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.

Color="#720418">[Thurs., Oct. 9, 1997, 9 a.m. PDT]