The man of irony at times looked like a young, slim and equally tacky Vegas-era Elvis.

San Francisco fans see the ex-Smiths' frontman acting up all over the Warfield stage.

Addicted To Noise Senior Writer Gil Kaufman reports : SAN FRANCISCO -- If you pushed the flaps of your outer ear inwards, so that they sealed up the outside world, you could almost imagine the scene of Morrissey's latest stage show as one from an old silent movie.

And maybe that's what he was going for.

The well-coifed actor, rugged yet feminine good looks, his silk shirt open to reveal dog tags and a sweaty upper body, his tailored pants cut just right, his movements broad and well-intentioned, moving across the stage as if in his own world. Now imagine that same scene with flashing multi-colored strobes, a provocative 20-foot stage mural of a young man with an extended tongue and open hand, a thousand fans, some waving flowers, and one man at the center of their storm.

It's all about the Moz, after all. Morrissey, narcissist, misanthrope, (over) actor, velvet crooner.

It almost didn't matter that the ex-Smiths singer with a sarcastic tongue had a four-piece band on stage with him at the Warfield on Tuesday night. Sure, the well-dressed handsome men played their parts admirably and provided a surprisingly rockista background wall of noise for Morrissey to prance around in, but, frankly, he could have done that with a boom box and a Mr. Microphone. He'd be the first to tell you that.

Always having been about the melodramatic qualities of his irony-drenched odes to misery sans company, Morrissey was, at times, more of an actor than a singer during his brief (one hour and five minutes) 13-song performance. Of course his voice, one of the most distinctive in rock, sounded remarkably rich and textured on new songs such as his latest album's first single, "Alma Matters," which he imbued with a slightly darker, more sinister edge than the recorded version. But it was his stage movements, his Vegas lounge theatrics that really brought the audience to their knocking knees.

Following several minutes of anticipation fueled by the drum solo from "The Operation" (Southpaw Grammar), Moz, as he's known by his hard-core faithful, sauntered onto the stage as a sea of floral offerings sprung up from the venue's floor. Waving their gladiolas in the air, the crowd, who had, just moments before, begun some sort of secret-club soccer chant of "Morrissey, Morrissey," began pelting the singer with floral arrangements, which he swiped at half-heartedly as if to avoid contact with any living matter.

The distinctive look was all there. His black hair swept into a spit curl at the front. Smart gray trousers and a black close-fitting shirt splayed open to reveal his chest, combined with dog tags that resembled a Vegas lounge medallion. Morrissey was the picture of contrasts. Buff hooligan, for he seemed to have lifted weights since we last saw him, while at the same time fey crooner, for he insisted on lazily flipping the microphone chord around as if playing double dutch with himself, Morrissey led the assault on the audience with a rocked-up version of his normally subdued sound.

Guitarists Martin Boorer and Alain Whyte thrashed at their instruments during "Boy Racer" and "Roy's Keen," summoning sometimes icy solos more fitting for a Tin Machine show, while the singer made frequent trips to the lip of the stage, offering his hands to the rapt audience like some slimmer, '90s Elvis. The evening's first ballad didn't come until mid-way through the set with "Wide To Receive," during which Morrissey rubbed the microphone across his chest and neck as the band cranked out a sometimes murky, moody backbeat.

At one point, as his band blared behind him, Morrissey knelt at the edge of the stage like some kind of overly dramatic Shakespearean actor. He then proceeded to wrap his left arm over the top of his bowed head, as if he were pining for something -- perhaps attention.

"Speedway" upped the ante after a lackluster "The More You Ignore Me, The Closer I Get," with meaty, ringing guitar solos and a thudding, arena-sized drum beat from Spencer James Cobrin.

During a melancholy, blue "Paint a Vulgar Picture," Morrissey was smacked in the head by a flying bouquet, which seemed to finally rattle his too cool nerves, as he spent the remainder of the song attempting to re-adjust his now-mussed hair.

The set quickly, but not quietly, crashed to an end with "The Teachers Are Afraid of the Pupils," during which several young men attempted to collar Morrissey, who flopped into their gripping arms even as security dragged the hapless lads away by the neck. The trashy, loose version of the song ended with Morrissey broadly pantomiming arm slashing movements, swinging the microphone like a noose and plopping down on a monitor with his dog tags in his gaping mouth.

After a single encore of the Smiths' "Shoplifters of the World Unite," during which the until-then mostly sedate audience went bezerk, the actor-cum-singer said his final good-byes, ending a brief performance during which he once again lived up to his image as the greatest singing thespian in rock. [Thurs., Oct. 9, 1997, 9 a.m. PDT]