SAN FRANCISCO -- Rock "royalty" recently touched down in the city by the Bay.

It happened on the stage of the Great American Music Hall last week. The mood couldn't

have been more fitting. The lights in the theater were reverently low, dry-ice smoke

pumped out over the audience, and gospel sounds from an organ filled the air.

Taking the stage with a full band -- and the four choir-robed singers known as the

Elvettes -- was El Vez, a.k.a. "the Mexican Elvis." But he is no mere Elvis impersonator. El

Vez quickly made it clear he is a king in his own right.

At the end of the nearly two-hour set, performed before a worshipful crowd at the Music

Hall on Oct. 2, I felt as though Elvis had actually come back to us -- as a Mexican.

It wasn't that El Vez performed any of Elvis's patented karate-kicks or scarf-tosses, or

even that he sounded much like Elvis. The feeling that people were in the presence of

something great, something bigger than life, had more to do with his charisma, the

undeniable power of a born performer.

His songs, like those favored in performances by the King, were seamless medleys,

each piece combining the gut-busting emotion of Elvis' music with custom-fit original

lyrics championing everything from safe sex (his take on "Rubbernecking" -- "Stop, look,

and use it, baby!") to the ancient Aztec legend of Quetzlcoatl ("He was an Aztec/ He

coulda been Jesus/ He was a dragon/ who could fly"). El Vez even managed to rhyme

"Quetzalcoatl" with "Heartbreak Hotel."

Flawlessly blended into this tasty menudo were more contemporary surprises, not

always Elvis songs but precisely the kinds of show-stoppers the King would be sprinkling

into his Vegas shows if he were still around to do them.

Currently touring to support his new release on Big Pop Records, G.I. Ay Ay Blues,

El Vez (born Robert Lopez) has spent nearly a decade honing his craft and spreading

his messages. His lyrics are heavy with religious iconography, sexual innuendo,

socio-political thinking and sheer silliness.

A blistering version of "Jesus is Just Alright With Me" (again, with customized lyrics)

segued briefly into Prince's "Baby I'm a Star" before winding up with "Jesus Christ

Superstar." Each transition brought howls of adoration and gasps of recognition from the

crowd, as people pressed closer to the stage with their arms out, straining to touch his

feet, his hem, his outstretched hands.

San Franciscans are notorious for having a maddeningly reserved,

here-we-are-now-entertain-us attitude at shows. But by some rock miracle, that wasn't

the case this time. These people were jacked-up on something, and it wasn't just booze

and dry ice.

El Vez's band, the Memphis Mariachis, skillfully followed each twist and high-speed

lane-change; they were tight, but not too showy about it.

The whole set must have been carefully choreographed -- the many costume changes,

lighting variations, props and all those medleys -- and yet there was still an unexpected

air of spontaneity about the whole thing.

El Vez got the giggles at one point, expressing a rush of self-consciousness at wearing a

small gold lamé loincloth. It was clear that his enthusiasm -- for being onstage, for

the crowd's adoration, for his band -- was intense, sincere and infectious.

Brought up in Southern California, the man now known as El Vez began his musical

career with various Southern California punk bands (the Zeros, Catholic Discipline,

Bonehead) before transforming himself into El Vez in the late '80s.

His big break came during a pilgrimage to Memphis, Tenn., where he bluffed his way

into a gig as "the Mexican Elvis," amid a lineup of other impersonators during "Weep

Week," the annual celebration of Elvis' birthday. Legend has it that by the time El Vez

finished his set, a star had been born.

Or, reborn.

"People, there's such a fine line between sexuality and spirituality," he said early in his

set. "Oh. Hey. I sound like Prince or something, man."

There were definite similarities between the two skinny, tight-pants-wearing fellows:

heavy on medleys, hot chicks onstage. (The Elvettes stripped off their choir-robes to

reveal -- what else? -- vinyl go-go dresses.) But also there's the killer band, frenetic

dancing, flashy outfits, plenty of songs about Jesus and a truly worshipful crowd.

Elvis? Prince? El Vez?

The message gets through whether you want it to or not: there's no way to resist the

power of what's coming from the stage.

By the time I found myself near the front of the crowd, my arms in the air, screaming at the

top of my lungs that I had a "Lust for Christ" (a takeoff on Iggy Pop's "Lust for Life," natch),

I knew that the man had converted another disciple.