Fan Gets Forehead Autograph - Elvis Presley writes his autograph on the forehead of Diane Steinke, Tacoma teenager who was impressed enough by his personality yesterday to vow 'I'll never wash again as long as I live'. Presley sang to a crowd of 5,000 in Lincoln Bowl yesterday afternoon.

A smile played on the full lips of the husky, loose-jointed young man in the gold jacket. His black shirt was unbuttoned to his breastbone.

He wiggled his hips in tight fitting black pants and several thousand girls gasped and screamed in unison. He spread his arms and they shrieked again.

'I'll take care of you in a minute,' Elvis Presley said husky-voiced to the loudest of his fans. And 6,000 people in Lincoln Bowl yesterday erupted in shouts, screams and hand-clapping.

Crazy, Man

Suddenly a piano player grabbed a mittful of notes, two guitarists and a drummer caught up the slugging beat and Elvis snatched the microphone, pressed it to his lips, and began to pour out his throbbing, syncopated baritone:

' . . . Don' be cruel to a heart that's true . . . don' be cruel . . . '

As he sang he began a slow, rhythmic movement of his pelvic region, his legs vibrated, his upper torso caught up the movement and alternately swayed and shimmied. Each new movement was greeted by fresh screams.

He fell to his knees and socked out the rock 'n' roll beat with his body. He waved at the crowd. And he sang, always in that pulsating, almost native, beat -- 'I l-u-u-u-v yew-ew-ew-ew'.

Sometimes he chuckled in the middle of a song. He clowned impishly. And once he corned up that old jazz perennial 'I Found My Thrill on Blueberry Hill' by substituting blackberry for blueberry.

Screams Drown Voice

Often the great roar of the crowd snuffed out the words. But no stranger in the crowd could doubt 'twas Elvis at the mike.

He sang at least a dozen songs, this creator of mass hysteria, this modern-day answer to Austin, Vallee and Sinatra. But where they depended almost exclusively on voice, his was a combination of earthly body movements and a rhythm that smacks of the revival tent.

It was burlesque with a twist, as if Gypsy Rose Lee had donned men's clothing.

Elvis came in a black limousine, surrounded by a cordon of beefy policemen. He stepped from the car and leaped lightly to the stage, amid frenzied cheers.

Jugglers, quartets, marimba players and lesser vocalists had warmed up the audience to feverish pitch. Elvis was here to make them cast inhibitions aside, to blend his personality into theirs so each would think he was singing just for them. He succeeded.

The Frenzy Mounts

The tempo mounted agonizingly toward a final thundering crescendo. Elvis, his dark, handsome face glowing with inner pleasure, played it for all it was worth. Each word mumbled into the microphone, and indeed most of the words he sang were similarly slurred, was greeted with deafening screams. Each squirm was as carefully calculated as a Shakespeare soliloquy to heighten the dramatic effect.

This rock 'n' roll , personified by its sideburned king, is the antithesis of the cool, restrained bop from whence it sprung. Emotions, tenseness are relieved by hand-clapping, clasping the hands to the head and moaning, and those shrill, piercing Indian warwhoops.

Cool, Man, Cool

A chunky, effeminate-looking man with long hair, later identified as a member of Presley's entourage, seemed almost in a trance as he snapped his fingers, wiggled his body and shouted over and over:

'Yeah man, yeah man, yeah, yeah, yeah . . . '

Elvis climaxed the show with what he called 'The Elvis Presley National Anthem,' a frenetic, whirling-dervish rendition of Houn' Dog.

'You ain't nothing but a houn' dog, c-ry-y-y-in' all the time . . . they said you was high class, but that was just a lie . . . you never caught a rabbit and hew hain't no frien' of mine . . '.

Once through in normal voice, the second time in a hoarse, strained voice that rasped the frayed emotions of the teenage girls and had them on the verge of collapse.

He strutted like a duck, his hands dangling loosely in front of him. He went to his knees in an attitude of prayer, taking the slender microphone with him. And he finished with a burst of shimmying that left him limp, his thick black hair hanging over his eyes and perspiration pouring down his pancake makeup.

Calculated Escape

Elvis did a Douglas Fairbanks-type leap from the stage, raced to the waiting limousine and was whisked away in a cloud of dust as shouts died on the lips of his fans.

Girls, dragging unwilling boys by the hand, rushed to the spot where Elvis vaulted into the car. They scooped up the dirt, kissed it and poured it into pockets and purses.

Then they tore off to the stands, these wives and mothers of tomorrow, to where the hucksters were doing a brisk business in Elvis Presley buttons, hats and pictures.

The show was over.

Earlier a different Presley -- shy, polite and almost boyish in appearance -- greeted newsmen and officers of Seattle and Tacoma fan clubs in