograph tattooed on his shoulder, and the entire Stigwood entourage (including Pat Ast who they seem to shlep everywhere) was out in full forqg. To say nothing of Andy Warhol’s tiresome gang. Lois Chiles, Mrs. William F. Buckley, Marion Javits, Tony Perkins, Berry Berenson Perkins, Diane von Furstenburg separated from Egon von Furstenburg, Angela Lansbury, Maxime de la Falaise McKendry, Nan Kempner (who is Nan Kempner?), Halston, Heidi Leiberfarb, John & Didi Ryan III ... all in the subway, following the New York Tommy premiere.. Unfamiliar names? Don’t be silly, it was almost the same cast as Sly’s wedding for the Selling of Tommy: Rock Slumming Part II. (And whoever called this bunch The Beautiful People obviously never saw them at a buffet table grabbing for a seafood crepe.) Other invited celebs who had the good sense not to show up at the festivities included Lena Horne, Woody Allen, Peter Boyle, Lillian Heilman, Dustin Hoffman, Dick Cavett, Robert Redford, Princess Yasmin Aga Khan, Paul Newman, Bette Midler, A1 Pacino, Lee Radziwill, and Simon and Garfunkel who, one assumes, were asked because “the words of the prophets were written on the subway walls . . .”

Quite frankly, I never understood all the fuss about Tommy when it was a record. To me, the concept of rock opera was funny; all that stuff about a deaf, dumb and blind kid who played pinball for god’s sake... even more laughable, despite the fact that Peter Townshend couldn’t be sweeter, couldn’t be more talented. So - when the rumblings began about Ken Russell (a very silly film maker) doing the film, the reaction irr this household was - “so what?” But when the hype began, it was impossible to ignore.

What can you say about three days that seemed like a week and an overblown junket except that nobody actually went anywhere? At first I figured it would be too easy to put the Tommy brouhaha down, so I would try and look at the bright side of it. But the minute the lucite invitation to the premiere came in the mail suggesting that we wear glitter funk, any possible bright side faded away. Glitter funk? Surely that’s, a Bob Mackie term, and we all know where his town is. People in New York giggled about glitter funk for days. And I ask you - a post-premiere party in the subway?? This is someone’s idea of cute? Fran Lebowitz and I toyed with the idea of arriving wearing ace bandages"wrapped around our knees, carrying shopping bags, and muttering to ourselves. Honey, it’s taken a lot of us years of hard work and struggle to get out of the subways; who wants to go back for a party, yet? We’ve now had parties in gay baths, in after-hours Mafia discos, at Roseland, in a roller derby rink, on top of the Empire State Building, on Circle Line Ferries, on the stage of Radio City Music Hall, and now - in a subway. Watch: some press agent will hold a post-premiere party in the mental ward of a major, metropolitan quality hospital and everyone will say how cute, it couldn't be more adorable.

I’ve had it with these events th^t aren’t; social style in this town set by foolish faggots. And I’m not talking about your decent, law-abiding homosexual. Glitter mimps, be they male or female, dreaming up these astonishingly silly evenings ... all those people who shlep everywhere and anywhere to have their photo taken for Women’s Wear Daily. You know I’ll just bet that WWD has in their employ three blonde women, three brunettes, and they just alternate the names in the captions under those Eye photos; Didi Ryan is also Gloria Vanderbilt Cooper, Nan Kempner is actually Mrs. William Paley, and so forth. It’s just that the whole 1960’s Warhol-social-climbing orientation is so incongruous, especially when a rock “property” is involved. There’s something so .. .“let them eat cake” about it. Rock fans peering down the subway steps to get a glimpse of Elton or Townshend and instead they’ve got to endure the entrances of Susan Shiva (who is Susan Shiva??) and Kenneth Jay Lane, to say nothing of assorted millionettes.

It all began on a Monday night with After Dark magazine’s “Ruby” Award presentation to Ann-Margret. God only knows what the “Ruby” - a silver bowl -is given for, but one could guess. The scene was, appropriately enough, the Starlight Roof of the Waldorf Astoria, that same unfortunate room where Sly Stone held his wedding reception. Hundreds of people who, as D. Fields put it, hated each other . . . stuffed in one room. The Gay Cue Awards, another called it. Tous les hairdressers Cinandre, and every window trimmer in town. Ann-Margret seemingly dazed as she gushed about how much she loved After Dark. Fanne Foxe, Jackie Mason, Diana Rigg and Joel Grey for the celebrity-hungry. The whole place too brightly lit because ABC-TV was filming the thing for a special. Pink balloons dropping from the ceiling en masse as domestic champagne corks popped and everyone trampled over each other in the rush to the bar. Semiclassical music piped in on the sound system; probably no one would part with his Barry Manilow LPs.

The following morning at what seemed like the crack of dawn (actually it was ten thirty a.m. so they could make the six o’clock news that night, but the crack of dawn for those of us Manhattanites who are forced to stay up all night watching old movies on TV) a press conference was held at the Essex House. Elton John, Peter Townshend, Keith Moon (Roger Daltrey was in Europe filming Liszt under the direction of Ken Russell; one hates to think.. ,),Tina Turner, Ann-Margret. Robert Stigwood, and Margret manager Allan

Carr (who many feel wanted all those BP’s there and is responsible for the entire mess), all lined up to answer questions from the working press. All the above seemed to be in various stages of shellshock or hangovers. Peter Townshend vas the hit of the press conference as he diplomatically fielded questions about what he thought of the film: admitting that it wasn’t a rock movie, that the sound was fucked, and that Oliver Reed couldn’t sing worth a damn.

1 won’t comment on the film; I assume that it will be properly dealt with elsewhere in this publication. Premiere Night featured hundreds of kids lining the street, and a red carpeted and kleig light entranceway marred only by the spilling of an entire carton of milk by drag queen Ruth Truth . . .

In all fairness, aside from the fact that the subway station ceiling was uncom: fortably low and one couldn’t ignore the white tiled air raid shelter ambience, and it was dangerously hot and overcrowed at times, the party wasn’t all that bad. The food was magnificently overwhelming; acres of table laden with crepes, omelettes, salads, meats, breads and pastries. “Tommy” spelled out in radishes and cauliflowers and strawberry incense candles lit to cover the urine smell. And still, some people managed to crash via the subway trains, and while on the dancefloor Fran Lebowitz had a plainclothes security guard cut in and say, “You can lead honey, I know all about you society girls.” Meanwhile “Hair” authors Gerome Ragni and James Rado were prevented from asking Ann-Margret for her autograph by a vigilant Allan Carr.

The morning after, 35 people boarded a curiously empty chartered 707 for Los Angeles for the Tommy opening there. Blair Sabol told me that it was even more of a nightmare in Hollywood, where they should be used to such things. But you know what? The film got rave reviews in both the L.A. and the New York Times, and the mornings after all this nonsense hundreds of kids were lined up outside the Ziegfield Theater buying tickets. I think they still think of it as a rock opera starring Elton John, Eric Clapton and The Who. Which just goes to show ... you can fool some of the people .. . And to think, it all started with “My Generation.”